Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(53)

“It’s very . . . manly,” she says, looking around.

I pull a bottle of champagne out of the fridge. “Did you not see the prissy little pillow on the couch?”

She leans forward to look at the generic pillow in question. “It’s hardly homemade needlepoint.”

“Needle-what?” I ask, coming toward her with a champagne glass.

“My point exactly.” She accepts the glass, and I clink mine to hers in a wordless toast.

She drops her gaze to my shirt and tilts her head. “It’s black.”

I glance down at my black shirt. “So?”

“And there’s no tie.”

“Your observational skills are top-notch tonight, McKenzie,” I say with a smirk.

“It’s just . . . this is the first time I’ve seen you in anything other than a suit. I like it.”

I touch her hair, running my fingers through the silky strands. “Hmm. All this time I’ve been trying to get you to not hate my guts, and I could have just ditched the dress shirt.”

“I didn’t hate your guts.”

I give her a knowing look. “You wanted me to drop dead that first day on the sidewalk. Admit it.”

“You were a jerk. Admit that.”

“I was a jerk,” I say without hesitation.

She gives an exasperated laugh. “You’re very difficult to argue with, you know that?”

“So don’t argue. Sit. Let’s discuss what I should feed you,” I say, gesturing toward the barstools.

She hops onto the sleek black seat and picks up a napkin from the counter. “Sabrina?”

I roll my eyes. “Obviously. Now . . . sushi, Italian, Chinese, or other?” I say, sliding my cell phone across the counter where I’ve pulled up the food-delivery app.

She bites her lip. “How do we feel about pizza?”

The woman shows up in jeans, carrying Campari, and wants to order pizza.

Where has she been all my life?

“I feel good about pizza,” I say, pulling my phone back and typing in the name of a place around the corner.

I feel pretty damn good about you, too.





26

LARA

Week 4: Friday Night

“Okay, we’ve exhausted favorite color, favorite movies, fought over whether or not mushrooms should be banished from the world . . .” Ian tops off my wineglass. “There’s only one more vital piece of information left to be exchanged.”

I pick a piece of rogue pepperoni off my plate and nibble it. “Birthdays?” I say at the same time Ian says, “Worst lay you’ve ever had?”

I nearly choke on the pepperoni. “That is not a first-date conversation.”

“Isn’t it? Sorry, I’m new to this. I’ll try again . . . worst lay you’ve ever had?”

I laugh. “I’m not answering that.” Mike Lanter, junior year of college.

“But—”

“Next question,” I say with a smile, enjoying his cockiness.

“All right,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “What’s going to happen with the FBI application?”

My smile drops. “I’ll answer the other question. My most awkward sexual encounter was—”

“Come on, Lara,” he says, reaching out and grabbing my hands when I move to clear our empty plates. “We have to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. My boss said he’d write me a letter of recommendation once I had a big win under my belt. You being guilty was supposed to be that win. You weren’t. End of story.”

“It’s a pretty shitty story,” he says, rubbing his thumb along the inside of my wrist. “You should get the letter of rec because you did a good job.”

I shake my head. “Actually, I shouldn’t. Getting into Quantico’s competitive. A junior investigator who does a thorough job with an informal investigation on someone who was innocent isn’t going to stand out. An investigator who just won a big formal investigation on someone who’s guilty . . . that’s got the wow factor.”

I expect him to argue, but he nods, which I appreciate. He trusts me to know more about my job than he does, which is a refreshing break from other guys I’ve dated who liked to mansplain everything.

“I’m sorry,” he says, still not releasing my hands.

I shrug. “Me too. But it’s just a timing thing. The FBI’s not now, but it’s not never.”

“Have you told your parents?”

“Not yet.” I fiddle with my napkin. “I’m too afraid they’ll be relieved.” I look up. “Did you tell your foster father that we closed the case?”

His smile is faint. “Not yet.”

“How close are you guys?” I ask softly.

He shrugs as though it doesn’t matter, but his shuttered expression tells me it does. “Close enough to stay in touch. Not close enough for me to call him Dad.”

“Do you want to?” I ask.

He looks up. “I did once, a long time ago. Hoped for the whole adoption fairy tale. It didn’t work out, but I get it. Who the hell’d want to take on the hassle of a teen kid with a chip on his shoulder?”

He smiles, but it’s strained, and my heart aches both for the kid who wanted so badly to be wanted enough to be adopted and for the man who still doesn’t think he was worth the effort.