“So no marriage-minded women, but no party girls, either,” Kennedy muses.
“Right. I need someone who will know the stakes from the very beginning and who won’t misconstrue anything when I act besotted with her in front of clients.”
“Did you just use the word besotted?” Ian asks.
I hitch my thumb at Kennedy. “His dopey vocabulary is rubbing off on me. But you guys get what I mean, right?”
“Yeah, you’re not wrong,” Kennedy says as the three of us make our way over to the squat rack that’s finally freed up. “It doesn’t help that the light at the end of the tunnel is the Wolfe Gala. You’re going to have to convince a hell of a lot of people you’re in love, all while champagne and absurdly expensive dresses are involved.”
“What do dresses have to do with anything?” I ask.
“The Cinderella complex,” Ian chimes in as he adds weight to the rack.
I stare at him, then Kennedy. “The what now?”
“You know.” Kennedy waves his hand impatiently. “The whole princess-ball thing. Fancy dresses, chandeliers. Dancing.”
“What the hell do you two watch in your downtime? How about more sports, less Disney Channel?”
Ian shrugs and steps into the rack. “Fine. Go ahead and risk it.”
I grimace, because the scene they just described is exactly what I’m trying to avoid.
“Unless . . . ,” Kennedy says.
I glance at him. “I’ll take an unless. What’ve you got?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“I’ll like anything better than your Snow White scenario.”
“Cinderella,” Ian corrects.
“Whatever. Kennedy, talk to me.”
Instead of answering, Kennedy looks at Ian, and I know these two guys well enough to know that whatever they’re about to launch at me, it’s been their plan all along.
“Shit. What?” I say impatiently.
“You need someone to play along who has zero risk of emotional entanglements,” Ian says slowly.
I roll my finger to speed him along. “Yes, we’ve covered that. You know someone?”
“We all know her,” Ian says, holding my gaze.
The answer hits me like a kick to the balls.
Sabrina Cross.
Ian’s friend since childhood, Sabrina’s an annoying constant in our social circle.
My friends are right. She is the last woman on earth to be at risk of falling for me. Because Sabrina Cross hates my guts.
4
SABRINA
Tuesday Night, September 19
Quiet nights at home are rare in my line of work. More often than not, I’m in four-inch heels and a little black dress at fancy fund-raisers, cocktail parties, or expensive dinners.
In other words, nights out on the town? Part of the job. People think they’re paying me big money to solve their problems, and technically they are, but what they’re really paying for are my connections and how well I know people.
Name a judge: I know her favorite type of French wine. Name an attorney: I know his phone number and his niece’s birthday. Name a socialite: I can give you a list of every person she’s ever dated. Name a hedge fund manager: I can tell you the name of his wife and his mistress.
I don’t have a little black book; I’ve got an entire encyclopedia, and there’s nothing little about it.
The point is, a night to myself is rare, and when they come up, I go all in. Yoga pants, fuzzy socks, oversize sweatshirt, messy bun, Norah Jones on the speakers, the works.
Normally I pour myself a big old glass of red wine and settle in for a movie, and though a movie’s still on the agenda, I’m not feeling the red wine vibe tonight. It feels like a cocktail kind of evening.
I feed my dog, Juno, and begin setting out the makings for an ice-cold martini, when someone knocks on my front door, setting Juno into a barking frenzy.
I scrunch my nose at the interruption. Not only because I’m not expecting anyone, and I hate the unexpected, but because I live in a high-rise on the Upper East Side where the doormen look like bouncers. Nobody gets up here without being on a resident’s preapproved list. I can count the number of people on my list on one hand, and none of them is expected tonight.
Going to the door, I check the peephole, assuming it’ll be someone who knocked on the wrong door by accident.
I groan, because it’s so much worse than an accident.
I purse my lips and consider my options. I could pretend I’m not here, but remember before when I said that I know people?
Well, I know this guy better than most. He’s relentless. And he will wait me out.
Giving in to the inevitable, I open my front door, not bothering to hold Juno back from throwing her considerable weight at Matt Cannon.
Instead of looking annoyed by the eighty pounds of Lab / Rottweiler mix getting fur all over his thousand-dollar suit, Matt bends down and gives Juno an affectionate rubdown. “Hey, girl.”
I lean against the doorjamb, begrudging my dog her poor taste in character. “How’d you get in here?”
Juno rolls onto her back, tongue lolling out, belly up, and Matt obliges, scratching the dog like they’re old friends. “Doorman let me up.”
“You’re not on the list.”
“You sure about that?” he says with a grin. Then he looks up at me and does a double take at my appearance. “Whoa. Has it finally happened? Have you finally run out of skin-tight dresses and high heels?”
“What did you think, I slept in a push-up bra and Louboutins?”
His grin shifts from playful to seductive. “I know firsthand that you don’t.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying that in the few times he’s seen me in my bra—and out of it—we don’t exactly do much sleeping.
Because of that, I’m relieved at my current appearance. The casual clothes feel like a shield of sorts—a guarantee that he won’t make his move and that I won’t be helpless to resist, as I generally am.
Matt gives my dog one last pet and stands. His six-foot-two frame doesn’t quite tower over my five-foot-seven self, but I have to look up, and that’s annoying.
Actually, everything about him is annoying.
See, adversaries aren’t supposed to look like him. And make no mistake, for all our ill-advised hookups in the past, Matt is an adversary. As such, it’d only be fair for him to have scars, a paunch, or at least an asymmetrical face.
He’s got none of the above. Simply and reluctantly put, men don’t come better-looking than Matt Cannon. He’s the epitome of a golden boy. Perfectly styled blond hair? Check. Mischievous blue eyes? Yup. Chiseled jaw? Uh-huh. Perfect body . . .
Yeah, you get the idea.
Also, I hate him.
I lean against my doorjamb, still blocking his entry. “Why are you here, and why in God’s name did my doorman let you up?”
Matt puts a hand to my waist as though it’s his right and nudges me aside so he can enter my apartment. As though that’s his right, too. Juno follows him in happily.
“You were in Baltimore last month,” he says.
I blink in confusion at the change of subject. “And?”
“You asked Kate to watch Juno, except she went out to Jersey to have brunch with her parents, and the train broke down. Your dog needed to go out, so . . . I came over. Juno and I hit it off, so I took over dog-sitting duties for the weekend.”
I stare at him, aghast. “Just like that. You were in my apartment. Watching my dog.”
He looks down at me. “Don’t be weird about it. I’ve been in your apartment before.”
“Yeah, for dinner parties. Under supervision. And when . . .”
His eyebrows lift. “Yes?”
I refuse to blush, and I refuse to answer. I don’t particularly care to think about the times my body’s desire for this man has overridden common sense, resulting in a hookup or two. Or twelve. And I definitely don’t talk about it.
His cocky wink tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking, but for once, he doesn’t give me shit. Instead, he turns to survey my apartment.
“I’ve never mentioned this before, but I like your place. Juno and I made ourselves at home while I watched her.”
“Juno was home,” I point out. “You were an uninvited intruder.”
He ignores this. “Your home suits you.”