Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(23)

He nods. “I know just the thing.”

If it’s alcoholic, I’m sure it’ll be fine.

I text Gabby. No sign of your guy. He say anything?

She responds immediately. Shit, really? No, let me text him.

The server drops off my wine, and I smile in thanks as another text message comes through, this one from my mother.

Hey sweetie, up for a phone chat tomorrow? Sorry I’ve been so busy.

No prob, I text back. Been nuts here, too. Would lunchtime work?

Got a working lunch with my team. How about five? I’ll call you.

Sounds great.

Actually, that might be pushing it. Is seven okay?

I take a sip of wine and try not to let it sting that my fiftysomething mother has a busier schedule than me.

Sure.

Perfect. How are things?

Oh gosh, how are things? Let’s review . . .

I’m at the first date I’ve had in months—alone.

I’m the closest I’ve ever been to the FBI, but the case that is supposed to get my foot in the door at Quantico is a nonstarter because I can’t find a single piece of evidence—after nearly two weeks of looking.

And I kill flowers for a hobby.

I text her back. Things are great!

I take a deep breath, feeling a little guilty about the lie but knowing even if I did lay it all out there, my mom wouldn’t know what to do with it. I love my mom—I adore both my parents—but they’re not the type of parents who believe in being their kid’s best friends. Which is fine, it’s just . . .

I wish they would have noticed that nobody wanted to be my best friend. I mean, I have Gabby now, but up until I lucked out with her as a roommate, my friendship life was about as thriving as my romantic life.

People respect me. Most even like me. But it’s all surface level. I’m never the one people call in the middle of the night with guy problems. And as a result, I have no one to call with my guy problems. Not that I’ve had a relationship long enough to even have a guy problem . . .

I scan the room again, looking for the guy Gabby described. Reddish-brown hair, great jaw, glasses. Not super tall but not awkwardly short, either.

I don’t see anyone matching that description.

You know who I do see?

Ian Bradley.

At first I think it’s a dream. Sorry, did I say dream? I meant nightmare.

This isn’t happening to me. I am not sitting alone at a table, clearly getting stood up, while the one person who’d like nothing more than to see me while I’m down sits at the bar sipping a cocktail.

Either this is some sort of hideous coincidence, or . . .

He looks over right then, his gaze colliding with mine with such deliberate purpose that I know immediately this is no chance encounter.

It’s revenge for last week when I followed him.

I close my eyes just for a moment, opening them only when my phone buzzes with another incoming text. It’s Gabby.

So sorry, babe. His boss offered him tickets to the Yankees tonight. He’s a huge baseball fan, forgot all about the date.

Fannnnn-tastic.

I’m texting her back when a shadow appears over my table.

Bracing, I look up, keeping my face composed. “Hello, Mr. Bradley.”

His eyes flick over me, then the table. “Ms. McKenzie. Enjoying your evening?”

“Very much.”

His smirk calls my bluff.

“You here for dinner?” I ask, my voice never wavering in politeness even as the back of my neck’s hot with embarrassment to be caught in a vulnerable moment.

“Nope, just grabbing a drink on my way home.”

“This isn’t exactly near your apartment or office.”

The smirk disappears, and his eyes narrow. “How do you know where my apartment is?”

“I know everything,” I say, seeing no reason to hide the fact that I know just about every possible detail on Ian that’s public record.

“Yeah? How’s that evidence collecting going?” he asks, his voice deceptively casual.

I’m not in the mood to play games, so I ignore his question and cut to the chase. “Did you know I’d be here?”

“Kate may have overheard you setting up your date,” he says with a pointed glance at the empty chair.

I sigh. “I knew it. This is revenge for last week.”

“Revenge is a strong word, Ms. McKenzie. Let’s merely call this a lesson.”

“In what, stalking?”

“You want to talk about stalking?” he asks, dropping into the empty chair across from me, his blue gaze intense. “Try going to a casual lunch with your oldest friend, wanting a brief break from the shitstorm that your life’s become, and the very woman causing said shitstorm follows you.”

I feel a little stab of guilt. “It’s not personal, Mr. Bradley.”

“Bullshit,” he snaps. “Does this moment feel personal to you, when you’re the one being followed?”

“Yes, but you—”

“Crashed your date? Infiltrated your life? Does it feel personal, Ms. McKenzie?”

Both of our tempers are simmering, and I take a sip of water to cool my own. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty for doing my job.”

“No, I’m trying to show you that the impact of your job isn’t as clean and impersonal as you pretend.”