Hard Sell (21 Wall Street)

by Lauren Layne

“Yeah, but . . .” He drags a hand down his face.

  “What am I missing?” I ask, my heart pounding just a little in anticipation of something coming my way that I’m not going to like. “You need a girlfriend; I’ll find you a girlfriend.”

  “I don’t want a girlfriend. I mean, I do, but . . .” He lifts his head and locks his gaze with mine. “I want you.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to play the part, Sabrina. No, that’s not right.” He looks down quickly, then meets my eyes again. “I need you.”

  My breath goes out on a whoosh.

  I’ve heard him wrong. Surely I’ve heard him wrong.

  The air seems to go still, as though we’re in some weird alternate-universe vortex. Because an alternate universe is the only scenario in which he’d ask me that. Or that I’d consider saying yes.

  “No,” I say. “No freaking way.”

  He sighs, as though I’m being unreasonable. “I’m not asking you to go steady, Sabrina, just . . . pretend.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Not interested.” I snatch up both our glasses and head to the kitchen. Conversation over.

  “Double your rate. I can afford it.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but this isn’t about money.”

  “Then what is it about?” he asks, following me into the kitchen.

  “We’d destroy each other,” I say, whirling around to face him. “Surely you realize that.”

  He runs a hand down his face again. “I do realize that, but I’m short on options.”

  I snort. “Please. I could come up with a dozen women who’d die for the part. Most of them we wouldn’t even have to pay.”

  He and I both stiffen a bit at my words, recalling a night years ago, the night that started us on our path to destruction.

  Matt touches my arm. “Sabrina.”

  “I don’t accept money in exchange for my company,” I say quietly, shrugging off his touch. “You of all people know that.”

  “I do know that, but I’m also desperate,” he says, his voice urgent. “I need someone who knows the score. Someone who I won’t have to worry about getting the wrong idea. Someone who I can part ways with after my image is restored, no worse for wear.”

  “And you think that’s me? Your mortal enemy?”

  “I want you because you’re my mortal enemy, Sabrina.”

  “Why?”

  His eyes lock on mine. “Because of all the women in my life, you’re the one I can count on to never fall in love with me.”

  5

  MATT

  Tuesday Night, September 19

  When I first met Sabrina Cross, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

  Four years later?

  I still think it.

  The woman’s a perfect ten. Fantasy-worthy curves. Her long coffee-brown hair is streaked with gold, her eyes piercing and blue, her features as feminine as they are stubborn.

  She’s also a royal pain in the ass.

  I hate that I find her attractive, but I thought I’d resigned myself to the fact.

  Tonight, however, my attraction to her is trickier.

  For starters, she’s not even remotely trying to be hot. Her hair’s in a messy knot, makeup washed off for the night. Her pants, while sinfully tight, are of the comfortable “night at home” variety. And I wasn’t lying about my surprise at the sweatshirt.

  I’ve only ever seen Sabrina in tight dresses or slinky negligees.

  This version’s . . . softer. And absurdly appealing.

  But you know what’s not soft? My cock.

  Also, the murderous glint in her eyes.

  “No way. No way in hell.” She puts her glass on the counter and reaches for the vodka, clearly intending to make herself another drink.

  I pull the bottle of Grey Goose from her hand and begin to make us each another martini.

  We’re going to fucking need it.

  “I just need you for a month,” I say, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. “People will believe it. We’ve known each other for years, and it’d be more plausible that Ian set us up than me suddenly dating some new thing. Plus, I can count on you not to get . . . the Cinderella complex or whatever.”

  Sabrina blinks. “Cinderella what?”

  “You know . . . fancy dresses, the ball . . .”

  Her eyes go wide. “Ball?”

  “Gala. The Wolfe Gala. I need you to go with me.”

  She laughs and hands me the vermouth bottle. “Of course you do.”

  Okay. So she’s going to be a hard sell. I was prepared for that.

  I measure the vermouth, dump it into the shaker, and turn toward her. “Triple your rate.”

  She shakes her head emphatically. “I don’t need money.”

  No. She doesn’t. Her place is nearly as lavish as my own, and even if it wasn’t, she’s not the type of woman who does anything for financial gain. I learned that in a big way four years ago, and I paid the ultimate price:

  Her.

  “Okay, forget the money,” I say, going to the ice maker and filling the shaker. “What do you want?”

  She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s got to be something you want. If money doesn’t incentivize you, name something that does.”

  “Your head on a silver platter?”

  I ignore this and keep my attention on the cocktails. “Seriously. Name your price.”

  She fishes an olive out of the jar and pops it into her mouth. “Seriously. You have nothing I want.”

  I could kiss her sassy mouth, lick the salty olive brine off her lips, and prove her a liar. But right now, there’s something I need more than her body, though barely.

  I set the lid on the shaker and pound it shut with a punch of my fist, harder than necessary. The woman’s damn stubborn.

  I lift it to my shoulder and shake it with all the frustration coursing through my body. Frustration over the idiots in Vegas, the dipshit from the WSJ, the fact that my bosses and my clients can’t see past the drama of it all.

  That I have to rely on someone other than myself to save my job.

  That it’s this woman in particular who can save my job.

  But then, that’s not exactly true. Sabrina’s right. I could find someone else. I could probably even find someone who would keep her emotional distance.

  The truth is, I don’t want someone else. I want someone I can trust, and though I’d rather die than admit it to her, I trust Sabrina.

  We say nothing as she spears three olives and drops the cocktail pick into her glass. We both reach for the lemon at the same time, my hand closing over hers.

  Another woman might have jerked her hand back, but there’s nothing twitchy or hesitant about Sabrina Cross. Instead she looks at me, lifting her eyebrows. Back off.

  I remove my hand from hers slowly, letting my fingertips linger on the back of her smooth skin before withdrawing.

  She takes her time with the lemon twist, peeling the citrus carefully and setting it on my glass with precision.

  “I don’t want anything from you,” she says again, and my stomach twists in resignation. “But . . . I can find you someone perfect for the job. Someone more perfect than me. You have to trust me on this. This is what I do, Matt. Not only do I fix things, I know how to fix them. And I know plenty of single women who are perfect marriage material. They’ll—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “I don’t want marriage material.”

  On this, I’m very, very clear. As someone with no intentions of ever getting married, I refuse to lead on any woman who does want that.

  “I’m confused,” she says, pressing a finger between her eyebrows and studying me. “You want people to think you’re settling down with a woman, but you don’t want a woman who intends to settle down? How will that work?”

  “I want a woman who will pretend to want to settle down.”

  “Okay. I have those connections, too.”

  “I don�
��t want your damn connections, Sabrina, I want you!”

  I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my temper. She’s controlling the situation, and it pisses me off. My first instinct is to flip the tables on her, because it’s what we do—battle for control, even if it means taking the other person out at the knees, so to speak.

  But, much as it pains me, I need her help more than I need to get the upper hand, so I clench a fist and force myself to answer patiently. Honestly. “You make me crazy, but I trust you. Only you.”

  I hold my breath, willing her not to flay me into pieces for putting that out there.

  There’s a long pause as she watches me with an unreadable expression.

  “Then trust me to find someone else,” she finally replies.

  I let out the breath I was holding. Shit.

  Though . . . I narrow my eyes, because there’s something just beyond the usual stubborn determinedness in her eyes. Something . . .

  She starts to move away, and I grab her arm as I realize what that something is. “You’re scared.”

  Sabrina scoffs. “Of what?”

  I have no idea, but I do know her well enough to know what’ll spur her into action—the action I want.

  I lean forward slightly. “You’re terrified that you can’t do it. That you can’t pretend we’re a couple without wanting it for real.”

  This time I get a snort. “Reverse psychology? Really?”

  I give her a slow, taunting smile. “Prove it. Prove that you’re not completely terrified you’ll fall in love with me.”

  “Oh my God,” she says on a laugh, tugging her arm free. “That’s so not going to work on me.”

  I shrug, letting my expression go deliberately skeptical as I sip my drink.

  The silence stretches on, and she lets out an indignant huff. “You’re not that irresistible, you know. This whole I can’t break the little lady’s heart routine is a bit nauseating.”

  I ignore this and go to her fridge, even though I’m not hungry. “Got anything to eat?”

  Exactly as I expect, Sabrina stomps toward me, slaps her palm against the fridge door, and glares up at me. “You’re the last person I’d ever fall in love with.”

  “Have you ever been in love?” I ask, a little curious.

  “Of course not,” she says.

  “You don’t believe in it?”

  She bites her lip, as though unsure of her response. “Not lasting romantic love like you see in the movies, no.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Why is that excellent?”

  “Because it means there should be no problem with you posing as my girlfriend.”

  She laughs a little and rests the side of her head against the fridge. “You’re relentless.”

  “And you’re stubborn. Seriously, though . . . What are you so afraid of?” I ask it quietly.

  For a moment, her expression’s unreadable. Then she gives a slow smile and leans in slightly. “You know, for someone so decidedly anti-relationship, you’re pretty obsessed with the idea of my falling for you.”

  She’s clearly not going to answer my question, and I shove aside my disappointment. Figuring out what the hell makes Sabrina tick was never going to be easy. I’ve always known that.

  “What can I say, the apocalypse fascinates me.” I lean a shoulder against the fridge, mirroring her posture.

  “At least you acknowledge that it’ll be the end of the world before I feel anything other than tolerant loathing for you.”

  “Or I you,” I say, lifting my glass in a toast.

  She clinks her glass to mine, even as she frowns, a tiny line appearing between her dark eyebrows. “You really think I can’t do it? Spend a month as your companion without falling all over myself?”

  I push away from the refrigerator and go to the counter, setting aside my drink. “Doesn’t matter what I think.”

  She follows me, touching my arm. “Could you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Spend an entire month in my company without falling for my charms.” She says it mockingly, but the question is clearly a challenge.

  I’ve never been good at backing down from a challenge, and one issued by her? Forget it.

  “I think I’d manage.”

  “You know,” she says, studying my face, “you’ve got me thinking.”

  “Dangerous,” I mutter.

  “Perhaps this could be good for us.”

  My heart tightens in my chest as I realize that she’s actually considering going along with my plan. “Yeah?”

  Sabrina nods. “This weird thing between us . . . the fact that we can’t coexist without tearing each other down or tearing off each other’s clothes—”

  “For the record, I’m always a fan of the last one.”

  She gives a slight smile. “Yes, but it’s not . . . healthy. It’s hard on our friends; it’s hard on us.”

  “And you think our spending time together will fix that?” I ask, careful to keep the skepticism out of my voice. The last thing I want to do is dissuade her from helping me, but I can’t imagine a world where Sabrina Cross and I can go longer than an hour without easing the ever-present sexual tension between us, either by fighting or by screwing.

  “I think it will,” she says, smiling as she sips her drink. “Pretending to be an item in public could teach us how to be civil to each other, and the near-constant proximity will definitely cure me of my ill-advised attraction to you.”

  I frown. Even though I sense I’m about to get my way, I’m not at all sure I like where she’s headed with this.

  Still, I’m a desperate man. “Does this mean you’ll do it?”

  “On one condition.”

  “Name it,” I say, my pulse thrumming with the promise of victory I sense on the horizon.

  She looks at me. “No more hookups.”

  “No other women until after the Wolfe Gala. Got it.”

  “No, I mean we no longer hook up,” she says, using her glass to gesture between us. “We do this, we keep it clean. Literally. I won’t be your fake girlfriend and your enemy with benefits.”

  I hate this idea. I hate it hard.

  Sabrina and I don’t sleep together often. Self-preservation and all that. But the thought of never being able to give in to the urge, never to get my hands on her . . .

  “One or the other, Cannon,” she says quietly. “You can have me pose as your girlfriend, or you can keep me as your occasional booty call.”

  “Booty call my ass,” I mutter. “You initiate those interactions just as often as I do.”

  “Well I won’t anymore. Not as long as we’re pretending to be in love.” She flutters her eyelashes at me.

  “It’s a dumb-ass rule,” I say. “If we’re going to go through this hell together, we might as well get some pleasure out of it.”

  She shrugs. “Take it or leave it. Of course, there can be casual touches to convince the skeptical public that we’re a thing. But in private, hands to ourselves. That’s the deal.”

  I study her perfect features and contemplate. “So I can’t touch you, and I can’t touch anyone else. Does it go both ways? No guys on the side for you, either?”

  She hesitates for a fraction of a second, with only Juno’s gentle snores from the dog bed in the corner to punctuate the silence. “Sure. That’s fair. No other guys.”

  Fuck. Fuck me. Because that, right there, is what sells me.

  More than my reputation, more than my job, I’m going to agree to this because it means that for a month, I’ll be free from the image of other men touching this woman. I’ll be able to pretend, even if it really is pretending, that she’s mine.

  Only mine.

  I lift my glass. “It’s a deal.”

  She blinks in surprise but recovers, lifting her glass as well. “Fine. Good.”

  We lock eyes as we clink glasses, and I realize that I’ve been wrong. I’ve been thinking the hardest part of this whole thing will be faking being in love when
I don’t even believe in love.

  Now I know better.

  The hardest thing is going to be keeping my hands off the only woman I’ve ever wanted.

  6

  SABRINA

  Saturday Morning, September 23

  When I step out of my apartment building onto Park Avenue, I have two thoughts.

  First observation: fall is truly here, and like any proper New Yorker, I smile at the realization, because it means the debut of my new black V-neck sweater, skinny jeans, and suede ankle boots is warranted.

  Second observation: Matt Cannon is standing outside my apartment building, leaning back against the window as he waits for me, two Starbucks cups in hand.

  His sunglasses block his eyes, but I feel his gaze drift over me as he walks my way. “Morning.”

  “Really,” I say, accepting the cup he hands out. “This is how it’s going to be? You just show up whenever you want, no warning?”

  He grins. “You’re on my payroll now, right?”

  “If you’re asking if I got the signed contract you sent over yesterday, yes. But if you refer to our arrangement as me being on your payroll again, I’ll show you exactly where you can shove the contract.”

  “You’re snippy in the morning. I’d forgotten that,” he says, falling into step beside me. “So. Where’re we going?”

  I take a sip of the drink, unsurprised to find that it’s a cappuccino, one packet of raw sugar, exactly as I like it.

  Wordlessly I reach out, take his cup from his hand, and sip that.

  Pumpkin spice. Huh. Didn’t see that coming.

  “We’re sharing drinks now?” he asks as I hand it back.

  “We’re a couple, right? What’s yours is mine.”

  Actually, it has nothing to do with that. You know how I said I know everything about everybody? Every now and then, there’s a stumper. Matt Cannon’s coffee choice is one of them. I’ve never found the guy to get the same coffee beverage twice.

  I know what Ian drinks—Americano with a splash of two-percent in the morning, sometimes opting for something cold and sweet on a summer afternoon. I know what Kennedy Dawson drinks—black coffee, always.

  But Matt? He changes.

  Sometimes it’s a caramel Frappuccino. Sometimes it’s a tall drip. Sometimes it’s a white mocha with extra chocolate. Sometimes it’s a double-shot espresso with no sweetener whatsoever.