Hot Asset_21 Wall Street

by Lauren Layne

  “She’s still pissed at me,” I explain. “Ever since . . .” I shake my head because I can’t finish the sentence out loud. Ever since Lara left.

  Kate’s not the only one who’s mad. Even Sabrina has been acting exasperated with me, as though I should be doing something about the situation.

  But what can I do? It’s not like I can call Lara and tell her to come back. I can’t ask her to give up something she wants just because I can’t stop thinking about her.

  At my darkest hours, I want to. But I won’t. I won’t ask someone I care about to do something I can’t bring myself to do:

  Give up my work. Give up everything I’ve worked so fucking hard for.

  This—Wall Street—is my life. This office, these people . . . they’re everything I’ve wanted since I was fourteen, and I’ve arrived, damn it.

  I’ve got the life I wanted.

  Don’t I?

  I leave the guys and return to my own office, doing a double take when the orchid catches my eye. Fuck. When did it start to droop like that? Is there anything in my life not going to shit?

  I drop into my chair, squeezing my eyes shut and pressing the heels of my hands to them for a moment.

  Kate buzzes in on my intercom, and her voice is pure pissed-off female. “Hello? Line two!”

  She hangs up again, and I pick up the line. “Ian Bradley.”

  “Hey, boy. My TV broke.”

  I let out an incredulous laugh. “Hey, Dave.”

  “This one wasn’t my fault,” he says defiantly. “My new girl brought her dog over, and the thing’s as big as a horse. Knocked into the TV while chasing a damn tennis ball, sent the whole thing crashing down.”

  “Is the dog okay?”

  “Yeah. You think I can get another TV before the weekend? Gotta see my boys beat the Cubs.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, making a note.

  He grunts in what I know is his version of a thank-you.

  “So, how you doing? Saw those bastards who tried to take you down get sentenced next week.”

  “Yep.” I tap my pen against the desk.

  “Why ain’t you gloatin’ more?”

  “Because I don’t really give a shit what happens to two cowards. They’ve taken enough away from me.”

  Dave whistles. “You’re good and pissed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they took more than your pride and a few weeks of your life.”

  “They took my girl,” I mutter before I can think better of it.

  “The SCT one?”

  Close enough. “Yeah. She lost her job over this whole mess and had to take a new one in DC.”

  Dave grunts. “That sucks. The Nationals are pissing me off. Nothing but bad calls the last time they played the Phillies.”

  I say nothing, my mood too foul to feign interest in baseball.

  “So, she didn’t want ya?” he asks, cutting to the chase as he always does.

  “I guess not.” I rub my eyes. “Not enough, anyway.”

  He makes a spitting noise. “Ah, then who needs her?”

  The unexpected show of loyalty makes me smile. It also makes me brave. Brave enough to ask something I’ve been wanting to for a long time.

  “Dave . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why didn’t you ever adopt me?”

  There’s a long moment of silence, and when the answer comes, it’s not what I expect.

  “Hell, boy. You never asked.”

  I go still. “I was only fourteen when I came to stay with you.”

  “Maturity-wise, you were practically twenty. You always knew what you wanted, never made any secret ’bout it. Thought if you wanted me to adopt ya, you’d have said something.”

  My mind reels. It couldn’t have been that simple. Could it?

  “So, had I asked . . .” I clear my throat and break off.

  “Well, yeah. Had you asked, I’d’ve adopted ya, son. You weren’t much trouble.”

  Son. Not boy. Son.

  I’m glad I’m alone in my own office, because my eyes water a little. All this time, and all I had to do was ask.

  I go still, my tears drying immediately.

  “Dave.” My voice is a little rough, so I cough to clear it. “I’ve gotta go, but I’ll get the TV there tomorrow.”

  “’Kay.” He hangs up, and I smile, because apparently we’ve hit Dave’s max capacity for affection.

  We have not, however, reached mine. Not yet.

  I pick up the phone again.

  Kate’s voice is clipped. “What?”

  I blow out a breath. “Enough with the attitude, Henley. You should be happy. My orchid is almost dead, so you’re going to win the bet. Congratulations.”

  “I didn’t want to win like this,” she grumbles.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I didn’t want to win because you died.”

  “I didn’t die.”

  “You’re acting like it. Dead on the inside.”

  I roll my eyes. “Are you going to spout hyperbole all afternoon, or can you do something for me?”

  “What?” she asks suspiciously.

  I grin. “Can you book me a flight to DC?”

  I practically hear her sit up a little straighter. “For when?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  38

  LARA

  One Day Later: Friday Night

  “’Night, Lara. See you tomorrow.”

  I glance up from the filing cabinet and wave goodbye to Greg, one of the other analysts. “Have a good night.”

  I drop the rest of the files into their appropriate folders and head back to my desk.

  My cubicle at the SEC was practically a mansion in comparison to the one I have here. The office lighting makes my hair look green, the coffee has a distinctly metallic taste, my desk smells like someone else’s curry, and my chair has never even heard the phrase ergonomically correct. But . . . I love it.

  I love it because it’s in the FBI building.

  I’ll confess I was terrified it’d be a letdown. But I knew from the second I stepped through the front doors that it was right.

  Or at least the right direction of right.

  I’m still learning my way around, still learning who’s who, what’s what, who’s helpful, and who will bite my head off when I ask a question. I almost love those interactions the most. I love telling myself that when I’m in that position of power, I’m going to be nice to the new kid.

  And I am going to be in that position of power one day. I know it.

  “Crap,” I mutter, glancing at the clock. I’m supposed to meet my parents for dinner in fifteen minutes. The restaurant’s nearby, but traffic is brutal.

  Eventually I’ll embrace the DC Metro system, but for now, I can only afford to live forty-five minutes from work and not particularly near any of the lines. My dad lent me his old car, and even with the constant maintenance on the damn thing, it’s the easiest option.

  I’m rushed for time, but I still take the long way to the elevator—the one that goes by the white-collar department. About half the agents are still in their offices. Agent Powers even lifts her hand in a friendly wave as I go by.

  Someday. Someday one of these offices will be mine.

  You see? I’m happy.

  Well, I’m mostly happy.

  A little sliver (okay, fine, a big sliver) misses Ian. A lot. I naively thought that it was just a proximity thing with him—that we had come together so fast, in such weird circumstances, that we’d gotten wrapped up in the idea of the romance rather than the romance itself.

  Three weeks later?

  I don’t know. Three weeks later, it still feels like what we had was real.

  He’s called a couple of times, but I just . . . I can’t. Not yet.

  It’s late enough in the evening that I have the building mostly to myself, so when I get off on my level of the parking garage, I’m able to do that awkward run/speed walk to my car without any witnesses.


  Or not.

  My footsteps slow as I approach my car. There’s a man leaning against it, casual-like, feet crossed at the ankles.

  Every woman’s worst nightmare, right? Woman alone, dark parking lot, strange man.

  Except he’s not a strange man.

  He’s a familiar man in a really good suit. I hate to say it, but I miss Wall Street suits. The FBI does not give good suit.

  Ian watches as I approach, arms crossed over his chest, bouquet of roses dangling from one hand.

  “Ian?”

  “She remembers my name. Good start.” He flicks the flowers up and glances down at them. “I wanted to bring an orchid, but rumor has it they don’t travel well. Kennedy and Matt assured me these are a solid substitute.”

  I smile and take them. “Tell Kennedy and Matt I’m impressed. I’m a fan of the classics.”

  “Thought you might be.” He studies me. “How are you?”

  I take a deep breath. Let it out. “I’m . . . confused. What are you doing here?”

  He smiles and straightens. “We’ll get to that. Tell me about your job first. Is it everything you dreamed of?”

  I nod enthusiastically. “Yes. Absolutely. I mean, it’s a lot of busywork but so fascinating. Today they asked me to revisit this cold case, and . . . well, I can’t tell you about it, but the perp reminds me of you, and—”

  He laughs. “The perp, huh? Maybe I should have brought two dozen roses.”

  I roll my eyes and smile. “You know what I mean. Too charming for his own good, great with the ladies.”

  “Hmm.” He reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me in. “You know this perp may have gotten it wrong. Turns out being great with the ladies isn’t where it’s at.”

  “No?”

  “Nope. The smart ones zero in on one lady. Make her theirs.”

  “I see,” I say, my heart pounding as I struggle to keep my voice playful. “However do they accomplish this? Bash her over the head with a stick and drag her back to the cave?”

  “It’s a thought. But I was thinking something more like . . .”

  He reaches into his breast pocket.

  Oh God! Oh God, he wouldn’t. We are so not ready for that. I can’t marry a man I barely know.

  He pulls out . . . an envelope.

  I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed. Maybe a little of both.

  He hands it to me.

  I struggle to juggle the flowers, my purse, laptop bag, and envelope, so he takes my keys from my hand and relieves me of everything but the envelope.

  I give him a curious look as I pull out . . . plane tickets. Lots of plane tickets.

  The first one is a flight for next weekend—DC to New York.

  The next is for the weekend after that—New York to DC.

  I flip through the rest of them. There are three months’ worth of plane tickets, alternating between New York and DC.

  Between his city and mine.

  “Ian?”

  He lifts his eyebrows. “What do you say? Do long-distance with me?”

  “Ian . . .” It’s a sigh this time.

  He reaches out and slides an arm around my back, the other cupping my neck, his thumb brushing along my jaw as though memorizing the shape. “I miss you, Lara. I miss you like crazy. I get you have to be here, and I have to be there. Though, for the record, I did contemplate the very impressive gesture of quitting my job and moving here. But I didn’t think you’d respect me for it.”

  I shake my head. “You’re supposed to be rich.”

  He laughs, and the sound makes my heart swell. “Damn straight. But I’m also supposed to be with you.”

  Ian touches his mouth lightly to mine, and when he pulls back to look down at me, his eyes are warm. “You thought I was going to whip out a ring, didn’t you?”

  I let out an embarrassed laugh. “Sort of.”

  He kisses me again, smiling against my mouth. “I thought about that grand gesture, too, but figured I’d better court you first.”

  I pull back. “Court me? Did you steal that from Kennedy’s vocabulary—Wait. You thought about it? You thought about giving me a ring?” I nearly shriek.

  He gives a little shrug. “It crossed my mind. After I realized I loved you.”

  My knees buckle, but he catches me.

  “That was embarrassing for you,” he teases.

  I roll my eyes. “Give me a break. The guy I love surprised me with red roses, plane tickets, and vague chatter about marriage.”

  His eyes go bright. “The guy you love, huh?”

  I tap the corner of the envelope to his chest. “Turns out I’m very impractical when it comes to you. You had me falling head over heels in love with you in just a few weeks.”

  “Just imagine what I can do in a few months,” he says, wrapping both arms around me and lifting me off the ground.

  I laugh and lower my mouth to his. “I can’t wait to find out.”

  Epilogue

  LARA

  A Year-ish Later

  “I’m late, I’m late. I’m so sorry I’m late,” I say, dropping into the chair across from Ian. “Tell me you ordered me a drink.”

  As though on cue, a server appears with two glasses of champagne.

  “Ooh, we’re fancy tonight,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes at the man who, after a year of dating, is still the best-looking thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Yes, well, they were out of that terrible beer you loved so much at the dive bar near Quantico.”

  “Yeaaaaah, guess that was a situational thing. Who knew beer could taste totally different when it doesn’t come after a long, grueling day of target practice?”

  “God, I love it when you talk dirty to me,” he says, winking and clinking his glass to mine. “So. How was your day, Agent McKenzie?”

  I beam, because two months into my new job, it still doesn’t get old.

  “Didn’t get to cuff anyone, but there’s always tomorrow.” I smile into my glass.

  He leans forward and lowers his voice. “You can cuff me tonight, if you want.”

  “I think I’ll take you up on that,” I say with a mischievous grin. “How about you? Tell me about your day.”

  “Oh, you know, the usual. Kennedy pretends not to notice Kate; she continues to torture him. Matt and Sabrina got in a fight, so they might be dead.”

  “Same ol’.”

  He smiles. “Yep.”

  Except he’s only partially right about the same ol’.

  Some things are the same. Ian’s still at the top of his game, still bringing in ridiculous amounts of money, plenty of which still goes to Ian’s charity, another decent chunk to replacing Dave’s TVs.

  But some things are new, too. We managed to coax Dave out to New York for Thanksgiving last year. Ian looked so damn happy, I’m hoping Dave’s holiday visit was merely the first in what will be a long-standing tradition.

  As for me, I graduated from Quantico a few months back and was offered a job almost immediately. And brace yourself, people, because happily ever after doesn’t get much happier than this . . .

  The job’s as an agent in the white-collar division. In New York. Headquartered just three blocks from Ian’s apartment.

  Well, now our apartment.

  Told you. Happily ever after on steroids—my dream job and my dream guy.

  Ian’s studying me with a thoughtful look, and I glance up from my menu. “What?”

  “You’re smiling.”

  “Usually a good thing,” I say, sipping my champagne.

  He looks down, then back up. “You ever miss DC?”

  “Nah. The pizza’s better here.”

  “What about the men?”

  “Toss-up.” I shrug, glancing back at my menu. “My dad is still in DC, and he’s pretty great.”

  Ian smiles. “Yeah, he is. Speaking of your dad, we had a little chat this afternoon.”

  My head snaps up. “You talked with my father? Without supervision? After the disastrous
Christmas dinner discussion?” I’d never seen two men get so worked up over baseball versus hockey before. “What could you have possibly talked about?”

  “You,” he says matter-of-factly.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Me.”

  “Well, you and how he and I are going to have a lot more Christmases to settle that hockey argument,” Ian says casually. Too casually.

  My heart starts to pound. “Is that so?”

  “I hope so. See, Lara . . .” Ian gets up from his chair and slowly starts to bend to one knee next to the table. “I called him with a question about his only daughter. An important one.”

  My eyes fill. “You did?”

  Ian lowers all the way down in front of me and takes my hand as his other reaches into his pocket. “I did. He said yes, and I’m relieved. But what I really want to know is”—he flips open the ring box—“what will you say?”

  I take a shaky breath, then pretend to be confused. “Hard to say. What’s the question?”

  Ian’s eyes lose the teasing expression but none of the warmth. “Lara McKenzie, I love you more than any damn thing in this world. Will you marry me?”

  I let out a hiccupping sob, even as the people around us make the requisite awww noises.

  I set both hands on his face and press my lips to his. “You make me so happy,” I whisper.

  “That better be a yes,” he says against my mouth.

  I smile. “Yes. I can’t wait to marry you, Ian Bradley.”

  So, I guess I lied before when I said happily ever after couldn’t get any better.

  It just did.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Dear Friends,

  Thank you so much for honoring me (and Ian and Lara!) with your hard-earned reading time. I know there are millions of books for you to choose from, and I’m so grateful Hot Asset made it onto your TBR list!

  The 21 Wall Street series was originally conceived because of one simple author wish: to write about hot guys in suits. They’re my favorite thing to read and thus . . . my favorite thing to write. ;-)

  The series, however, quickly became so much more than that. Somewhere along the writing process, my “hot guys in suits” went from being stock photos in my mind to being real people—complex characters who came alive, not just through their relationships with the women who captured their hearts but through their friendships with one another. Soon I had not just the fantasy of the rich millionaires in their penthouses but characters whose vulnerability, banter, and loyalty to one another made me wish I could be part of their group. I hope you feel the same!