Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(60)

“Hard to say,” Matt says, resuming his ball catch and release. “He’s kinda grumpy, but then he’ll suddenly have a dopey smile on his face. Interesting.”

“You know what else would be interesting?” I say. “Kicking you two out if you continue to act like high school jackasses.”

Without a word, Matt turns the direction of his wrist and flicks the ball to Kennedy, who, without flinching or turning his head, catches it easily. Throws it back.

It goes on like this for a solid three minutes (that feel like three hours) before the constant, rhythmic smack smack smack of the baseball against their palms accomplishes its goal.

I turn to them. “Okay, what?”

Matt holds on to the ball and grins in victory. “Tell us.”

“You already know. She came over. We ordered in.”

“Tell me more.”

“This isn’t a Grease song. I didn’t take her bowling.”

“In the arcade?” Kennedy says, deadpan.

I let out an incredulous laugh. “I did not see that coming. I thought you only watched shit like Citizen Kane.”

“Grease is a classic. I like classic things.”

“You like old things,” Matt says.

“True. It’s why I’m not too keen on you. Have you had your first shave yet?”

Matt studies Kennedy. “You know, you would make a pretty good Kenickie.”

Kennedy smiles. “I know.”

“And we’ve got Danny Zuko here, who won’t tell us if Sandy put out under the dock.”

“Made out under the dock,” I correct, before I can think better of it. “The line is made out under the dock.”

“Ooh! Did you stay out till ten o’clock?” Kate asks, entering the office and shutting the door behind her.

At my look, she waves her hand. “Never mind. I’ll ask Sandy. I mean Lara. Can I be Rizzo? She’s my favorite.”

“No,” Kennedy says.

She glares at him. “Why not?”

“Because I’m Kenickie.”

She snorts. “Yeah. Okay.”

Kennedy’s glower grows darker. “Who do you think I’d be?”

She snaps her fingers and pretends to think. “What’s the principal’s name?”

“You’re thinking of the gym teacher,” Matt says. “The principal’s a woman.”

“No, no, I know,” Kate says with a sweet smile. “I was definitely thinking of Kennedy as the principal. Uptight, a little prudish . . .”

Matt hides his mouth with his hand, and I roll my eyes to the ceiling to keep from laughing and, thus, earning Kennedy’s full-on wrath.

“Annnnyway,” Kate continues, shifting her attention back to me to dodge Kennedy’s scowl. “You’ve got to give us something, Ian. You saw her on Friday, and then none of us heard from you. Not even Sabrina.”

“I was busy.”

“Did she—”

“No more Grease lyrics,” I say, pointing a finger at Matt.

He resumes his baseball toss as punishment.

“Was it a date? Are you dating now?” Kennedy asks.

“It’s a very crucial distinction,” Kate says in agreement, coming and sitting on the arm of Matt’s chair.

“Hell if I know,” I mutter.

Lara left my place late last night, much to my displeasure, and I haven’t heard from her all damn day. For the first time ever, I’m on the other side of the equation—the one waiting by the phone, rather than the one avoiding it.

I don’t like it.

“Oh. My. Goodness,” Kate says. She covers her mouth in a pathetic attempt to stifle her amusement on my behalf. “Are you guys seeing his face?”

“Whipped,” Matt says in concurrence.

“Smitten,” Kennedy agrees.

Kate points at him. “See? Smitten. He is like the principal in Grease. Old-fashioned and—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, just because I’m not a childish—” He breaks off.

Kate crosses her arms and lifts her eyebrows. “Yes? By all means, Kennedy, please finish that sentence.”

I scrub my hands over my face. “I need coffee.”

“I already brought you a quad shot this morning,” Kate points out.

“Okay fine, I need . . .”

My three friends await my answer, their expressions a combination of amusement and dismay. Because we all know what I need. Or at least what I want.

Lara.

I want to know where things stand with us, but how can I expect her to provide clarity when I’m not even sure what I’m looking for?

I don’t do this. I don’t even know that I want to do this. I know how people see me. I know because I’ve deliberately cultivated the image.

The consummate playboy. The overgrown frat boy. The order the most expensive champagne just because I can guy. The one who never calls the next day.

That’s who I am. And it’s by no means the kind of guy Lara McKenzie wants or needs. At least not for the long haul.

“You guys want to go out tonight?” I ask Matt and Kennedy. The invitation sounds hollow and forced even to my ears.

“Ian,” Kate says in a disappointed tone.