Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)
Lauren Layne
1
IAN
On paper, I’m a douchebag. Yeah, I said it so you don’t have to.
Don’t believe me? Here’s a crash course in Ian Bradley:
The charcoal-gray suit I’m currently wearing costs more than my first car. I’m six foot two, black hair, blue eyes, and I work out every day, so I wear that suit well, if you get what I’m saying, and you know you do.
At thirty-two, I’m an investment broker—director level, thank you very much—for Wolfe Investments. And let’s just say, work hard, play hard is basically the unspoken company motto.
I’ve got a corner office, a seven-figure salary, a swanky apartment in Manhattan’s Financial District, and I never sleep with the same woman twice—because I don’t have to.
Did I mention I went to Yale? Managed to graduate top of my class and get all the usual college bad decisions under my belt. Achieving both a thriving social life and summa cum laude at an Ivy League is no easy task, let me tell you.
So, like I said—I’m basically the poster boy for “Wall Street dickhead.”
But don’t hate me just yet, because here’s what that Ian Bradley poster doesn’t say:
Unlike the rest of my fraternity, that Ivy League education didn’t come courtesy of a trust fund and four generations of Yale alumni to get me in the door. More like three jobs, an academic scholarship, and a shit-ton of financial aid.
As a kid, my spoon was plastic, not silver, and was provided by a cranky but kind gas-service attendant in South Philly because most of my foster parents didn’t give a fuck whether or not I ate.
That cushy corner office I just told you about? Mine came from sheer force of will and about a decade of no sleep.
And while that seven-figure salary puts a swanky Manhattan roof over my head, it also provides college education for Philly foster kids who are willing to work for it.
Have you started a mocking slow clap yet? Yeah, that’s fair.
But the point is there’s never been a damn thing I worked for and didn’t get through relentless hard work and hustle.
Until her.
And that’s where my story really begins.
Week 1: Monday Afternoon
It’s three o’clock on “Merger Monday,” and I need more caffeine.
Monday is the day of the week where a shit-ton of mergers between companies is announced. For my colleagues and me at Wolfe Investments, that means a lot of time staring at the list, making phone calls, trying to figure out what’s huge, what’s pay attention, and what’s who cares among the deals.
In other words, it’s necessary but mind-numbing, especially after a late night, and, well . . . they’re all late nights in my world.
I step out of my office for a Starbucks run, and the second I do, the office door across from mine opens, and a stunning brunette in a tight red dress gives me a slow smile. “Hey, Ian.”
I smile back at my colleague. “Joss.”
She leans against the doorframe and strategically crosses her arms to emphasize her cleavage before giving me a slow once-over. “Busy?”
Subtlety’s not her strong suit. Hell, it’s not any of ours here at Wolfe.
“’Fraid so.”
Her eyes narrow. “I haven’t seen you around.”
She’s seen me around plenty. She just means she hasn’t seen me naked since the gin-fueled mistake last week that I have no intention of repeating. Not because she’s not hot, but because I don’t do do-overs.
The moment the challenge is over, so’s the appeal.
I’m not proud of it, but it’s always been that way—faulty wiring, I suppose.
“Sorry, been busy.” I give her a wink, then turn to head down the hall.
“Is Kennedy around?” she calls after me.
I smirk a little at the too-obvious question. If she’s trying to make me jealous, she’s wrong on both counts. I don’t do jealous, and Kennedy Dawson doesn’t do office hookups. Even if he did, my friend doesn’t touch my leftovers. Wall Street has a guy code.
“No clue,” I call over my shoulder.
I’m texting my Monday Starbucks barista to let her know I’ll be there in five (no point waiting in line when a twenty-dollar tip has your drink waiting for you) when a pair of excellent female legs in the break room catches my attention.
I slow, trying to see what I’m dealing with here. I don’t recognize the calves. Not the ass or slim waist, either, and I’d definitely remember the long blonde ponytail that’s got just the right amount of grown-up cheerleader fantasy going on.
Hot. Very hot.
Still, I’ve got shit to do, and I’m about to pass on by when I hear the woman talking to herself. “How are there eight milk options?”
I smile at the genuine bafflement in her voice. Shoving both hands into my pockets, I step into the kitchen to see firsthand if the face is as great as the body. “Well, I’m no expert, but off the top of my head, whole, two percent, skim, soy, almond unsweetened, almond sweetened with vanilla, coconut . . .”
She whirls around at my voice, and my head snaps back a little when I see her face-to-face.
Not because I know her but because I want to know her. For one bizarre-ass moment, the woman feels meant for me.
The kicker? She’s not even my type.