Hard Sell (21 Wall Street)

by Lauren Layne

  “No.”

  “So your family . . . Are they no longer—”

  “Mom.”

  I look up in relief as Matt steps into the room, along with Felicia and an older man who’s obviously his father.

  If Matt got his mom’s eyes, he got his dad’s everything else. Gary Cannon is the spitting image of what I imagine Matt’ll look like in thirty or so years.

  I stand to greet him, and he gives me a firm handshake. “Welcome.”

  “Thanks for having me, Mr. Cannon.”

  “Gary, please.” He says it with a smile, but my first impression is that he has all of Matt’s looks but none of his son’s charms. There’s a wooden, tired quality about him.

  Who knows, perhaps it’s decades’ worth of stress from sleeping with one woman while being married to another?

  Matt pours himself a drink from the sideboard as Felicia and Maureen make small talk about Felicia’s daughter’s wedding. The conversation is so sugary sweet my teeth ache.

  Matt catches my gaze and rolls his eyes. I give him a quick smile in return. Weird and unexpected as the whole situation is, there’s something oddly nice about being Matt’s partner in all of this.

  Not to mention it’s surprisingly comforting to realize I’m not the only one with a background that isn’t Leave It to Beaver perfect.

  “Maureen,” Gary says, interrupting his wife’s assessment of the perils of Felicia’s daughter not offering a gluten-free meal option at the wedding. “When are we eating?”

  Maureen doesn’t miss a beat at her husband’s rudeness, but her smile is as wide as it is brittle. “They’ve only just gotten here, Gary. I’m sure they didn’t drive an hour and a half to be rushed out of here.”

  Matt’s expression indicates he’d like nothing better, but he says nothing as he sips his drink.

  “I thought we’d have hors d’oeuvres on the patio. The fire pit’s going, and we just had those new heaters installed. I’ve got a nice baked brie—”

  “That’s fine,” Gary interrupts, heading toward the door.

  Felicia follows him, patting Matt’s arm affectionately, almost motherly, as she does so.

  I glance at Maureen to see if she minds her husband’s mistress acting like a second mother to her only son, but she merely smiles at me. “More wine, dear?”

  “Yes,” Matt answers for me. “The whole bottle might be good.”

  Maureen lets out a clueless laugh as she heads back into the kitchen.

  Matt comes toward me, his face unreadable. “You okay?”

  “I’m not going to say this won’t go down as one of the weirdest evenings I’ve ever experienced, but it’s solid entertainment.”

  I’m relieved when he smiles. “I should have told you everything. But I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  “A safe bet,” I say as we follow his dad and Felicia toward the back of the house. “But for future reference, when it’s a real girlfriend who might not be quite so understanding . . .”

  “I know, I know. Skip the flowers and go for jewelry.”

  “Actually . . .” I lift up and kiss his cheek. “I liked the flowers. A lot.”

  I step out onto the patio to hide my embarrassment at my spontaneity. What is with me? I’m acting far too much like an actual besotted girlfriend than a pretend one. It’s very . . . confusing.

  The heaters Maureen mentioned wonderfully heat the Cannons’ outdoor seating area against the late-September chill. I join Matt’s family by the fire pit, both pleased and alarmed when he sits beside me, close enough for our knees to touch.

  Pleased, because I like the intimacy of the moment.

  Alarmed . . . because I also like him.

  21

  MATT

  Saturday Night, September 30

  Sabrina and I haven’t spoken much on the drive back, but it’s a companionable sort of silence.

  By the time we get back to the city, it’s nearly eleven, and the crisp dryness of the early evening has given way to a relentless rain that soothes away the sharp edges of the night.

  Then again, that could be the effect of the woman beside me. I’d never have thought that Sabrina Cross could have a calming quality. From the very beginning, she’s always been the fuel that lights my flame, the spark that sets me on fire.

  Sabrina sighs as I turn onto Park toward her apartment building. “I use to love the rain.”

  I glance over, the city lights playing shadows off her profile. “Use to?”

  “Until I got a dog.”

  “Juno’s not a fan?”

  “She’s fine with rain as long as there’s no thunder. And if there’s no umbrella within twenty feet of her. Oh, and did I mention she freaks out if I wear a hood?” She touches her hair. “Bye-bye, good hair day.”

  “I’ll take her.”

  She looks over. “What?”

  “I’ll walk Juno.”

  “You are not walking my dog.”

  “Why not? I’ve done it before when you were out of town.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t ask you to. I asked Kate. She betrayed me.”

  “Yeah, a real Judas, that one. Look, you didn’t ask me then, and you’re not asking me now. I’m volunteering.”

  “You have your car.”

  “Which—and brace yourself for this news flash—can be parked.”

  “There’s not that much street parking. My apartment building has a garage, but it’s . . . expensive,” she finishes as I pull into said garage.

  “Really?” I say, rolling down the window and punching the button for a ticket. “You have no qualms about my dropping four digits on your clothing, but you’re worried about—” I glance at the sign with the parking prices. “Damn, that is expensive parking.”

  “Right?” She unbuckles her seat belt. “If you turn around now, you can sweet-talk the attendant, tell her that you came in here by accident.”

  I ignore her as I pull into an available spot and turn off the engine. She huffs. I grin.

  “Okay, fine. But you taking my dog out does not make us even,” she says as we climb out of the car and walk toward the elevators. “That dinner was horrendous.”

  I laugh. “It really was, wasn’t it?”

  “Does Felicia always show up for dinner?”

  “No, but it’s become more frequent the past couple years.”

  “Has your mom ever brought one of her . . . guys?”

  “Nope. Felicia’s divorced, but my mom’s guys have always been married. I don’t think their wives would be keen on them coming over for a cozy dinner party.”

  She shakes her head as we step into the elevator. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of weird stuff in Manhattan. Open marriages aren’t nearly as uncommon as you’d think. But this is the first time I’ve seen the other woman join the family for dinner, complete with son and new girlfriend.”

  “You’re welcome for the novel experience.” I keep my voice light, but I feel her watching me.

  “Does it bother you?”

  I look toward her without moving my head. “Would you believe me if I said I’m used to it?”

  She considers this for a moment. “Yes. But that’s not what I asked.”

  We step onto her floor, but it’s not until she digs her keys out of her purse that I answer the question. “Yeah. Yeah, it bothers me.”

  She nods in understanding, and I’m relieved that she doesn’t press me to say more.

  Instead, we let ourselves be greeted by an ecstatic Juno, who’s so busy bounding in circles that I can barely get her leash on.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?” Sabrina says as the dog tugs me toward the door.

  “You endured my mother’s dry lamb chops and my dad’s mistress singing an ABBA medley. I’ve got this. Keys?” She tosses them to me, and I catch them in midair.

  Juno charges full speed through the hall, paces impatiently in the elevator, and then shoots across the lobby. Once outside, she slows her roll. She may not hate the rain, but she
definitely doesn’t love it. She does her business quickly and efficiently before dragging me back toward the door.

  Even still, we’re sopping wet by the time we get back inside. Juan’s working again tonight, and he lifts an idle hand in greeting as I pass. I grin, wondering how Sabrina would feel about the fact that her doorman is officially and thoroughly used to me.

  Even if I didn’t already know where Sabrina lived, Juno knows the way. I let her drag me to the apartment, where her tail wags impatiently for me to dig the key out of my pocket.

  I let us both inside and unclip the dog’s leash.

  When I straighten, my eyes find Sabrina in the kitchen, and my heart stops with a pang of longing. She’s already changed out of her dress and into tight black pants and an oversize sweater, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Ugly green socks are on her feet, her hair’s pulled back from her face in a messy bun, and she looks . . . beautiful.

  I’ve seen her out of her work clothes before, seen her hair in the same messy knot, but only when I’ve surprised her by showing up unannounced. Tonight, she knew I’d see her like this when I brought the dog back up.

  I suppose it could be a warning sign that she lets me see her in an outfit so obviously nonseductive, but if that’s her plan, it’s backfiring. Nothing could be more seductive than the realization that she’s willing to let her guard down around me.

  Finally.

  She glances up, a faint smile on her makeup-free lips. “I’m making tea. You want a cup?”

  I hate tea, but I feel myself nod.

  She looks at me more closely. “You’re soaking wet.”

  I glance down. “Yeah. I’d ask if you have any extra men’s clothes stashed around, but I’m not entirely sure I want to know the answer.”

  “Yes, because I’m sure you’ve been celibate since we first met,” she says, dropping a couple of tea bags into a pot. “I’ll get you a towel.”

  It’s more my sweater that’s wet than anything, so I pull it off and set it over the back of a chair. I’m standing in just my undershirt as she reenters the living room, tossing a towel at me.

  “Thanks.” I run the towel over my wet hair. “Where’s Juno?”

  “Post-poo-in-the-rain routine usually involves rolling on her back on my bedroom rug for a solid five minutes. I’ve learned not to question it.”

  Sabrina uses her phone to turn on music, and the soft sounds of a female jazz vocalist I’m not familiar with fill the room. She grabs two mugs and carries them and the teapot into the living room.

  Setting them on the ottoman that doubles as her coffee table, she stares at the teapot for a long moment before looking up at me, her expression thoughtful. “Can I ask you something?”

  I sit beside her on the couch, careful to keep my distance, terrified of ruining the fragile truce between us. “Sure.”

  She turns her attention back to the teapot and pours the tea. “Are your parents why you’re dead set against marriage?” She smiles faintly and hands me a mug.

  I nod in thanks before answering her question. “Probably.”

  “Probably it’s because of your parents?”

  I nod. “I mean, it’s not quite as simple as my seeing how fucked up their marriage was and making a vow never to follow in their footsteps. But over time, being a part of that—and I was a part of it, not that they ever bothered to notice—it wears on a kid. Hell, it wears on an adult.”

  I’m braced for the usual lecture—that my parents’ mistakes don’t have to be my own, that I can’t live my life in reaction to someone else’s missteps, etc. etc. Everything that every woman or girlfriend has tried to tell me over the years until I finally gave up altogether and made it clear that I didn’t want a relationship, period.

  But Sabrina doesn’t give me any of that. She simply nods. “I get it. As much as I’m rooting for Lara and Ian and wish them the best, the truth is I’ve seen a hell of a lot more messed-up relationships than I have good ones.”

  I take a sip of tea. I still hate it, but the warmth is nice, I guess.

  She gives a rueful smile at my silence. “Too cynical?”

  “No,” I say slowly. “I don’t disagree. It’s just odd to hear it out loud, from someone else. Especially someone who’s not as anti-marriage as I am.”

  “I’m in favor of a certain type of marriage,” she clarifies. “The quiet, no-drama kind that doesn’t lead to messiness.”

  “What about sex?”

  She looks up sharply. “What about it?”

  “This arrangement with your future husband. Does it involve sex?”

  “I’d hope so.”

  I run my tongue over the front of my teeth, surprised at just how much the prospect of her marrying and sleeping with someone else bothers me. I shake my head. “Sex and living together. Sounds a lot like a real marriage to me.”

  “It is,” she says matter-of-factly. “Just without the power to hurt each other.”

  “But wouldn’t it get complicated if you throw sex into the mix? Emotionally, I mean.”

  “We did it,” she says, cutting me with a direct look.

  “Did we?” I sit back. “Seems to me there was plenty of emotion there, just not a gentle one.”

  She turns her head toward me. “Hate?”

  “Not hate. Never hate. At least not on my part.” I smile, letting my gaze drift over her features. She looks younger without her makeup. Softer.

  “Anger, though,” she says.

  “Sure. Some of that. A lot of it, maybe,” I agree.

  “You ever wonder why? What we were mad at?”

  “I’ve always had a pretty good idea. We hooked up the first night we met, I said something stupid the next morning, you got pissed—rightfully so,” I rush to add when she looks ready to interrupt. “And after that . . .” I trail off and take a sip of tea, which, for the record, tastes like dirty water.

  “We couldn’t quite figure out how to get along,” she finishes for me.

  “You’re one hell of a complicated woman.”

  “And yet you didn’t leave.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She leans forward and stares down at the mug she has yet to sip from. “I’ve said so many awful things to you, and you to me, and yet you watch my dog when I’m gone. I agree to help you get your life back on track. We look out for each other, even when we’re trying desperately to avoid each other.”

  “Don’t forget about the excellent sex.”

  She smiles, and it looks almost shy. “Yeah. Excellent sex.”

  I reach out and take the mug from her hands, setting it on the ottoman, setting my own beside it. “We going to talk about the fact that I kissed you tonight?”

  “I’ve decided to overlook the breach of contract. You’ve got one hell of a home life there, Cannon.”

  “I do. But what’s your excuse?”

  “For what?”

  “For kissing me back.”

  She gives me an annoyed look. “We’re not talking about that.”

  “Good,” I say simply. “Because talking’s not at all what I had in mind.”

  Then I reach out and haul her to me.

  22

  SABRINA

  Saturday Night, September 30

  I know.

  I know.

  We’re not supposed to be doing this anymore.

  What’s more, this was my rule. My decision that if we agreed to play pretend relationship, we’d cut our enemies-with-benefits out of the equation.

  A rule I decided to break the second he reached for me.

  For that matter, I think I decided to break it the moment I asked him to stay for a cup of tea instead of sending him right back out into the rain.

  My brain’s screaming, Fool. My heart’s screaming, Mayday.

  But my body . . . . it knows what it wants—what it needs—and it has always needed him.

  I’ve tried to find the same elusive pleasure with someone else, but nobody makes me feel as cherished as he
does. Even through the anger, the frustration—or maybe because of those feelings—Matt Cannon’s hands on me deliver a sort of pleasure that’s somehow both soothing and earth-shattering.

  His mouth moves restlessly over mine, one hand on the back of my head, the other pressed between my shoulder blades, holding me close.

  “I’ve missed this,” he murmurs, his lips gliding under my chin, nuzzling my jaw. “I’ve missed you.”

  His words send a thrill through me, and though I’m not brave enough to say them back out loud, I’ve missed him, too. I show it as best I can, my head dropping back to give him full access to me, my back arching into him.

  “Where’d you get this awful sweater?” he murmurs, pulling the thick turtleneck to better get at my neck.

  “Thought you could use a challenge. Builds character,” I say a little breathlessly as his warm hands slip beneath the sweater.

  “Right. As though you haven’t been a challenge from the very beginning.”

  He gently pushes me back on the couch and moves down my body, shoving the sweater upward and pressing a kiss just below my belly button. He scrapes lightly with his teeth, and I moan.

  He presses soft kisses along my rib cage as the sweater inches higher still, and I hear him groan at the realization I ditched the bra when I changed my clothes. He kisses the undersides of my breasts, lingering there until my fingers knot in his hair.

  Rough hands shove the sweater higher, his tongue dragging slowly over my nipple before taking it in his mouth. He palms my other breast, kneading firmly in the way he’s learned over the years that I like.

  My turn.

  I push at his shoulders, trying to wiggle out from beneath to get on top, but he refuses to budge, his lips and tongue relentless.

  “Matt,” I moan. He presses a kiss to the valley between my breasts, and I feel him smile in victory.

  “I like when you say my name, especially when you’re half-naked.”

  “I’m not half-naked yet,” I argue, trying to get the upper hand however I can.

  “Excellent point,” he says. He pulls me up, then tugs the sweater over my head and throws it aside. “Much better.”

  It’s the opening I need to get my hands on him, but the second they find his chest, his fingers wrap around my shoulders, easing me back to the couch.