He nods. “I’m familiar with your work. I may actually be in the market for your services in the near future, but that’s for another time.”
I feel a little flutter of surprised pleasure that the Jarod Lanham might want to hire me, but I push it aside, remembering that I’m here for Matt.
Jarod glances at our table, the barely touched wine. “If you haven’t ordered yet, why don’t you join us?” He glances at The Sams. “If that’s okay with you.”
I press my lips together to hide a smile. Jarod Lanham could have told Sam and Samantha he was bringing a rabid raccoon to lunch, and they’d have put the animal at the head of the table with champagne and caviar.
“Absolutely,” Sam says. “Matt’s one of our best. I think you’ll enjoy talking with him. You know he joined us when he was twenty-two?”
Jarod runs a thumb along his jaw. “That so?”
Samantha turns to the hostess, who’s been standing a discreet distance away. “Is a table for five available?”
The woman’s eyes widen in panic. “Five? Well . . . I’ll have to check. We have a limited number of tables for larger parties, especially during the lunch hour, but, um—”
“Actually,” I interrupt. “This is sort of a lifesaver. I had a work issue come up, but I didn’t want to leave Matt to eat alone. If you all don’t mind my begging off, you’d just need a table for four.”
Samantha and the hostess practically sag in relief.
“I hope we’re not running you off,” Jarod says as I lift my purse from the back of my chair.
“Absolutely not. It’s just that duty calls.”
“Understood,” Jarod says quietly, clearly still assessing me.
I swear I hear Matt let out a faint snort, which reminds me why I’m here in the first place: damage control for Matt’s career.
I give Jarod a vague smile in response, and after nodding goodbye to The Sams, I move around the table to Matt. My touch on his upper arm is for the group’s benefit.
He leans down to kiss my cheek. “I’m sorry our lunch got cut short.”
I blink in surprise at the sincerity in his voice. We both know Jarod Lanham is the goal here, not me.
Don’t we?
“Call me later?” I ask him, letting my voice go soft and a little hopeful.
“Of course.” His eyes stay locked on mine.
Even when I turn away, I feel his gaze between my shoulder blades. And though I know it’s for Jarod’s benefit, a part of me wonders—hopes—if his possessiveness isn’t so much about saving his professional career as a broker as it is staking his claim. As a man.
15
MATT
Tuesday Evening, September 26
“Let me get this straight. You had lunch with Jarod Lanham. And our bosses. Lanham told you he’d be in touch. And you’re looking like someone kicked your puppy?”
I glare at Ian. “I don’t have a puppy.”
“Evading,” Kennedy chimes in, pointing at me accusingly. “Ian’s right. You’re not nearly as happy as you should be.”
“I don’t have Lanham’s business yet. You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not popping the champagne.”
The guys and I are at one of Wall Street’s favorite after-work watering holes, and I’m halfway through what I expect to be the first of many cocktails tonight. And not the celebratory kind.
My friends are right. I should be ecstatic that Jarod didn’t laugh me right out of the restaurant. That he knew about my Vegas notoriety and still seemed to entertain the idea of working with me.
Hell, the man ended our lunch meeting with the implication that I was on his short list of potential brokers.
“Lanham say why he’s in the market for someone new?” Ian asks. “He’s been with Herbert Bishop for a hundred years.”
“Precisely. Bishop’s practically a hundred years old. He’s retiring,” I answer.
“So why not stay with Morgan Stanley? Surely Bishop’s got a half dozen protégés itching to take over.”
“Probably. But the last thing I wanted to do was plant the seed that he should stay where he is. Besides, I got the sense the man thrives on change.”
Ian takes a sip of his Negroni, a bitter red gin cocktail he orders wherever he goes. “Wanna flip for him?”
I grin, knowing my friend’s joking. “You’ll have to pry his billions from my cold, dead fingers.”
“Jarod Fucking Lanham.” Kennedy shakes his head. “Unbelievable. You realize that you’re on the cusp of achieving everything you’ve ever wanted at twenty-eight. It’s hard not to hate you.”
I smile reflexively, but I’m taken aback at Kennedy’s words: Everything you’ve ever wanted.
Is that right?
Is getting an elusive billionaire client my life’s dream? Is it really everything I’ve ever wanted?
I suppose that’s right.
So why do I feel so hollow?
Because Jarod Lanham was looking at Sabrina. And she was looking right back.
Okay, so I’m not entirely sure about the last one. Sabrina had been in her role as my girlfriend, and to give credit where it’s due, the woman rivals any Academy Award winner when it comes to her acting skills.
Even I’d have been convinced that she was into me if I didn’t know better.
But I’m definitely not imagining that Lanham had been looking at her. And if I know anything about the man from my years of watching him from afar, it’s that he gets what he wants.
He’d wanted Sabrina.
I can’t blame the man. She’d been sexy as hell in a blue dress that matched her eyes, her hair long and tousled, her heels high and begging to be wrapped around a man’s waist . . .
I look up at Ian as I reach for the complimentary nut bowl in the center of our table. “You talk to Sabrina today?”
“No, not in a few days. Why?”
I hate myself for it, but I feel a tiny stab of relief that Sabrina hasn’t gone running to Ian to talk about how miserable she is in her and my current arrangement. Though I know her and Ian’s relationship has never been romantic or sexual, I’m always . . . aware of it. Aware that she’d do anything for him, whereas she won’t do a damn thing for me unless money and an ironclad contract’s included.
And no sex.
That part has been worse than I expected. Of course, I’ve always known how hard it is to be around Sabrina and not touch her. I just figured I’d . . . get over it. I figured that if a line was drawn in the sand, my constant boner for the woman would get over itself.
Not so.
I want her more than ever.
Which, I’ve been trying to assume, is just the result of the age-old “wanting what I can’t have,” but I’m terrified it’s something worse. Terrified that I want her more because I’m spending more time with her. Talking with her. Studying her. Seeing how her brain works.
Everything you’ve ever wanted . . .
Damn it.
“She’s meeting Lara for drinks, though.”
I look up at Ian. “What?”
He rolls his eyes at my distractedness. “You asked about Sabrina. I said I hadn’t talked to her, but Lara mentioned she and Sabrina were going to grab a drink before dinner.”
“When? Where?”
“Never had you pegged for a clingy boyfriend,” Kennedy says, snatching the nut bowl away from me. He looks down, then glares at me. “You ate all the almonds and left the shitty peanuts.”
“So ask for some more almonds. And I am not a clingy boyfriend. You know we’re only—”
“Posing for the people, I know,” Kennedy interrupts. “But no need to keep up the pretense for Ian and me.”
It’s a trap. One of the subtle, barely noticeable verbal traps that Kennedy Dawson is legendary for. Kennedy’s got a low, almost monotone voice. He never yells, rarely laughs. All three of us are sarcastic, but Kennedy’s humor is dry to the Sahara level.
I’m sure Kennedy and Ian expect me to either deny the comment or jump to reassure them that Sabrina and I still hate each other, that we’re just pretending. But I’m feeling ornery, so I surprise them. And myself.
“Lanham wants something from her.”
“From who?” Ian asks.
“Sabrina. Keep up, man.”
“I thought you said she left lunch as soon as he and The Sams showed up.”