Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(7)

“Too risky,” I say.

Kennedy raises his eyebrows. “Risky? That woman was five two if an inch and as likable as they come.”

“Exactly,” I say, standing and gripping the towel around my neck with both hands and tugging in aggravation over this whole situation. “That’s exactly my problem. You guys know as well as I do what it’s like to be a single millionaire under thirty . . . five,” I add with a glance at a glowering Kennedy, remembering he’s got a few years on me. “At the risk of sounding like a conceited asshole . . .”

“You don’t know any women who can pretend to be your girlfriend without actually wanting the part?” Ian asks.

“Not really, no. And while I can think of a handful who’d be game to play along, I wouldn’t trust any of them to know how to conduct themselves in a business meeting. They’d probably order shots at dinner and end up doing more harm than good.”

“So no marriage-minded women, but no party girls, either,” Kennedy muses.

“Right. I need someone who will know the stakes from the very beginning and who won’t misconstrue anything when I act besotted with her in front of clients.”

“Did you just use the word besotted?” Ian asks.

I hitch my thumb at Kennedy. “His dopey vocabulary is rubbing off on me. But you guys get what I mean, right?”

“Yeah, you’re not wrong,” Kennedy says as the three of us make our way over to the squat rack that’s finally freed up. “It doesn’t help that the light at the end of the tunnel is the Wolfe Gala. You’re going to have to convince a hell of a lot of people you’re in love, all while champagne and absurdly expensive dresses are involved.”

“What do dresses have to do with anything?” I ask.

“The Cinderella complex,” Ian chimes in as he adds weight to the rack.

I stare at him, then Kennedy. “The what now?”

“You know.” Kennedy waves his hand impatiently. “The whole princess-ball thing. Fancy dresses, chandeliers. Dancing.”

“What the hell do you two watch in your downtime? How about more sports, less Disney Channel?”

Ian shrugs and steps into the rack. “Fine. Go ahead and risk it.”

I grimace, because the scene they just described is exactly what I’m trying to avoid.

“Unless . . . ,” Kennedy says.

I glance at him. “I’ll take an unless. What’ve you got?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I’ll like anything better than your Snow White scenario.”

“Cinderella,” Ian corrects.

“Whatever. Kennedy, talk to me.”

Instead of answering, Kennedy looks at Ian, and I know these two guys well enough to know that whatever they’re about to launch at me, it’s been their plan all along.

“Shit. What?” I say impatiently.

“You need someone to play along who has zero risk of emotional entanglements,” Ian says slowly.

I roll my finger to speed him along. “Yes, we’ve covered that. You know someone?”

“We all know her,” Ian says, holding my gaze.

The answer hits me like a kick to the balls.

Sabrina Cross.

Ian’s friend since childhood, Sabrina’s an annoying constant in our social circle.

My friends are right. She is the last woman on earth to be at risk of falling for me. Because Sabrina Cross hates my guts.





4

SABRINA

Tuesday Night, September 19

Quiet nights at home are rare in my line of work. More often than not, I’m in four-inch heels and a little black dress at fancy fund-raisers, cocktail parties, or expensive dinners.

In other words, nights out on the town? Part of the job. People think they’re paying me big money to solve their problems, and technically they are, but what they’re really paying for are my connections and how well I know people.

Name a judge: I know her favorite type of French wine. Name an attorney: I know his phone number and his niece’s birthday. Name a socialite: I can give you a list of every person she’s ever dated. Name a hedge fund manager: I can tell you the name of his wife and his mistress.

I don’t have a little black book; I’ve got an entire encyclopedia, and there’s nothing little about it.

The point is, a night to myself is rare, and when they come up, I go all in. Yoga pants, fuzzy socks, oversize sweatshirt, messy bun, Norah Jones on the speakers, the works.

Normally I pour myself a big old glass of red wine and settle in for a movie, and though a movie’s still on the agenda, I’m not feeling the red wine vibe tonight. It feels like a cocktail kind of evening.

I feed my dog, Juno, and begin setting out the makings for an ice-cold martini, when someone knocks on my front door, setting Juno into a barking frenzy.

I scrunch my nose at the interruption. Not only because I’m not expecting anyone, and I hate the unexpected, but because I live in a high-rise on the Upper East Side where the doormen look like bouncers. Nobody gets up here without being on a resident’s preapproved list. I can count the number of people on my list on one hand, and none of them is expected tonight.

Going to the door, I check the peephole, assuming it’ll be someone who knocked on the wrong door by accident.