Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“No,” I grumble. But then I stand and lift my glass to theirs anyway.
I don’t believe in love—but I do believe in friendship.
And these girls right here are as good as it gets.
13
MATT
Tuesday Midday, September 26
“Jacket on, Cannon, let’s go.”
I’m not sure how long it takes my brain to register the interruption. I’ve been told it’s a full minute until I shift from Calculator Matt to Human Matt.
It’s always been that way, though luckily my colleagues at Wolfe Investments are a good deal more understanding than the jerks in fourth grade who’d been less than impressed by my early ability to do complex equations.
I don’t need to do math in my head as much anymore—my job’s more about intuition and research than it is actual number crunching. But it still feels like there are two parts of my brain at work when I review a portfolio: the part that’s processing the trends, the word on the street, that particular client’s financial goals, and the computer part, as I use to think of it, that can’t see a set of numbers without processing them endlessly.
My assistant’s used to my process more than most, so after barking her initial order to get my jacket, she remains still, waiting for Human Me to catch up.
“What?” I finally say.
She points at the suit jacket I’ve hung on the back of my chair. “Put that on.”
Other than glancing at the clock, I don’t move. Unless I’ve got an in-person meeting, I don’t wear my suit jacket in the office. And my sleeves are rolled up to my elbows more often than not. I like to be comfortable when I work. Or as comfortable as I can be in a career where suit-and-tie’s basically an official uniform.
“You have a lunch appointment.”
I frown. Admittedly I’m awful at managing my calendar, but I’m at least adept at reading the damn thing. And there was no lunch meeting when I checked it that morning.
“It’s just a conference call with—”
“Nope, I rescheduled that,” Kate says.
I narrow my eyes, because though I trust my assistant implicitly, rarely does she change my schedule without telling me first. It means something’s up.
She glances over her shoulder, then goes to close the door before returning to my desk and sitting in the chair across from me.
“The Sams have lunch at Nobu today.”
“So?” I can’t imagine why I would possibly care that Wolfe’s CEOs are having sushi for lunch.
“They’re not going alone. Jarod Lanham is joining them.”
That gets my attention. Jarod Lanham is one of the world’s most famous billionaires. American by birth, he’s been a resident of Monaco for the past decade or so. The man’s only thirty-six, but already rumors of his net worth hover in the nine-billion range.
In other words, exactly the client Wolfe and every other company on Wall Street would kill to have. Not just because of the sheer amount of money, but his relative youth means that it could be both a profitable relationship and a long-standing one.
I want him. Everyone wants him, but I really want him on my list. I’ve been following him for years, impressed by his investments, his ability to steadily amass wealth even as he dominates the social scene in every country he visits.
In other words, Jarod Lanham is me but on the other side of the accounts. A fellow “boy wonder,” so to speak.
Kate knows my obsession. So do The Sams.
“They didn’t invite me,” I mutter, standing and unrolling my shirtsleeves. Even after Sabrina saved the brunch situation on Sunday, they’ve been keeping their distance.
“Can you blame them?” she says. “You’re persona non grata around here. They already have an uphill battle to impress Lanham with Ian’s scandal being so fresh.”
I nod. I understand, even though it sucks. This should be a pivot point in my career, and instead of having the opportunity to convince Lanham I’m his guy, I’m sitting idly by while everyone mistakenly assumes I spend my weekends cock-deep in cocaine and hookers.
“I got you a table,” she says as I button the sleeves. “And I think I sweet-talked the hostess into getting you into the same part of the dining room as The Sams, but she couldn’t promise anything.”
“She sound like the bribing type?” I ask with a grin. Movie cliché as it may seem, slipping a hundred or more to a maître d’ is hardly unheard of around this part of town.
“No, she sounded young and flirty.”
My grin widens. “Say no more.”
Kate sighs impatiently. “Matt. That was your old reputation. If you go around flirting with a nineteen-year-old hostess, you’ll confirm what everyone thinks of you. Which would be an especially awful idea today.”
Something in her tone gives me pause. “Why especially today?”
Kate smiles smugly. “I called Sabrina.”
I freeze in the process of reaching for my jacket. “What?”
“This is what you’re paying her for. We need people to think you’re dating her seriously, but more important, we need the right people to think that. The whole reason you’re doing this is to convince people like Jarod Lanham that you’re stable and trustworthy. You need her there.”