Hard Sell (21 Wall Street)

by Lauren Layne

  “And tonight, I was referring to our shopping expedition. The one where I spent three thousand dollars on clothes for you. Wasn’t that the point of that whole scheme? So people would think we were a couple? That I doted on you?”

  “You’ve never doted on anyone but yourself your entire life,” she says.

  Her voice has calmed slightly, and I nearly sag with relief, knowing that while she’s still pissed, at least she seems to maybe believe that I wasn’t telling Lanham she was a damned paid escort service.

  “Maybe not,” I grant her. “Doting’s not my thing, but neither is hurting people. And I hurt you.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “I did,” I interrupt. “I did and I’m sorry, Sabrina. I just got . . .”

  She lifts her eyebrows in question when I don’t finish, and I sigh in frustration—at her, at Lanham, at myself.

  “I saw you talking to him, and—”

  “You were worried I’d blow your cover.”

  “Hell yes, I was worried!” I explode.

  Worried you’d be happy with someone other than me. Worried that I could lose you, even before I really had you.

  I shove the thoughts aside, clinging to the safety of anger instead. “The entire reason we have a fucking contract is so that people like Lanham will think we’re together, that I’ve settled down, that I’m not blowing money on lap dances and drugs. Instead, I look over and see my girlfriend flirting with the very client I’m trying to win over.”

  “Well it’s a damn good thing I was,” she snaps. “Because after you went all caveman on him, I can’t imagine he’ll be dying to work with you.”

  She’s right. There’s a very real chance I’ve just blown any possibility at getting Lanham on my roster, and the hell of it is . . .

  I can’t seem to care.

  I can’t seem to see anything but her with him, looking for all the world like she was enjoying herself with another man.

  “Everything okay here?” Ian’s quiet voice comes from behind me.

  I let my chin drop to my chest for a moment. I love Ian like a brother. I do. He’s my best friend. But sometimes . . . sometimes . . .

  I envy him. I envy him the role of Sabrina’s savior. Her friend.

  I envy that he’s the one she runs to. That he’s the one who gets to look out for her. Protect her.

  Meanwhile, I’m the one who hurts her. The one she needs protecting from.

  I turn toward him. His hands are in his pockets, his stance casual, his eyes anything but.

  I give him a nod. “Yeah. We’re fine.”

  He studies me for a moment before his gaze flicks to Sabrina.

  I hear her swallow. “Yeah, Ian. We’re good.”

  “You sure? Because—”

  “Ian.” Her voice is firm. “Go back inside. Please.”

  My head snaps toward her. I’d expected her to take the out he offered, to retreat under his wing where he protects all the childhood secrets the two of them harbor.

  I know Ian’s. I don’t know hers.

  I only know that whatever shit the two of them went through together, it bonded them. Until Lara, Sabrina always came first with Ian.

  And Ian’s always come first with Sabrina.

  Until . . . now?

  I turn back to see Ian frown in confusion. “But—”

  “This is between Matt and me. I’m handling it.”

  He sighs. “Fine. Don’t kill each other.”

  “No promises,” she says with a small smile. “Give Lara my apologies?”

  “Sure,” he says, smiling back.

  His smile disappears when he looks at me. I don’t blame him. Sabrina’s putting on a good show, but there’s a fragility about her right now that I’ve never seen before. From the worried look on his face, I don’t think he has, either.

  We both wait until Ian’s moved out of earshot before continuing our conversation.

  I turn back to her. “Sabrina, can we please—”

  “How much longer?”

  “What?” I ask, not following.

  “Our contract. Me pretending to be in love with you.” Her voice is tired. “The contract says until the gala. Is that still the case? Because if not, I’d be happy to give you a prorated rate.”

  I feel the sudden urge to punch the brick wall beside me. I’m trying to talk to the damn woman, and all she cares about are contracts and prorated costs.

  “Yes,” I snap. “I need you until the gala.”

  I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t even know what I need or want anymore, but I know letting her out of this contract now, when things are like this between us, would be a mistake.

  “Fine,” she says coolly, taking a step back. “You’ll let me know when my next scheduled appearance is?”

  “Sabrina. Come on.”

  She moves toward the curb and lifts her hand to hail an approaching cab. “I’d appreciate it if you stick with the twenty-four-hours’ notice going forward. I think today proved that last-minute arrangements are hardly working in your favor.”

  The cab stops, and out of habit, I go to open the door for her, but she beats me to it. “Seventy-second and Park, please,” she tells the driver.

  “Sabrina, I really am sorr—”

  She shuts the door on the rest of my apology.

  Frustrated as hell, I watch the taillights of her cab until they disappear from sight, taking her back to her apartment uptown.

  And even then, I stay still a bit longer, replaying Kennedy’s words from earlier over in my head.

  Everything you’ve ever wanted . . .

  I’m not sure about that.

  I’m not sure about that at all.

  18

  SABRINA

  Thursday Evening, September 28

  My iPhone continues its relentless buzz from the counter, and Juno gives the phone a baleful look before giving me one that’s a bit . . . scolding.

  I scrape my hair into a messy bun atop my head as I give the dog a look right back. “I’m not answering it.”

  Juno sits. At least put the phone on “Do Not Disturb.”

  I shake my head. “I fed the beast. I have to live with the consequences. It’ll remind me to be smarter next year.”

  Juno slumps to the floor with a sigh, resting her snout on her paw as she avoids eye contact.

  She’s disappointed in me, and that’s just fine. I’m disappointed in me, too.

  Honestly, will I never learn?

  Today is my mother’s birthday. Yeah. As in the mother who I have almost nothing to do with. The one who was a mother by biological contribution only.

  Every year as September 28 approaches, I tell myself that this year I’ll let the day come and go without doing a damn thing.

  But some stupid part of me, the part that’s still nine and hoping the homemade birdhouse or carefully constructed bead necklace will win her over, sends a gift.

  I’ve moved beyond the homemade stuff. She’s not worth the effort. I know that much, at least. And while the online shopping process is infinitely easier . . . it has created a whole other monster.

  It never fails. The first text message or voice mail is a thank-you (mind you, it’s the only time I hear from her all year).

  The second message comes an hour later and is the guilt trip: You know, the more I think about it, the purse is just too extravagant. I appreciate the offer, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll think I’ll sell it. I could use the cash for more practical things.

  Now, don’t applaud her just yet. The tone shifts in the third message: Call me back already. Things have been tough around here lately, and I could use some help.

  The fourth message is where things get really nasty: I don’t know how I raised someone so selfish. You can afford a fancy leather purse, but you can’t be bothered to make sure I have basic necessities?

  Now, let’s get a few things straight. First, she didn’t raise anyone. I raised myself.

  Second, she has basic
necessities. How do I know? Because I paid off her mortgage. I pay for a twice-weekly grocery service that delivers everything she needs to make easy, healthy meals for herself.

  That’s right, I put a roof over her head and food on the table.

  The first one is repayment for the little that she did do for me and my half brothers back in the day. The second is a bonus.

  The messages will escalate for the next twenty-four hours, shifting from promises to pay me back for whatever “loan” she wants (fact: she won’t), to angry rants, to sobbing guilt trips.

  Also, if you’re wondering, she never actually sells the jewelry or handbags I send her. We’re friends on Facebook, and she’s addicted to the platform, posting a dozen pictures a day. Most of them feature the Coach purse, the earrings from Bergdorf, the Swarovski watch.

  Why do I do it?

  Good freaking question.

  As far as why I don’t just turn off my damn phone? It’s like I told the dog . . . I keep hoping that I’ll teach myself a lesson.

  She may not ever change, but I can.

  “What are we eating?” I ask Juno, opening the fridge.

  Her head pops up, tail wagging enthusiastically at the prospect of getting something other than kibble tonight.

  “Hmm.” I purse my lips and survey the meager supplies. “How do we feel about takeout?”

  Juno’s tail wags faster.

  I start to go for my phone to order something from my delivery app when someone knocks on my door.

  My heart leaps. The last time someone knocked on my door out of the blue, I ended up agreeing to play fake girlfriend for my mortal enemy. A decision that’s had some extremely painful consequences.

  Of course, it may not be Matt.

  Hell. It’s definitely Matt. I feel it, and that’s annoying. I’ve been anticipating it, and that’s even more annoying.

  Juno, for her part, is losing her mind, alternating between frantic barks and throwing herself at the door.

  I do the requisite safety check through the peephole, my stomach doing a full-on flip when I see Matt is indeed standing there.

  With flowers.

  I open the door, not even remotely regretting the way Matt’s required to take a step back from the force of my dog colliding with his legs.

  “Juno, darling,” Matt says, lowering to give the dog attention. “I brought you something.”

  Leaning against the doorjamb, I watch as he pulls a dog biscuit from his pocket. Juno munches it enthusiastically, nuzzling Matt’s chest as she chews.

  Matt laughs at the crumbs spraying everywhere, oblivious and uncaring that his cashmere sweater is now covered in slobber, cookie crumbs, and dog fur.

  I know the sweater’s cashmere, because I was with him when he bought it. I was right. It does match his eyes. Eyes that slowly lift from the dog until they find mine.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi.” I nod at the flowers. “What’s the story there?”

  He stands and looks down at the pink roses. There are at least two dozen flawless buds. “I brought them for your doorman downstairs. Juan? Turns out he prefers tulips. Seemed a shame to waste them, so . . .” He flicks his wrist toward me, extending them.

  Unable to resist, I reach for them, nodding for him to come in. He does, Juno unabashedly sniffing at his pocket for more cookies.

  “Sorry, love,” Matt says, giving the dog a pat on the head. “Just the one.”

  Juno huffs and trots to her food bowl, resigned to the fact that there are no more treats to be had and the takeout’s been delayed.

  I go into the kitchen and pull a vase from the cupboard. Matt follows. “What are your favorite flowers, anyway? Ian didn’t know.”

  “Pretty ones,” I say, setting the vase in the sink and turning on the water. “Flowers are always nice to receive, no matter the kind.”

  “You were supposed to say pink roses and be very impressed that I got it right on the first try.”

  Since my back is to him, I allow a small smile as I pull scissors out of a drawer to trim the stems.

  It’s been two days since our fight on the sidewalk after the Jarod Lanham run-in, and I’ve been avoiding him. At first, it was because I was still mad and hurting. After that, I avoided him because . . .

  I take a deep breath and turn around. “I have something to say to you.”

  His gaze drops to my hand. “Any chance you can say it after you’ve put down the scissors?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say in a rush, ignoring his attempts to lighten the mood. “I jumped to conclusions based on our history, and I acted horribly unprofessional. You hired me to convince people that we were in a relationship, and I jeopardized that.”

  Matt smiles. “Cross, I’m pretty sure anyone witnessing that fight was even more convinced we’re in a relationship.”

  I turn around and begin to cut open the cellophane containing the bouquet. “I thought of that. I even mentally added ‘lovers’ spat’ to my list of strategies on making a relationship seem more authentic. Still, I—”

  Matt moves behind me, and though he doesn’t touch me, I can feel his closeness. “I don’t care that you acted unprofessionally. I care that I hurt you.”

  “I was mad. That’s all,” I say, trimming the ends of the roses into the sink.

  “That’s crap,” he says softly.

  It is crap. But the last thing I want to do is revisit the pain that ripped through me that night. Or the fact that this man is the only person to ever elicit that kind of hurt.

  I certainly don’t want to explore why that’s so.

  “Is that what the flowers are for?” I ask, beginning to place the stems in the vase. “Apology flowers?”

  “The first dozen are ‘I’m sorry’ flowers, yeah.”

  I give him a look over my shoulder. “And the second?”

  He comes around to my side, the heels of his hands braced on my kitchen counter as he watches me arrange the roses. “‘Favor’ flowers,” he says finally.

  “Ah,” I say, stepping back and tilting my head to make sure my arrangement is even, before taking it to my kitchen table. “‘Favor’ flowers, also known as ‘buttering up’ flowers. Generally preceding a highly unpleasant request.”

  “You have no idea,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair.

  There’s something in his tone, a touch of vulnerability I’m not used to hearing from a man who usually has boundless energy and charm.

  “What’s up?” I ask, sensing I need to be just a little bit careful with him.

  He sucks in his cheeks for a moment, thinking. “Got anything to drink?”

  “Of course.” I motion to the bar cart. “Or I have white wine in the fridge, red on the rack.”

  He goes to the bar cart, selecting a bottle of Grey Goose. “You don’t keep this in the freezer?”

  “I like the vodka to melt the ice just a little. I think the martini tastes better slightly diluted.”

  He’s distracted, barely seems to hear me. “You want one?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got an open bottle of white in the fridge.”

  He pours me a glass of wine first before going about the process of making himself a drink. Strange, how normal the sight of Matt Cannon fixing a martini in my apartment is starting to feel.

  I wait until he’s dropped his lemon twist in the cocktail glass before nudging him again. “So . . . the favor?”

  “Right.”

  He takes a sip of the drink, his attention shifting to my phone, which is starting to buzz on the counter right next to him.

  He glances at it when I don’t make a move to pick it up. “A Rochelle is calling. Are we answering?”

  “We’re ignoring.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Are we talking about it?”

  “We are not.”

  He gives a faint smile, but I get the feeling my answer disappoints him. As though he was hoping I’d share more details.

  I want to tell him that my hesitancy i
sn’t about him—that I don’t talk about my mother with anyone—but that’ll only derail the conversation from whatever it is he’s reluctant to talk about.

  I wait.

  “So, I’m hoping I can talk you into coming to a dinner with me on Saturday.”

  “Um, sure?” I say, taking a drink of my wine. “That’s the deal, right? Up until the gala, I show up wherever you need me. And you’re well within the twenty-four-hour advance-notice requirement.” I smile. “You could have saved yourself the second dozen flowers.”

  He doesn’t smile back. “You haven’t heard all of it yet.”

  “Cannon, I once took tango classes with a known mobster as a favor to the NYPD. I think I can handle whatever you throw at me.”

  “The dinner on Saturday is with my parents. At their house in Connecticut.”

  “Whoa.” I take a large swallow of wine.

  “Yeah,” he says in a tired tone. “You know your girl Georgie, the one who put our ‘relationship’ on the gossip circuit? My mother is on that circuit. There’s not a single item of Manhattan gossip she isn’t privy to, and she’s insisted I bring my ‘girlfriend’ to dinner.”

  “Meting the parents is one tall order. But if it’ll help sell the story—”

  “That’s the thing,” he interrupts. “My dad use to be plugged into the Wall Street scene, and by extension, so was my mother. But he retired last year, and mostly they’re wrapped up in their Connecticut social scene with other retirees. Golf, book clubs, that sort of thing.”

  “So, us having dinner with them won’t do anything to help salvage your professional reputation?”

  He lifts a shoulder. “I mean, in theory, my dad could mention it to someone important during his daily round of golf, but . . . no, not really.”

  “So why not just tell them the truth?”

  He winces. “They’re not really those kind of parents. Also, full disclosure, my motives are . . . selfish. After years of trying to be younger than she is, my mom’s realized she’s the only one of her friends without grandbaby pictures to show off.”

  “Oh no.”

  He nods. “Yeah. She’s been trying to set me up with every single woman in the Northeast, from her hairdresser to the remaining single daughters of their friends.”

  “Having a girlfriend gets her off your back,” I conclude.