Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Why else would they be meeting so far away from the other beautiful people of Wall Street?
Then it hits me: I’m spying on Ian Bradley having a tryst.
I close my eyes in dismayed humiliation. Someone kill me now.
When I open my eyes, my stomach doesn’t just drop, it turns into a freaking roller coaster.
He’s looking right at me, eyebrows lifted in challenge.
For one of the first times in my professional career, I feel completely unsure of what to do. There’s no way I can play it off as a coincidence—judging from the food I’ve seen go by my table, this place sucks. And it’s not even cheap, so I truly have no reason to be here other than spying on him, which his smirk tells me he knows.
Is it possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment?
I sneak a glance at the door, wondering if I can somehow escape with my dignity intact. When I look back again, Ian’s smile widens, and I realize that’s exactly what he’s hoping for: me to make a humiliated retreat.
Fat chance.
Without breaking eye contact, I shove aside my embarrassment, greet the waiter who comes over to my table, and order a Diet Coke and a turkey burger. Then I pull out a notepad and pencil from my purse and sit back in my seat, as though prepared to write down Ian’s every move.
I won’t learn a damn thing from across the room, but I can tell by the way his smile dims and jaw tenses that my unexpected fortitude pisses him off.
For the moment, that’s good enough for me.
7
IAN
Week 1: Friday, Lunchtime
“So that’s her,” Sabrina Cross says casually, taking a sip of her Chardonnay and unabashedly craning her neck to see Lara McKenzie watching us from across the restaurant.
“That’s her,” I say, finishing the rest of my Negroni. Apparently my idea of meeting my oldest friend at a diner-type place with mediocre food so we wouldn’t see anyone we knew didn’t account for the possibility of being stalked by the SEC. Go figure.
“She’s pretty.”
“Shut up.”
Sabrina laughs. “So you’ve already noticed she’s pretty.”
And this is the pain-in-the-ass part of remaining friends with someone who’s known you since you were eight.
Sabrina digs through the breadbasket on our table. “She’s very bold. She’s still watching us.”
“Yes, I know.” I can feel it. Somehow Lara McKenzie’s gaze has more effect on my body than any other woman’s physical touch. I’ve been in a constant state of want since our first meeting, with no relief in sight—I can’t have her, and I don’t want any of the women I can have.
I don’t know what the hell the woman is doing to me, but I don’t like it.
“She looks annoyed,” Sabrina says, taking a bite of bread.
“She probably is. I’ve been avoiding her.” Not that it’s been easy. Staying away from her’s been damn hard, but Matt and Kennedy are right—I’d be an idiot to tangle with the SEC before getting a lawyer on my side.
“I thought you said you were supposed to cooperate,” Sabrina says.
“You go talk to her,” I say, pointing a finger in Lara’s direction. “You’ll learn real quick she’s not the cooperative type.”
“Meaning she didn’t fall all over herself when you flashed your smile,” Sabrina says knowingly.
“Exactly,” I mutter, both relieved and annoyed that she’s getting a read on the situation so quickly.
In addition to Sabrina Cross knowing me like the back of her hand, courtesy of our long history, she also just knows people. Sabrina’s a fixer. She’s the person you call when you need help with . . . well, anything. Need a fake girlfriend? Call Sabrina. Someone to blackmail your wife so your wife will stop blackmailing you? Sabrina. Someone to sweet-talk a judge, put a rush on your passport, or get your delinquent kid into that prestigious school? Sabrina knows someone who knows someone who can help. For a price.
In my case, the price is friendship. Besides Dave, she’s the one person who’s as much a part of my new life as she was my old life. Sabrina’s the only person who’s ever really known both sides of me—the foster kid from Philly and the Wall Street hotshot.
Sabrina’s been there through it all.
And for the love of God, please don’t turn this into some grand romantic story. Aside from an awkward make-out session in freshman year of high school, which we both declared almost unbearably gross, it’s never been like that between us.
Sabrina’s one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen, and yet there’s not a lick of sexual chemistry between us. I love her like a sister. Hell, she even looks like my sister. We’ve got the same dark hair, blue eyes, olive skin, and shitty, shitty pasts.
Although, while my upbringing was somewhere between dismal and frustrating, hers was downright unbearable. Drug-addict mom, barely there dad, shithead brother. Made my foster parents and their blatant indifference seem kind.