“I’m assuming there’s an insult in there somewhere?” I ask over my shoulder, heading back into the kitchen.
“Nope, I really do like it. It’s the only thing I like about you,” he says, following me.
I ignore the barb, since it’s sort of what we do. Plus . . . I like my place, too. It’s on the forty-second floor, right on Park Avenue, and the view alone is worth the astronomical rent.
I’m also pretty proud to say I’ve made a home out of what could have been a generic mausoleum. The leather sofa’s gray and warm and comfortable, with inviting red throw pillows. Instead of a coffee table, I’ve got an enormous ottoman, with a tray for cocktails and scented candles.
There’s a wine rack in one corner of the living room, a dog bed in the other, and the rest is all windows with a glorious view of the Empire State Building, the bright lights of downtown twinkling off in the distance.
The kitchen, too, is inviting, at least by Manhattan standards, since we New Yorkers aren’t exactly known for our cooking skills.
Juno dashes for her beloved, albeit slightly decrepit, squeaky sheep-shaped toy and takes to her dog bed, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as Matt comes to join me in the kitchen.
He’s wearing a suit, which isn’t all that surprising—he’s pretty much always wearing a suit. This one’s a dark gray, and the blue tie matches his eyes, though a medieval torture chamber wouldn’t get me to admit that I notice.
Out of habit, or instinct, or maybe just poor judgment, I measure the ingredients for two martinis, one for each of us. I’ve just added the vodka and vermouth to the shaker when Matt comes around the counter.
Wordlessly, he plucks the shaker out of my hands and takes over.
It’s a high-handed move, and completely like him. But whereas I’d normally protest on principle, I let him do it, sensing that he needs the control more than I do tonight.
Something’s on his mind—he wouldn’t be here otherwise—and based on what I saw in the WSJ yesterday, I’ve got a pretty good sense of what that something is.
Matt goes to my freezer and adds ice, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be in my kitchen, making the two of us cocktails.
He puts the lid on the shaker, but before shaking it, he sets it aside and shrugs out of his suit jacket, tossing it onto the back of one of the dining room chairs, then rolls up his sleeves.
My mouth goes a little dry at the sight of white sleeves being rolled over tanned male forearms, but I refuse to respond or even look interested.
Thankfully the sound of the cocktail shaker defuses the sexual tension. Or so I tell myself as I pull two cocktail glasses off my bar cart and set them in front of him.
Matt strains the drink into both glasses. He adds three olives to mine, exactly as I like it, then grabs a lemon from the fruit bowl on my counter, adding a citrus twist to his, exactly as he likes it.
He hands me mine, lifts his in a toast. “Cheers.”
“To . . . your newfound notoriety?” I say, clinking my glass to his before taking a sip.
“You saw the paper.”
“Cannon, everyone saw that paper,” I say, taking my cocktail into the living room and dropping onto a soft leather chair.
He follows, sitting on the edge of the couch, and reaches for a coaster before putting down his drink. I have no doubt it’s a spillover from his upper-middle-class upbringing. He’s not quite as upper crust as his friend Kennedy Dawson, whose blood is as blue as it gets. But from what I’ve been able to piece together, Matt’s childhood in the Connecticut suburbs was a far cry from my early life in Philly.
Juno dashes over and jumps up on the couch beside him, something she usually does only with me.
Matt rubs Juno’s head, looking at the dog instead of at me, and I decide it’s time to cut the bull. “When do we get to the point about what you’re doing here?”
He smiles without looking at me. “Usually a woman asks that before making her visitor a drink.”
“I took pity on you. The WSJ, remember?”
His smile disappears. “Hard to forget.”
“So.” I sip my drink. “Vegas.”
He runs his hands over his face and slumps back against the couch. “It was Troy’s bachelor party.”
“Troy?”
“My cousin. Kind of a douchebag now, but we had some fun memories growing up.”
“So if it was his bachelor party, why wasn’t he the one with a naked woman draped over his lap?”
“He was,” Matt grumbles. “He just wasn’t featured in the Wall Street Journal.”
Much as Matt drives me crazy, it’s hard not to feel a little sorry for the guy. I can’t even fathom the horror of anyone seeing me at a vulnerable moment, let alone millions of WSJ subscribers.
“I didn’t sleep with her.”
I blink, thrown off by the unexpected pronouncement. “I didn’t ask. And in no way is that my business.”
He shrugs and leans forward, picking up his drink.
I take a deep breath. I meant what I said. What Matt does in his spare time, with other women . . . totally not my business.
We’re not dating. We don’t even like each other. We’re simply two people who, against their better judgment, sleep together, with each ill-fated naked encounter somehow driving us further apart instead of closer together.
But still, we’re not exclusive.
And yet . . . there’s relief that he didn’t sleep with the Vegas stripper, or whatever she was.
I hate myself for it, but it’s there. Relief, pure and strong and absolutely not to be analyzed.
“The bosses are pissed?” I ask.
Matt grunts his assent, taking another sip of his martini.
“It’ll pass,” I say. “Some other scandal will come up, and the whole thing will blow over.”
He stands and goes to the window, taking his cocktail with him as he studies the Manhattan skyline. “They’ve given me an ultimatum.”
“Seriously?” I ask. “It’s that bad?” I’m surprised. Even I know what an asset he is to Wolfe Investments, with that big number-crunching brain of his.
Matt shoves his free hand in his pocket and doesn’t turn around. “Just a perfect-storm situation, I think. The fact that the story broke in a prestigious newspaper instead of Page Six. The fact that some of the morons I was with were into the hard stuff but the reporter failed to mention that I didn’t touch the cocaine. Plus, Wolfe’s still recovering from Ian’s scandal. The higher-ups are on edge.”
“So they’re going to fire you for getting a lap dance?” I ask incredulously. “Unless you do what?”
“They want me to settle down.”
I snort. “Have they actually met you?”
“Ian settled down. He was even more wild than me.”
I stare at his back. “You’re serious. You’re going to do this?”
“No, they’re serious,” he says, turning back to me with no trace of his usual cocky smile. “I get a girlfriend, or I get canned.”
I ignore the little stab of something painful in my chest at the thought of Matt committed to someone for the long haul, the way Ian and Lara are.
I take a sip of my cocktail as I think this over.
His situation sucks, and his life needs fixing. That’s what I do. I’m actually not all that surprised he showed up, though I sort of imagined his request for help would be along the lines of getting the WSJ to issue a retraction.
At this rate, though, even if I could achieve that, I don’t know what good it would do. This city, this life, is all about reputation. Once it’s smeared, you can’t undo the smear. You simply have to smear it with something else. Something better.
Like a girlfriend.
Much as I hate to admit it, the plan has merit. Nothing takes the steam out of a playboy scandal like a ball and chain.
“You want my help.”
He takes a sip of his drink and stays silent.
I push him. “C’mon, Cannon, admit it. You never come here. We never do drinks just the two of us, unless it’s after . . . you know.”
His eyebrows go up. “Sex?”
“Right. Which is absolutely not on the agenda.”
The corner of his mouth turns up. “Figured that from your attire.”
I glance down. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”
“Nothing. I just didn’t know you owned a sweatshirt, much less purple socks.”