Hard Sell (21 Wall Street)

by Lauren Layne

  Today, apparently, it’s a pumpkin spice latte. Tomorrow, who knows? I don’t even know why I care. I guess I’ve always hated things I can’t predict, especially as they relate to Matt Cannon.

  “You didn’t answer. Where’re we heading?”

  I cut a glance at him as I head in the direction of Madison Avenue. “You did see section 7B, right? The one that says all public appearances together necessitate twenty-four-hours’ notice?”

  “No problem,” he says. “Here’s your twenty-four-hours’ notice that we have brunch reservations tomorrow.”

  “Let me guess. Are they at some see-and-be-seen restaurant in the West Village that charges twelve dollars for an egg?”

  “Twenty dollars if you want to add freshly shaved truffles.”

  “I’ll do that, since you’re buying. But that’s tomorrow. I didn’t have you on my schedule for today.”

  “You won’t even know I’m here,” he says.

  I snort as we turn onto Madison Avenue, one of my favorite shopping meccas, alongside Fifth Avenue and SoHo.

  “Just go about your business. I’ll follow at a respectful distance.”

  “And make sure people see us together?”

  “Exactly,” he says with a quick grin.

  “All right,” I murmur, taking another sip of my cappuccino. “But remember, Cannon, you asked for this.”

  “Asked for what?” he says, automatically opening the door of the store I’ve stopped in front of.

  Instead of answering him, I step inside, waiting until he’s followed me inside before glancing around for my usual salesperson.

  “Sabrina! Hi. You got my message! I’ve been holding some of our fall stuff for you. Can I get a room set up?”

  “Absolutely, I want to try all of it.”

  I hide a smile when Matt lets out a tiny groan.

  He’s shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head, and he’s looking around the store in that wary way men have when shopping is on the horizon.

  Monica gives him a curious look, and I tug him forward.

  “Monica, this is Matt Cannon. Matt, Monica has the best damn fashion sense in Manhattan and is largely responsible for making me look reasonably put together on a regular basis.”

  “Oh please, I could dress you in a bag and you’d look fabulous,” Monica says to me as she extends a hand to Matt.

  He gives it a quick shake. “Pleasure.”

  “So, Mr. Cannon, are you just keeping Sabrina company, or can I talk you into trying on a few of our new menswear pieces?”

  Matt opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, but I answer first.

  “Oh, I’ve been dying to get him into a cashmere sweater,” I say, rubbing my hand over his biceps in a way that lets Monica, and anyone else who might be watching, know just what we are to each other without having to utter the word boyfriend.

  “Absolutely,” Monica says, nodding enthusiastically. “I have a bunch of things in mind. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll get two rooms ready.”

  “Fantastic,” Matt mutters as he drains his coffee.

  I pinch his arm, reminding him of what we’re doing here. In turn, he drapes an arm over my shoulder, squeezing just a little too hard in retaliation, though any bystanders wouldn’t know it by the adoring smile he gives me.

  I give him a glowing smile right back. “How much are you wishing you would have checked with me before tagging along today?”

  “Almost as much as I wish this coffee was of the Irish variety.”

  “You’re in luck,” I say, finishing the last of my cappuccino before nodding at another salesperson approaching with two glasses of champagne. “It’s not whiskey, but . . .”

  “It’ll do,” Matt says eagerly.

  “Can I take those coffee cups for you?” the woman asks with a bright smile.

  We exchange our Starbucks for the champagne, and I scan the room as I take a sip. This is one of my favorite retailers, and since this is their flagship store, it’s extra lavish, as the complimentary champagne would indicate.

  Instead of cramming every spare space with tables and mannequins and merchandise, Max & Belle has created a place intended for lingering, with plenty of plush seating and iPads with home screens set to the latest catalog. There are a few standing racks with samples of each item, but the majority of the inventory is kept out of sight, adding to the impression that each item is one of a kind.

  “How long you gonna be?” Matt asks. “I can wait outside.”

  “Monica’s bringing you stuff to try on.”

  “I don’t want to try shit on. I have plenty of clothes.”

  “You have plenty of suits,” I correct. “Sweaters, though?”

  “I’ve got some of those, too. I pay a personal shopper an obscene amount of money so I don’t have to endure this.”

  “Endure? Yeah, because sipping Veuve Clicquot with Michael Bublé playing in the background while waiting for someone to bring you clothes is a really tough life.”

  “Spare me the pretentious guilt trip. You realize that most people don’t count shopping as work, right?”

  I turn toward him and lower my voice. “You’re the one who wanted to tag along, so we may as well get some use out of your crashing my shopping day.”

  “How the hell is this going to help my—”

  “Matthew. Be quiet and trust me. For the next five minutes, you need to forget that you’re pissy about shopping and pretend to be completely smitten.”

  “Smitten with what?”

  I exhale through my nose. “With me, you jackass.”

  I turn around casually, noting the well-dressed woman on the far side of the shop. She hasn’t seen me, but I saw her the moment we entered.

  She’s the reason we’re here.

  Time to test Matt Cannon’s acting abilities.

  I amble to a center rack with a cold shoulder dress, feigning interest in the gray fabric as I let my gaze scan the room until it lands on the woman in the jeans and red sweater, my eyes going wide as though just seeing her.

  “Georgie?” I say, raising my voice slightly to get her attention.

  The woman spins around, a wide smile on her face. “Sabrina. Hi, it’s been forever!”

  I walk toward her, and though we do the air-kiss thing, it’s the genuine good to see you kind, not the vapid-socialite variety.

  “You look amazing,” I say, pulling back and giving her a once-over.

  That, too, is genuine. Her long reddish-brown hair falls to her waist in carefree curls, her sweater fitted to a figure that’s healthy without being gym-rat toned, her smile bright and cheerful.

  Georgiana Watkins—wait, no, Georgiana Mulroney now—is one of my favorite people in the city. She’s sort of right out of a scene from Gossip Girl but in the best way possible. She’s rich, yes, but also sweet. Relentlessly happy, but in a charming way, not annoying.

  “I forgot we both work with Monica,” she says, squeezing my hand. “I came in looking for a pair of black pants, but after trying everything on, I’ll have, like, eight bags. Marly too,” she says, pointing to her BFF, who’s chatting on her cell a few feet away.

  I give Marly a friendly wave, and she finger-wiggles back and blows me a kiss.

  “You just get here?” Georgie asks.

  “Yup, me and—” I glance over my shoulder. “Matt, babe. Come over here a sec!” I call.

  His eyes narrow just briefly, and I give him a this is what you’re paying me for smile in return.

  “Georgie, do you know Matt Cannon?” I ask, setting my arm on his biceps as he approaches, letting my fingers linger, as though I can’t help myself from touching him. “Matt, this is Georgiana Mulroney.”

  She laughs. “Wow, nearly a year after the wedding, and it’s still weird to hear that as my last name. Weird in a wonderful way,” she chirps as she shakes Matt’s hand.

  “I actually know Georgie through her husband,” I explain to Matt. “Andrew and I’ve done business together.”


  “I always forget he knew you first!” Georgie says. “Andrew’s a divorce attorney,” she explains to Matt. “Somehow I manage to love the cynical guy anyway.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Matt says with an easy smile, his hand finding my waist in a casual, absentminded sort of touch. “Couple guys in my office have hired him.”

  Georgie makes a sad noise. “I’m so sorry to hear their marriages didn’t work out.”

  Matt blinks and gives me a quick glance that I’m pretty sure translates to, Is she for real?

  Yup. That’s Georgie for you—an optimist, true-love enthusiast, and so on. But her Pollyanna outlook on life isn’t why I sought her out. I need her connections.

  Monica approaches from the dressing room area and beckons me forward. “Sorry about that, Sabrina, Mr. Cannon. I have two fitting rooms all set up for you.”

  “Thanks so much,” Matt says with a cheerful grin.

  Hmm, maybe the guy’s better at this than I expected. His rapid transition from the standard man-hates-shopping routine to the easygoing charmer, determined to please his girlfriend, is convincing as hell.

  “I’ll get you some champagne refills,” Monica says with a smile. “If you guys want to head on back?”

  “Absolutely.” I turn back to Georgie. “It was so good seeing you, hon. We should do dinner soon.”

  “I’d love that. I’ll text you some dates.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Okay, so . . .” Georgie leans in with a conspiratorial smile and lowers her voice, as her eyes deliberately take in Matt’s hand on my waist. “Did I or did I not see you guys here together?”

  “You absolutely saw us together,” I say with a sly smile.

  Georgie winks. “Got it.”

  There. Right there. That’s why I sought out Georgie Mulroney. The woman’s not a gossip, but she is a part of the gossip chain when I need her to be.

  Matt’s and my shopping excursion will be all over the social scene rumor circuit by lunch.

  She gives me a quick kiss goodbye and waves at Matt. “So nice meeting you. We should all get together sometime!”

  “Absolutely, I’d love that,” Matt says agreeably.

  After waving goodbye to Marly and Georgie, I lead him into the fitting room area. It’s coed, and unlike my high school memories of the Gap, the salespeople aren’t worried about groping happening in their changing stalls.

  Stalls isn’t even the right word. There’s an entire room, complete with a small love seat, chair, chilled water bottle . . .

  Since I know the routine already, I step into the room Monica points me to, listening with a smile as I hear her rattle off a list of twenty items for Matt to try on.

  I’ve got about twenty of my own items to try on, so I kick off my ankle boots to get to work. I pause once I’m down to my bra and underwear, sipping my champagne as I debate between trying on the dresses first or a fabulous tweed skirt with a bit of flounce around the hem to keep it from looking dowdy.

  I’m reaching for the skirt when the door to the dressing room opens. I whirl around, expecting it to be Monica entering without realizing I was in here.

  It’s not Monica.

  Matt shuts the door with a quiet click that belies the irritation in his gaze. “You planned this.”

  I take another sip of champagne and try to pretend that my heart’s not beating in overdrive at being nearly naked in an enclosed space with him. “Planned what?”

  “You knew I’d be waiting outside your apartment today. You knew I’d tag along. You planned everything. Don’t deny it.”

  I roll my eyes and set the champagne aside on the table. “Why would I deny it? This is what you’re paying me for.”

  “So that interaction with that Georgie chick—”

  “All planned,” I confirm. “Georgiana has her finger on the pulse of New York society, and she’s aware of my . . . occupation. She’s exactly the person we need to spread the news organically about our relationship—Honestly, Cannon, are you even listening?” I ask in exasperation, since he’s clearly checking me out instead of paying attention.

  His eyes return to mine. “You should have told me. Let me in on your plan.”

  “I did tell you.”

  “Yeah, after we got here,” he says.

  “I don’t know why you’re so irritable about this,” I murmur, inspecting one of the dresses on the hanger and ignoring how vulnerable I feel at my near nakedness.

  The dress is pulled from my hands and tossed onto the back of a chair, the hanger falling to the floor.

  “Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not one of your moronic clients to be handled,” Matt snaps.

  “I know that. But you’ve got to trust—”

  His hand slips around my neck, tilting my face up, and my breath catches. Damn him.

  “No hookups, remember?”

  “I know,” he says, resting his forehead against mine. “But I can’t think when you’re dressed like that.”

  “I’m not really dressed at all,” I mutter.

  His smile is strained. “Exactly.”

  I don’t reply, but the sound of our breathing says plenty all on its own.

  Want.

  Need.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, fighting for self-control. It’s always been this way around him, which is the very reason I set up my rule in the first place. I may not be a believer in all things lovey-dovey, but even I know that the combination of pretending to be Matt’s girlfriend while also sleeping with him is dangerous.

  My brain knows this. My body? Wants him. Always.

  I’d been so sure that spending more time with him would cure my attraction to him—that being forced to deal with his arrogance on a regular basis as his faux girlfriend, with the constant exposure to all his flaws, would rid me of any desire for the man.

  So far . . . my plan’s not working.

  7

  MATT

  Saturday Morning, September 23

  I’m not sure what annoys me more. That Sabrina’s been one step ahead of me the entire time, and I didn’t have a clue, or the fact that I want her like crazy, even as I know that, too, is probably part of her plan.

  Or maybe not, I amend as I study her expression in the mirror’s reflection. Five minutes ago, she looked smug as can be after she ensured our “relationship” made it onto the socialite gossip chain.

  Now she’s both mad and turned on. Probably mad because she’s turned on.

  I can relate.

  “Get out.” She says the words calmly. All the heat comes from the lethal warning glint in her eyes.

  “Okay,” I murmur, letting my lips almost touch her ear but not quite. I tell myself to release her. To honor our agreement, but my damn body won’t obey.

  She hisses out a little breath at the contact, even as she arches toward me, her body belying her words. “Seriously? You can’t go one month without sex?”

  I grit my teeth in frustration. “You’re telling me I’m the only one wanting right now?”

  My other hand slides up her waist until my fingers brush the underside of her bra. In response, she bats my hand away, and even in my irritation, I nearly smile, because it’s so her. So us.

  She whirls toward me, and the air all but crackles around us. With anger, with sexual tension, with whatever else is between us, always.

  I wish I knew what it was. I’m not sure it has a name. Because even though I know down to my very core I’m not cut out for the monogamous-relationship thing—I don’t want a serious girlfriend ever, much less a wife—the woman in front of me is the only one who’s ever made me think maybe.

  Maybe.

  Helpless against the onslaught, I do the only thing I can think of. I kiss her.

  My fingers tangle in her hair, and my mouth is urgent as it claims hers.

  She stiffens immediately, her hands going to my shoulders, ready to shove me off.

  I gentle my touch, even as I ease closer. I let her know that
she can step away if she chooses, but I intend to make damn sure she makes another choice.

  I kiss the corner of her mouth softly. Kiss me back.

  My lips drift over her stubborn jaw. Want me back.

  I feel the moment she capitulates, her small body softening against mine. I pull her closer, my mouth finding hers again . . .

  “Sabrina, how’s everything fitting?”

  Sabrina reels back at the sound of the saleswoman’s chipper voice, and she slaps her hand against my mouth, her eyes commanding. Be quiet.

  “I’m all good, Mon, thanks!” Sabrina says with an equally chipper tone. I’ll give her credit—her voice is as smooth and even as it always is. Not easy to ruffle, this one.

  Monica, however, doesn’t get the hint. “You need another size on anything? I’ve had a couple people tell me that the off-the-shoulder dress is running a bit snug.”

  “Haven’t gotten to that one yet. I’ll let you know,” Sabrina says, pressing her palm more firmly against my mouth.

  “Isn’t that blue turtleneck gorge?” Monica babbles on. “The second I saw it, I knew it would look uh-mazing on you.”

  “I love it,” Sabrina says. “It’s definitely going home with me.”

  I narrow my eyes, because I’m pretty sure she hasn’t even seen the shirt yet.

  She presses her hand harder against my mouth. Shut up.

  I smile against her palm.

  “Okay, well, I’ll leave you to it. Just pop your head out or give a holler if you need more champagne or a different size or anything. Mr. Cannon, how are things going on your side?”

  I bite back a laugh, and Sabrina rests her forehead briefly to my shoulder in defeat.

  “Any ideas?” I whisper against her fingers.

  She lifts her hand, and though I can practically see the wheels turning in her brain, trying to come up with a solution, she knows when she’s beat. Sabrina lets out a little sigh and shakes her head.

  “Mr. Cannon?” Monica asks again.

  I clear my throat, feeling a bit like I did in prep school when Mrs. Gallagher caught me feeling up Jen Fowler in the utility closet. “All good, thanks,” I say, not bothering to keep the amusement out of my voice.