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)
“So, are there wedding bells in your future?”
I resist the urge to grab his fork and stab him with it. “People can be committed without being married.”
Lanham lifts a shoulder.
“You don’t think so?” I ask, ignoring the fact that of all the conversations I’ve ever pictured having with Jarod Lanham, this isn’t one of them.
He sits back in his chair and looks at me. “Call me old-fashioned, but I like the idea of a man and woman committing to each other. One person. With vows.”
I’m careful to hide my surprise. The Jarod Lanham I’ve seen in tabloids hardly seems the marrying type. He’s had girlfriends, sure, but he’s had a lot of them. Back-to-back. Nothing about the guy has ever indicated he wants to settle down.
He gives a rueful smile. “You don’t agree?”
I shrug and keep my answer deliberately vague, since I barely know the guy. “Doesn’t matter if I do or not. It’s your life. You want to walk down the aisle and spend a fortune on a wedding, that’s your business.”
Lanham shakes his head. “It’s not about the wedding. It’s about what comes after. I don’t give a shit about being a fiancé, but I wouldn’t mind waking up to the same face every morning. Having someone to share my life with. A companion.”
The words are so familiar, I think for a moment I’m experiencing déjà vu, and then it hits me. I have had this conversation before, but not with Lanham. With Sabrina.
His thoughts on marriage mirror hers almost exactly.
The realization makes me want to punch something. Because of how compatible they are. Because she doesn’t actually belong to me . . .
“Sorry,” Lanham says, shaking his head. “You’re probably wondering why the hell I’m talking about my personal life instead of my portfolio.”
His statement jolts me back to the present, and I’m more than a little annoyed to discover that . . .
I hadn’t been wondering that.
Despite having spent most of my career prepping to get in front of someone with this guy’s money, I’m not nearly as excited as I thought I’d be. For some reason, it just doesn’t feel as important as I thought it would.
I hear myself going through my pitch with Lanham, discussing my strategy for his portfolio and reciting all the reasons why he’d be a fool not to sign with me, but all I can think is that this—my job—is no longer the most vital thing in my life.
The realization is terrifying.
24
SABRINA
Wednesday Evening, October 4
“If you tell me this is homemade, we can’t be friends anymore,” I say, scooping up a glob of delicious white cheese and plopping it onto toasted sourdough.
Lara snags an olive with one hand, refills our wineglasses with the other. “If by homemade, you mean did I open the container of burrata, put it on the plate, and put olive oil and salt on top? Yep, totally homemade. I also popped that bread right in the toaster, like a Food Network boss.”
“I freaking love burrata,” Kate says, happily chewing her own piece of bread. “And wine. And you guys.”
I give her a look out of the corner of my eye. “How much wine has she had?” I ask Lara good-naturedly.
“Just the one glass. But she’s been like this ever since she got here. I think she’s in love.”
“The only thing I’m in love with is cheese,” Kate retorts.
I lick burrata off my thumb, not entirely sure I believe her, but I suppose it’s possible. It’s hard not to be in love with cheese.
“So, is this going to be like a thing?” Kate asks, resting her elbows on Lara and Ian’s kitchen counter. “You guys hosting spontaneous dinner parties? Because I sort of love it.”
Lara pushes her glasses up on her nose. “You know, I sort of love it, too.” She smiles, as though surprised by the realization. “Who’d have thought that a former SEC agent would be hosting some of Wall Street’s elite in my swanky apartment?”
“I’m almost jealous of the fab apartment, but you have to put up with Ian, and I don’t know that I could,” Kate says, sipping her wine.
“You do that all day long,” I point out.
“Nope. Different,” Kate says. “The guys are totally different in their work habitat.”
“How’s that?” Kennedy says, ambling into the kitchen.
“Thought you were having man talk on the balcony,” I say, tilting my head back toward the glass doors off Ian’s living room that lead to a small outdoor space with a hell of a view.
“We are, but . . .” He holds up his empty wineglass as explanation for why he’s in the kitchen, then reaches for a bottle of red on the counter. “Besides, this is far more interesting. How are we different in the office?” he asks Kate again.
Kate pushes a strand of straight dark hair behind her ear, but it promptly falls forward again, quietly stubborn, much like the head it belongs to. “I’ll clarify. Ian and Matt are different inside the office. You’re more of the same.”