Hard Sell (21 Wall Street)

by Lauren Layne

  “Someone to go to brunch with,” I supply.

  “Right. Exactly.”

  Our gazes lock and hold, and something strange passes between us.

  “But you don’t like brunch,” she says on a rush.

  “Right. No. Definitely not.”

  “Good,” she says.

  “Great.”

  We resume our meal in silence, and though she turns the conversation back to my “reputation rehab” and her suggested plan for the upcoming week, I have a hard time keeping my attention on the topic at hand.

  All I can think about is Sabrina and her idea of marriage as a partnership of sorts. And how if and when she finds that partner, it’ll mean the end of meals like this one.

  The end of us. Whatever we are.

  11

  MATT

  Monday Afternoon, September 25

  It’s been a day for distractions. Alarm didn’t go off. Spilled coffee on my shirt. Couldn’t get a cab. Lost another client. Worked through lunch.

  It’s not even five o’clock yet, and the day’s not done with me. The distraction currently headed my way is perhaps the worst yet. Or at least the most annoying.

  Unfortunately, it’s also unavoidable.

  I pick up my phone. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hi, honey!”

  My mom’s always pretty cheerful, but the borderline manic happiness in her tone confirms she’s calling for the reason I’d suspected.

  She’s heard the news.

  “How are you?” she asks, her voice too casual.

  I sigh and lean back in my chair, rubbing my forehead. “Well, shitty, actually. The whole Vegas thing isn’t dying down as readily as I hoped it would.”

  “Oh, it will,” she says breezily.

  I clench my teeth against irritation. My parents had called, separately, the day the Wall Street Journal news broke last week. And though there’d been the token concern and sympathy, my mom hadn’t wanted to discuss the topic for longer than two minutes.

  She’s a nice enough woman, but she tends to determinedly ignore anything she deems unpleasant that doesn’t impact her directly. So I know she’s not calling to check up on that bit of news. She’s calling about the other news.

  “How was brunch yesterday?” she asks in a gleeful, teasing tone.

  Yeah. There it is.

  Besides getting the face time I’d hoped for with my bosses, Sabrina predicted our see-and-be-seen brunch date yesterday would result in plenty of press. Not quite Wall Street Journal–level press, but it had gotten picked up on enough society blogs that I figured my mom would have heard about it through her vast gossip circuit. My parents live in Connecticut, but my dad was a Wall Street guy, so they’re still pretty plugged into the scene. My scene. Lucky me.

  “Brunch was fine.”

  “Looked a bit better than fine. You were feeding her, Matthew.”

  Only to shut her up.

  “She’s gorgeous,” my mom gushes. “Sabrina, was it?”

  I give a grim smile. “Like you haven’t already googled everything about her.”

  “There’s not much,” my mom says with a touch of sulkiness. “Her social media accounts are private, and though she’s connected to plenty of powerful people, I couldn’t find any information about her.”

  Exactly as Sabrina likes it.

  “She’s private.”

  “Well. Whatever. You looked happy.”

  I grimace. “How many pictures were there?”

  “Just a couple. But I could tell by the way you looked at her that you’re crazy about her.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Is she the one?” my mom asks with the slightly desperate tone of a woman who, by her estimation, is long past due for grandchildren.

  The fact that my mom thinks there’s ever going to be “the one” is laughable. Though I wouldn’t hurt her by telling her outright, she and my father are pretty much solely responsible for my skepticism on all things monogamy and happy relationships. A lifetime of seeing just how jacked up marriage is will cure a guy of any happily-ever-after delusions pretty quickly.

  “We’re just dating, Mom.” And not even for real.

  “How’d you meet?” she asks.

  “She’s a friend of Ian’s. They grew up together.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.”

  I grunt in response, and she sighs. “I can see I’m not going to learn any more from you than I did from the internet.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think grown men typically give their mothers details on their love life.”

  “I know that,” she says pragmatically. “Which is why I need to get the details from her.”

  I’ve just put my feet up on my desk, but they drop back to the floor. “What?”

  “This woman. Sabrina. I want to meet her.”

  “No,” I say automatically.

  “Why not?” she says in a pouty voice.

  “Because we’ve just started dating. I’m not going to freak her out by bringing her to my parents’ house.”

  Not that I can ever imagine Sabrina freaking out about anything, but then, she doesn’t know the debacle that is my home life. A glittery, white-fence facade hiding a rotten core.

  “Dinner. This weekend,” she pushes.

  “I’ll come to dinner,” I agree, knowing I’m past due for a visit. “But I’m not bringing Sabrina.”

  She huffs. “Matthew.”

  “Mother.”

  “Think about it?”

  I hear a knock at the door, and I look up in relief when I see Ian standing there, eyebrows lifted in question. I gesture him in.

  “Mom, I gotta go. I have a meeting.”

  “Okay, honey. I’ll see you next week with Sabrina. I love you!”

  “I’ll see you next week. No Sabrina. Love you, too.” I hang up to end the debate and toss the phone on my desk.

  “No Sabrina where?” Ian asks.

  “My mother heard we’re ‘dating’ and wants me to bring her to dinner.”

  Ian snorts. “Now that, I’d love to see. Sabrina playing your doting girlfriend at your perfect parents’ house.”

  I look away, a little stab of guilt kicking in that I hide the truth about my parents even from my best friends.

  “How’s the Sabrina thing been going?” Ian asks.

  I run a hand over my face. “I’m exhausted.”

  “It’s only been two days.”

  “Yeah, well . . . let’s just say if being her fake boyfriend is this exhausting, I pity the guy who will take on the role for real someday.”

  Pity and hate.

  “Not happening,” Ian says emphatically.

  I drop my hand. “No?”

  Ian shrugs. “Sabrina’s more relationship averse than you.”

  Huh. Interesting. Interesting that Sabrina’s never mentioned her unique thoughts on marriage to her best friend.

  Still, it’s not my place to spill her secrets. Plus, honestly? A tiny part of me is thrilled that I know something about her that Ian doesn’t. The two of them have always been thick as thieves.

  “She is a bit cynical about romance,” I say evasively. “But she’s never said why.”

  Ian gives me a look. “Yeah, I’m not walking into that one. If she wants you to know what makes her tick, she’ll tell you herself. And don’t scowl at me. You know I’d protect your privacy just as much if she asked me about you.”

  “Does she?”

  Ian laughs. “Really? Here. Distract yourself with this.” He shoves forward a fancily wrapped gift that’s just been placed on my desk.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “A present.”

  “I see that. Why is it on my desk?”

  “What’s wrong with you? I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you.’”

  “I’m not going to say thank you until I know what it is and what it’s for.”

  I start to reach for it, but Ian shakes his head and drops into the chair opposite me. “Actua
lly no, not yet. Have to wait for Kennedy.”

  “Dude. Why are you being weird?” I ask, noticing he has another matching gift in his hand. Had I not been so distracted with my mother’s call about Sabrina, I’d have noticed them before. In my defense, the packages are small.

  “For the record, none of this was my idea,” he mutters, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed.

  A moment later, Kennedy ambles in, most of his attention on his cell phone. He sets it aside as he sits next to Ian. “What’s up?”

  “Ian brought us presents,” I say.

  “It’s not my birthday,” Kennedy says. “Nor is it yours.”

  “Thank God we waited for him,” I say to Ian. “How else would we ever keep track of everyone’s birthdays?”

  Kennedy reaches out and pulls the gift from Ian’s hand. Sniffs it.

  Ian rubs his forehead. “Oh my God, what are you doing?”

  “I was just making sure it wasn’t incense,” Kennedy says.

  Ian gives him an incredulous look. “Why would I be buying you incense?”

  “Last gift I got was sandalwood incense.”

  “You need new friends,” I tell him.

  “It was a housewarming gift from my mother.”

  “You ever use it?” Ian asks curiously.

  “Sure. It’s right next to my collection of scented candles and face creams.” Kennedy holds up the sleek gift. “Now stop stalling.”

  Ian sighs. “Okay, well, it’s like I told Matt—this wasn’t my idea, and . . . Shit. You know what, just open them. Get it over with.”

  Kennedy and I exchange curious glances as we untie the silver ribbon and tear open the black paper.

  “Now, see, this is already much better than incense,” Kennedy says, sounding a bit more cheerful than before as he opens the box.

  “Agreed,” I say, pulling the metal hip flask out of my box. “Dude, did you fill it?”

  Ian nods. “Vodka for you, scotch for Kennedy. That much, at least, was my idea.”

  “Explain.”

  Ian blows out a breath. He scratches his ear.

  I narrow my eyes. “You’re stalling again.”

  “Yeah, well, give me a break; I’ve never done this before,” he mutters, shifting in his chair.

  Kennedy unscrews the top of his flask and extends it to Ian. “Here. This’ll help.”

  Ian laughs. “I’m more of a gin guy, but . . . sure, what the hell.”

  He takes a sip, then hands the flask back to Kennedy. Meanwhile, I’m turning my own flask over, trying to figure out what sort of metal it’s made out of, when I notice the inscription.

  It’s dated for February of next year.

  I look up. “Dude. Isn’t that your—”

  “Wedding date. Yeah,” Ian says. “I need a best man. Well, men. You guys are it.”

  Ah, shit. I don’t think of myself as a sappy kind of guy, but the request means a lot. Well . . . it was more of a demand, but still.

  “I sort of thought this was unnecessary,” Ian continues. “I mean, I figured you guys would just know, like, the moment we got engaged. But Lara said I had to make it official . . .”

  Grinning, I stand and go to give my friend a hug. “Hell yes, man. I’m going to look so much better in a pink dress than Kennedy.”

  “You jest, but Lara is thinking pink and red for our colors. It’s Valentine’s Day weekend, blah blah blah.”

  “I’m not wearing a pink tie,” Kennedy says, giving Ian a hug of his own. “Red, we can talk about.”

  “I’ll pass on the message.”

  “You know, you didn’t have to bribe us,” I say, nodding toward the flask.

  “Lara’s idea. Apparently, you can’t just ask your wedding party to stand up beside you anymore. It has to be a thing. Can someone please change the subject?”

  He sounds desperate, so Kennedy takes pity on him and turns to me. “How’d it go when you ambushed Sabrina on Saturday? Was she pissed?”

  I groan. “It backfired. The infernal woman knew I was coming, flipped the tables, controlled the entire day.”

  Well, not the entire day. There’d been a moment in the dressing room when she’d been dangerously, wonderfully close to being out of control.

  “She’s good at that,” Ian says in acknowledgment before looking at his watch. “Damn it. I’ve got to run. Drinks later on me as a thank-you for not giving me shit about the dippy best-man gesture?”

  “Oh, there will be shit-giving,” Kennedy says. “We just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “Fantastic. Can’t wait,” Ian says. “But just keep in mind that I have an excellent memory. And I’ll remember each and every bit of shit-giving you dish out when it’s your turn to walk down the aisle and your fiancées make you beg me to be your best man with a cupcake or a poem.”

  Kennedy winces. “Noted. I’d like to think it won’t go down that way, but if a woman ever winds me around her finger to propose, she can probably convince me to do just about anything.”

  “It’ll happen,” Ian says, clamping Kennedy on the shoulder as they head out the door. “You too, Cannon.”

  I smile confidently as I sit back at my desk, because no matter how determined Ian is to bring me down into his lovestruck world, I know I’ll never join him there.

  I don’t do love. I don’t do relationships.

  And I sure as hell never plan to do marriage. Not the drippy, delusional love version.

  And not Sabrina’s way, either.

  12

  SABRINA

  Monday Dinner, September 25

  I blink in surprise. “Are you wearing an apron?”

  Lara McKenzie points a wooden spoon at me in warning. “Definitely. Wouldn’t you if you were attempting to make dinner wearing a white shirt?”

  “Well, see, that’s the difference between us,” I say, stepping into her apartment and shutting the door. “I wouldn’t be making dinner.”

  “Yeah, I’m not so good at it myself, but I’m trying. Ooh, but you made dessert!” Lara says, looking down at the apple tart in my hand.

  “Nope. Bought it. It’s better this way, trust me.”

  “Are you one of those women who keeps shoes in her oven?” Lara asks as I follow her into the kitchen.

  “Not anymore. But when I first moved to the city and was living in a four-hundred-square-foot shoebox while trying to get my business off the ground? Damn straight.”

  “Now that’s something I’d kill to see,” Lara says, giving the sautéing mushrooms a quick shove with her spoon. “Baby Sabrina.”

  “I was nineteen.”

  Lara shoots me a smile over her shoulder. “Like I said. Baby.”

  I smile back, though I don’t know that I agree. I suppose for some people, nineteen is just another shade of youth. For people like Lara, even Ian, whose paths had involved a four-year university, theirs had held youthful experiences like dorm rooms, study groups, frat parties.

  At nineteen, I’d already been putting food on my own table for a decade. I’d learned way more than I should have about the masochistic nature of men, and I sure as hell knew that the only person you could count on—really count on—was yourself.

  Even Ian, who’d been my friend and protector since we were kids, had left. I didn’t resent him for following his dreams to Yale. I’d been his biggest cheerleader. But my happiness for him didn’t take away the fact that I’d really, truly been on my own, all before my twentieth birthday.

  Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t feel sorry for me. The tough knocks early on gave me my independence, and I’m grateful. Really.

  “Can I help?” I ask Lara as she shoves back a strand of hair that’s come loose from her pony and peers at an open recipe book.

  Lara’s one of those women who looks as gorgeous polished and badass in her FBI power suits as she does in jeans and a T-shirt.

  She looks up and pushes her black-rim glasses higher on her nose. “Pour us some wine?”

  “On it.
” I go to the fridge. “Ooh, champagne. Nice champagne. What are we celebrating?”

  Lara gives me an enigmatic smile. “You’ll find out when Kate gets here.”

  I give her a curious look. “Within the past year, you landed your dream job and your dream man. What else could possibly—” My eyes go wide. “Are you pregnant?”

  “What?” she squeaks. “No! Would I have bought champagne if I were pregnant? God. Don’t do that. Pour me a glass of the Sauvignon Blanc as punishment for giving me a heart attack.”

  I pour us each a glass of wine and continue to study her. “What, then?”

  “Nope.” She sips the wine. “I told you, we have to wait for Kate.”

  I sigh. “I hate waiting.” Still, I settle onto a barstool with my wine as Lara begins chopping an onion.

  I’ve been to this apartment dozens of times over the years, settled on this very barstool, but always as Ian’s place.

  Now it’s Ian and Lara’s, and it’s perfect.

  I turn in my chair, scanning the room, smiling a little as I see that it’s both the same as I’ve always remembered and yet . . . happier. The furniture’s still classic dude, all black leather and practical coffee table. But there are bits of Lara here and there. A fuzzy blanket on the back of the couch I’ve never seen before. Cheerful yellow flowers on the bar cart. Black stilettos kicked into the corner.

  “Soooooo, how was brunch yesterday?” Lara asks me, setting her knife aside and taking another sip of wine.

  I spread my arms to the side. “I’m alive, so . . . better than expected.”

  “Yes, but is Matt?” Lara asks.

  “He’s fine. I went easy on him.”

  Lara’s head tilts. “You’re handling this whole thing better than I thought.”

  “I know, right?”

  She gives me a look. “You think it means something?”

  “Do I think what means something?”

  “Don’t play dumb,” she says bluntly. “Is there something there?”

  “It’s not like we’re holding hands and having a sing-along in the streets. We’re merely tolerating each other.”

  “Oh, come on.” She sulks. “Give me something.”

  I eye her suspiciously. “Are you going to take whatever I say right back to Ian?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to,” Lara says.