Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(39)

“So . . .” Sabrina crosses her legs and sets her purse on the floor. “What are we talking about? I sense interesting topics at work.”

“Ian wants to ask out the SEC,” Kate says in a loud whisper.

“Oh, now that is interesting!” Sabrina says.

My entire net worth for a pistol right now.

“Interesting or not, he can’t ask her out,” Matt says, going to the window and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Why not?” Sabrina demands.

“He can’t ask her out yet,” Kate clarifies. “Not until the case is over.”

They’re right. Lara cares too much about her career to date the guy she’s investigating. Or sleep with him.

Ian wants to ask out the SEC . . .

Kate’s words echo in my head. She’d said it teasingly but also . . . truthfully.

I do want to ask out the SEC. I want to date Lara.

And if there’s anything I’ve learned from my time fighting out of the Philly slums, it’s how to navigate the long game—how to take small but crucial steps to get what I want.

And Lara McKenzie’s exactly what I want.





20

LARA

Week 4: Monday Night

I sip my wine and debate the delivery options on my Seamless app. “Thai or Chinese, Thai or Chinese,” I muse to no one.

Regardless of what I end up with, I have every intention of ordering the greatest items. One of the downsides of living with a model is that there’s a lot of kale and lean protein in the house. When she does agree to order takeout, it’s usually with some God-awful special direction such as, “Don’t cook in oil, please.”

What, I ask you, is the point of delicious fried rice, if not for the oil part?

Tonight, Gabs is at her on-off-whatever boyfriend’s place, so I get to order whatever the heck I want.

I take another sip of wine, then wrinkle my nose. I’m not a wine snob, but even I can tell it’s awful. It was cheap to begin with, and the fact that it’s been open for days has done nothing for it.

I reluctantly dump it down the drain. I’d really wanted an adult beverage to distract me from the fact that it’s Monday and I haven’t heard from Ian since Friday night.

I shouldn’t care. I should be relieved.

Just like I should be relieved that I didn’t see him at Wolfe today. Instead I feel a little . . . blah. Like colors are just a little less bright when he’s not around.

There’s a knock at my door, and I let out a quiet groan, because there’s a 90 percent chance that it’s Mrs. Peonta from across the street, who forgets her keys daily. We have a spare, and I wouldn’t mind the interruption if she didn’t use every encounter as a chance to tell me that in her day, women had three babies by the time they were my age.

I look through the peephole, then rear back. It’s so not Mrs. Peonta.

To make sure I’m not hallucinating, I put my face back up to the door.

Nope, still there. I’m still looking at Ian Bradley standing in my hallway, a bottle of wine under one arm, takeout bag dangling from his fingers.

I put a hand over my pounding heart. All of this, just from seeing the guy through a peephole. When did I turn into that girl?

He rolls his eyes at my delay. “Open the door, Ms. McKenzie.”

“What are you doing here?” I call through the door.

“Trying to feed you,” he says, lifting the bag. “Also, to get in your pants,” he says loudly, clearly for the benefit of my neighbors. “Maybe find out if your curtains match your—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I say, jerking the door open and pulling him inside. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to know what I want, clever enough to know how to get it,” he says with a wink as he sets the bag and wine on my kitchen counter.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble we’d both be in if anyone knew that you were here?” I say. “The conflict of interest of us hanging out socially . . .”

I’ve been practicing this line all weekend, but I’ve forgotten the rest because Ian Bradley’s in my apartment, and for something that’s so unequivocally wrong, it feels . . .

Totally right.

Before I can register what’s happening, Ian’s opening all my kitchen drawers and rummaging around until he comes up with a corkscrew. “Wine? I know you ordered white at the restaurant, but this is a great red. Don’t make me drink alone, Lara.”

It’s my first name that does it. I’d never realized how the simple use of someone’s name can be used as foreplay, but ever since the night at the club, I’ve been thinking about the way my name rolls off Ian’s tongue. It feels like seduction at its most effective.

He lifts his eyebrows. Well?

“Okay,” I say slowly. “One glass of wine.”

“Perfect,” he says, opening the bottle.

“Ian. What are you doing here?”

He looks away, pouring us each a glass and handing me one. “We’ll get to that.” He takes a sip of the wine as he looks around, surveying my tiny apartment. “Nice.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it puts your penthouse to shame,” I say, looking at my home and seeing what he sees. Secondhand couch. TV perched on top of two wine crates Gabby nabbed from the liquor store trash. A kitchen table with an old issue of the Wall Street Journal rolled up beneath one of the legs so it doesn’t wobble.