Hard Sell (21 Wall Street)

by Lauren Layne

  The Sams and Adam are sipping mimosas, likely waiting for their own table, and haven’t seen me yet.

  I approach, clamping my hand on Sam’s shoulder, confident smile already in place. “Mr. Wolfe?”

  “Matt!” Sam turns toward me, his expression torn between surprise and wariness. Once again, I feel the intense urge to pummel the jackass who wrote that article and turned my once golden name into the wild card that embarrasses the bosses. “What are you doing here?”

  I grin. “It’s Rosemary’s. I’m doing what everyone does. Getting a damn good brunch.”

  “Their bread alone is to die for,” Samantha agrees, her voice warmer than her husband’s, though her expression is no less leery. “Matt, do you know Mr. Feinstein?” She gestures to the other man, who’s been more interested in his phone than our conversation about the bread.

  Adam Feinstein looks up, shoving his round glasses farther up his nose as he gives me a bland, indifferent smile.

  I extend a hand. “Mr. Feinstein, a pleasure. I’m Matt Cannon. I work for Wolfe Investments.”

  “I know who you are,” the other man says, turning his attention back to his phone. “The kid from the Journal.” He shakes his silver head without bothering to look up. “In my day, people were more careful with their money and reputation. And more respectful of other people’s money and their company’s reputation.”

  I tense, and Samantha closes her eyes briefly in dismay.

  Shit. Shit!

  As I’m trying to find a respectful rejoinder to Feinstein’s clear disdain, I hear a feminine voice saying my name. “Matt?”

  Oh thank God. Sabrina has shown up early, bless her.

  I turn toward the voice, only I realize too late that the voice is too high to be Sabrina’s, and find not one but two blonde women grinning at me.

  I’ve slept with them. Both of them. Not at the same time, but I’m guessing that distinction is going to do little to save my ass at this point.

  “Hi . . .” My brain searches for their names. Either of their names. I’ve got nothing. In my defense, it’s been years. And though my hazy memory tells me I met them at the same bar, I had no idea that they knew each other, much less were brunch buddies.

  They’re both looking at me expectantly, and the alarm bells in my head are in full siren mode now, especially when I hear Feinstein sniff behind me, all the judgment in the world infused into the tiny sound.

  I hear Sam sigh, and one of the blondes takes pity on me, though not in a way that’s remotely helpful.

  “It’s Kara, silly!” she says, stepping toward me and wrapping an arm around my neck.

  My options aren’t good. I can let my arms dangle . . . awkward. I can push her away . . . rude. I can hug her back . . .

  I go with this one, my arm sliding around her waist and giving what I hope is a friendly, platonic squeeze in greeting. “Of course.”

  I start to pull back, or at least try to, but she clings, turning toward my bosses and Adam Feinstein and, in a scene right out of my nightmares, keeps speaking.

  “How do you guys know Matt?”

  Samantha’s smile is tight. “We work together.”

  “They’re my bosses,” I’m quick to add, hoping it’ll cue Kara in to shutting her mouth or at least filtering what she says next.

  No such luck.

  “Oh, how cool!” Kara gushes. “Matt and I use to party together. Oh my gosh, I’m being so rude.” Kara pulls back, belatedly remembering her companion. “Guys, this is my friend Robin.”

  Robin’s smile is as tight as Samantha’s. “Matt and I have met.”

  Kara looks at her friend in surprise, then up at me, her expression visibly cooling as she puts the pieces together.

  Come on, ladies. It’s been years, and we slept together once. Surely neither of them has been holding on to the delusion that we were exclusive . . .

  I resist the urge to tug at the collar of my shirt as it suddenly occurs to me that my reputation is in so much more need of rehab than I ever realized.

  I try to pull my arm away from Kara under the guise of looking at my watch. “You know, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m actually meeting someone—”

  “There you are!”

  I never thought Sabrina Cross’s sultry voice could cause anything other than agitation and arousal, but today, the sound of her low alto brings something else:

  Relief.

  I turn toward her, but before I can figure out how to explain the mess I’ve gotten myself into and subtly beg for help, she’s taken control of the situation.

  With a friendly smile, she touches Robin’s arm. “Hi, are you Kara?”

  “No, she is,” Robin says with a stiff nod toward her friend.

  “Ah, well, the hostess has been looking for you,” Sabrina says. Then she lowers her voice. “I’d get on it if I were you. I’ve found this place will only hold your reservations for a hot minute before clearing you off the list for walk-ins.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks,” Robin says, looking at the hostess, then at her friend. “Kara. Let’s go.”

  Kara reluctantly releases my arm, and the second she does, Sabrina’s there, somehow nudging the other woman aside without actually touching her. After a last backward glance my way, Kara follows her friend to the waiting hostess.

  Just like that, the first of my problems is handled.

  “So sorry I’m late,” Sabrina says, running an arm intimately over my biceps, then lifting to brush her lips over mine. “I couldn’t get a cab for the life of me—” Sabrina breaks off, as though just registering we’re not alone. “Oh my gosh! Samantha. Sam. How are you guys?”

  She moves past me, doing a smooth air-kiss exchange with Samantha, smiling broadly at Sam.

  “I haven’t seen you since . . . Oh, what fund-raiser was that? Well, it doesn’t matter. So wonderful to see you both.”

  She keeps chatting on, somehow managing to be captivating not annoying, and I practically see the ice melt off the higher-ups, their shoulders relaxing.

  “Thanks so much for that book recommendation,” Samantha is telling Sabrina. “My book club deemed it the best one we’ve read all year and absolutely insisted you consider joining our group.”

  The thought of Sabrina and my boss’s boss in a book club together is mildly terrifying, but I’m too relieved to be anything but grateful at the ease with which Sabrina’s handled The Sams.

  Adam Feinstein is probably a lost cause, but . . .

  Sabrina lets out a little gasp of pleasure. “Mr. Feinstein, is that you?” She taps her hand against the man’s knee as he sits on the barstool, the gesture playful and familiar.

  I brace, expecting him to glower at her, but instead he’s grinning broadly.

  “Look at you, sitting all quiet in the corner,” she says, leaning in to peck his cheek. “Does Geraldine know you’re brunching without her?”

  Geraldine? Who the hell is Geraldine?

  Feinstein adjusts his glasses with a smile. “She’s visiting her sister in Fort Lauderdale this weekend. The Sams were kind enough to let me be a third wheel.”

  “And Amy?” Sabrina asks. “How’s she liking Harvard?”

  “Nothing but happy phone calls these first few weeks,” Mr. Feinstein says proudly. “We couldn’t be prouder, and also, more grateful. Without you making that phone call . . .”

  “Oh stop,” Sabrina says with a wave of her hand. “Amy’s brilliant. I’m sure she’d have gotten into Harvard without my help.”

  My head is spinning. Sabrina knows Adam Feinstein? And his wife?

  And helped his daughter get into Harvard?

  “You’re here with, ah—” Adam looks at me, as though he either can’t remember my name or doesn’t want to remember it.

  “You’ve met Matt, right? Matt Cannon?” She moves back to my side and makes a big show of rolling her eyes. “I can’t say I’m loving how well everyone knows his name these days. Bachelor parties—every woman’s worst nightmare, right?”


  She gives a playful wink at Samantha, and the CEO doesn’t miss a beat. “Let’s just say I’m grateful Sam’s bachelor party days are behind him. I don’t have to worry about him getting into too much trouble anymore.”

  Sam clamps my shoulder with fatherlike affection and leans in. “Had myself a lap dance or two in my day. Is it just me, or are those women persistent? Never could figure out how to get out of the situation without being rude.”

  The hostess appears with three menus. “Wolfe, party of three? Your table is ready. I apologize for the wait. The party at your table decided to order dessert at the last minute.”

  “A decision I can get behind,” Mr. Feinstein says, standing and picking up the fedora he left on the bar. “I might go for some dessert myself. Sabrina, sweetheart, it was so good to see you. Geraldine will be upset she missed you.”

  Sabrina pats his hand with a smile. “We’ll have to get together when she gets back from Florida. Cocktails?”

  “That’d be great.” Mr. Feinstein’s gaze is less fatherly when he looks at me but a good deal friendlier than before. “Mr. Cannon, good to meet you. You’d best stay out of trouble if you’re going to be worthy of this one.” He hitches a thumb at Sabrina.

  “Absolutely, sir. Lesson learned.”

  The man smiles and pats my arm with a nod.

  The Wolfes give me a meaningful look that says we’ll talk later before we all say our goodbyes, the three of them following the hostess toward the back of the restaurant.

  Sabrina takes the barstool vacated by Feinstein and, catching the bartender’s eye, orders two mimosas before crossing her legs and turning to face me with a triumphant smile. No doubt about it, she knows that she skillfully unfucked my entire morning and did it well.

  Damn it. There’ll be no living with her now.

  10

  MATT

  Sunday Brunch, September 24

  “Why aren’t you gloating?”

  Sabrina sips her mimosa. “Why would I gloat?”

  “Because you know full well that you saved my ass.”

  She shrugs. “That’s what you’re paying me for. I don’t need to gloat. I already know I’m good at what I do.”

  “Yes, you are. I . . . underestimated you. I apologize.”

  She gives me a startled look, then studies me, as though looking for sarcasm. She can look all she wants; there is none. I can give credit when it’s due, and it’s definitely due here.

  We’ve been seated at our table for nearly half an hour, and every moment that passes, my tension eases a little bit more. While I’m not out of the woods as far as my reputation goes, I’m confident I made a solid step forward in the damage-control department, thanks to her.

  “Are they watching us?” I ask.

  “Can’t tell,” Sabrina says. “But just in case . . .” She scoops up a forkful of eggs and holds it across the table for me, an adoring smile on her face.

  I roll my eyes, something I can get away with, since my back is to the Wolfes and Feinstein.

  Still, I dutifully eat the eggs off her fork, because apparently, that’s what people in love do? I wouldn’t know.

  “You think he bought it?” I ask.

  “Who, Adam?” she asks before taking another sip of her mimosa.

  I shake my head at her casual use of his first name. “Yeah, Adam. How is it you’ve never mentioned you’re on a first-name, best-friend level with Adam Feinstein? And his wife? And his daughter?”

  “This is why you’re paying me the big bucks,” she says with a smile. “And they’re a sweet family. They invited me to a Hanukkah party last year.”

  “You celebrate holidays with them? You’re not even Jewish.”

  She shrugs. “So? They know that. Just like they know the holidays can be lonely.”

  I look up at that, a little startled by the admission. For some reason, it never occurred to me that someone as sassy and confident as Sabrina Cross would ever be lonely, but . . .

  Of course she would be. How could she not be? My family drives me up the fucking wall, but it’s still a warm place to go during the holidays, where they’re happy to see me.

  I don’t know the details of Sabrina’s family situation beyond the fact that she has none. Or at least none she keeps in contact with.

  My throat tightens with guilt at never having thought to include her in any holiday festivities. Not that she’d have taken me up on the offer, but thinking of her spending them all alone . . .

  “Quit looking at me like that,” she says, nibbling on a piece of bacon.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you feel sorry for me. I assure you, I’m just fine with my holiday routine.”

  I want to ask more about it. If she celebrates alone. Or with Ian. Or . . .

  “Your bunnies just left,” she says, derailing my thoughts.

  “My bunnies?”

  “The bar bunnies: Kara and Robin.”

  I wince. “Right. In my defense—”

  She holds up her hands. “Don’t. You don’t owe me explanations, remember? And I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable defense for how you can’t be bothered to remember the names of women you—”

  I reach across the table and stuff some of my Benedict into her yapping mouth.

  “Sorry,” I say as she chews, glaring all the while. “Thought I saw Feinstein coming this way. Wanted him to know how besotted I was by sharing my food.”

  She swallows and opens her mouth.

  “And,” I say before she can speak, “I knew their names at the time. It’s just . . . been a while. I mean, what are the chances that two women I haven’t slept with in years not only know each other but also show up today, in the same restaurant?”

  “It’s a popular brunch spot,” she says, lifting her shoulders. “I know half the people here.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out. We can’t seem to go five minutes without someone stopping by to schmooze with you.”

  “Which is working in your favor.” She points her mimosa at me. “The more people who see us together, the better.”

  “I know.”

  She leans forward. “Why do you look so tense? It’s just brunch. Don’t you like brunch?”

  “Not really.”

  “Everyone likes brunch.”

  “No, not everyone likes brunch. I hate all the fanfare. Why can’t we just get a pile of eggs and be done with it?”

  She lifts her eyebrows. “A pile of eggs?”

  “You know what I mean.” I push my plate aside. “Brunch is always such a fucking production.”

  “You’re getting pretty pissed about a meal, Cannon. You’re still on edge?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I admit. I thought my tension was gone, but perhaps it’s only eased. I still feel . . . off. “My plan of showing up where I suspected The Sams would be came dangerously close to backfiring.”

  “Yes, well, that’s why we should follow my plans. But regardless, I think I dug you out of that pile of crap quite nicely. Though, to be honest, I don’t see Adam giving you his business. He’s very old-fashioned.”

  “That’s fine,” I say, taking a sip of mimosa. “I don’t want him as a client.”

  “No?”

  I shake my head. “The Sams have been after him for weeks, but if they get him, Kennedy’s got dibs. It’s a good fit. The two of them can discuss chess strategy or whatever.”

  Truth be told, I love chess. And I’m damn good at it. But I don’t get off on the dignity of the game or whatever, like Kennedy does.

  “Yeah, that makes sense,” she says thoughtfully. “If nothing else, Kennedy would probably go crazy for the Feinsteins’ first-edition Dickens collection.”

  Snore.

  “Also, he just left.”

  “Who?”

  “Adam.”

  “Thank God,” I say, exhaling. “I feel like I’ve been on display. The Sams didn’t leave with him?”

  She shakes her head, glancing over my shoulder toward their
table. “No, it’s just the two of them.”

  “Probably trying to figure out which one has to fire me.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sabrina murmurs, still watching the older couple. “They seem sort of . . . romantic. She’s feeding him a bite of something chocolate, and he just wiped a bit of powdered sugar from her lip.”

  “Blech.”

  “I think it’s sort of sweet.”

  I give her a sharp look, surprised to see a wistful expression on her face. “Wait.” I lean forward. “I thought you didn’t believe in the whole romance thing.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t, not really. Not in the sense that I think there’s one person who completes each of us or that romantic love is reliable.”

  “Right,” I say with a nod. “Marriage is crap.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she says.

  “Right, and—Wait. What?”

  “I don’t think marriage is crap,” she repeats.

  “You just said—”

  “I said I think fairy-tale versions of marriage are crap,” she clarifies. “But with the right mind-set, I think marriage can be . . . nice. In its way.”

  “You want to get married?” I say, jarred to my core.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Someday. Yeah, I think so,” she says, seeming to warm to the idea. “With someone who was on the same page as me about it.”

  “What page is that?”

  She bites her lip and thinks it over. “Well, I don’t want a big white wedding, with the whole to love and to cherish bit. But I don’t necessarily want to spend the rest of my life alone, either. It’d be nice to have someone to share my life with. A companion.”

  “You have Juno.”

  The soft expression on Sabrina’s face fades at my glib tone. “Never mind.”

  “Sorry,” I say, meaning it. “That was a dick thing to say. I’m just surprised. I thought . . .”

  “Thought you and I were both cynics?” she says with a small smile. “We are. I’m just saying, in theory, I could see the appeal of having a partner. Someone to come home to, someone to talk to about my day. Someone to have dinner with.”