Hard Sell (21 Wall Street)

by Lauren Layne

  “Bingo.”

  I blow out a long breath as I consider this. I should be freaking out by the very suggestion, but instead I find myself intrigued. The chance to find out more about where Matt came from, what shaped him . . . it’s appealing.

  “No hard feelings if you say no,” Matt says. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you as a . . . friend.”

  The way he hesitates over the last word does something funny to my stomach, as though he wants to be friends but isn’t sure it’s possible.

  It’s possible.

  “You know, for future reference, you really should have brought two dozen ‘favor’ flowers for this kind of ask. And maybe jewelry.”

  A slow grin starts to spread over his face. “You’ll do it?”

  “Yes. If nothing else, to save all those other women from the agony of being fixed up with you.”

  And to save myself the agony of knowing you’re dating someone else.

  “Thank you,” he says in relief. “Seriously, thank you. And I’d love to tell you you won’t regret it, but in the interest of honesty, you totally will.”

  I laugh. “Candor appreciated.”

  He takes another sip of his drink. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair. Let you get back to your evening.”

  I nod, but instead of feeling relieved that he’s leaving, I feel a little melancholy at the thought of it.

  “You can finish your drink,” I say, just as my phone starts to buzz again.

  I walk to the counter and pick it up, turn it to “Do Not Disturb,” then set the phone aside.

  For a long minute, we say nothing. Finally, I look up at him. “Rochelle is my mother.”

  He studies my expression, then nods. “Okay.”

  I take a deep breath. “And I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “Okay,” he says without hesitation.

  It’s the perfect response.

  “Cannon?”

  “Yup.”

  I look down at my wine. “Juno and I were going to order takeout. I was thinking Chinese.”

  “Okay?” This time it’s a question.

  “You can stay. Eat with us. I mean, if you want.” I look up.

  “Okay.” This time it’s not a question. And it’s paired with a happy grin that makes my heart feel like flying.

  19

  MATT

  Saturday Evening, September 30

  You know how snobby people talk about the distinction between old money and new money, as though it’s a thing?

  It’s definitely a thing.

  I know, because I grew up surrounded by the latter.

  Neither of my parents grew up rich. My mom’s solidly middle class from Boise. My dad’s the son of two schoolteachers in Oklahoma.

  They met in New York when my mom was a flight attendant on a stopover and my dad was staying at the same hotel, celebrating getting his first job offer from an investment firm. (My knack for numbers comes straight from the old man.)

  A one-night stand turned into a long-distance relationship, which turned into an engagement, which turned into the fanciest wedding Boise had ever seen, courtesy of my dad moving quickly up the Wall Street food chain.

  They’d moved to New York, done the requisite big-city couple thing for a few years as my dad got more firmly established in the financial scene. My dad doesn’t talk much about those days, but my mom claims they were wildly in love, the kind of all-consuming love that makes you blind to reality.

  Eventually, Mom’s biological clock started ticking (her words not mine, because I’d prefer never to think of it), and they’d moved to a Connecticut McMansion, i.e. a cookie-cutter, pristine new-construction house that looked almost identical to all their neighbors’.

  I’d been born shortly after. Shortly after that, they moved to another McMansion, this one slightly larger. I’d spent most of my youth there, and when I left for college, they moved to yet another house, this one in a gated community and bigger than the other two combined, never mind that it was just the two of them.

  And here’s where the “new money” cliché comes into play: my parents spend money just to spend it. Or maybe to let other people know they have it? I’ve never really been able to figure it out. They’ve never kept a car longer than a year. It always has to be the newest model. My mom gets a new Dior purse every season, plus a matching wallet. My dad doesn’t just have a Rolex, he collects them. And talks about them.

  You think I’m being hard on them? Perhaps. After all, I never wanted for anything. My first car was a brand-new red BMW convertible. For my eighteenth birthday party, my parents flew twelve of my friends and me to Aspen for a ski trip.

  The money doesn’t bother me. Neither does the way they spend it, not really. It’s the fact that somewhere along the line, they let money replace morals. And integrity.

  Don’t believe me? Just wait and see.

  “You might have mentioned that you weren’t going to say a single word on the drive up,” Sabrina says, breaking the silence in the car.

  I glance over at the passenger side, not at all sure how I feel about her presence. On the one hand, I’m relieved for the company. On the other hand, I don’t know that I’m ready for anyone to see this part of my life. I’ve kept it private for so long.

  “Sorry,” I say, drumming my thumbs on the steering wheel. “Spending time with both my parents together always makes me tense.”

  “You don’t mention them much.”

  “Probably for the same reason you don’t mention yours.”

  She snorts and turns her head to look out the window. “I doubt it.”

  I don’t push her. Someday, she’ll tell me all about Rochelle and the shadows in her eyes whenever someone mentions her childhood, but now is not the time.

  “You look nice,” I say, turning down the radio as I take the exit ramp off the freeway.

  “He says, an hour and a half after picking me up,” she teases.

  “I was too busy trying to figure out if that dress is one I bought for you.”

  She smiles enigmatically. “It might be.”

  We stop at a red light, and I turn to her more fully, my gaze appreciating the way the slim-fitting dark-purple dress hugs her curves. “You think of me when you put it on?”

  Her eyes narrow slightly, as though sensing the question I really want to ask: Will you think of me when you take it off?

  Or better yet, Can I take it off?

  She tilts her head to the stoplight. “Light’s green, Lothario.”

  Her voice is a little bit huskier than before, and I grin, betting I’m not the only one who’s been suffering from her no-hookups rule.

  There’s no time to dwell—or fantasize—about that, though. A couple of minutes later, I roll down the window and enter the key code that opens the gate to my parents’ cul-de-sac.

  Sabrina whistles as we pass the first enormous house. “Very Stepford.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a reason that’s set that in Connecticut,” I grumble, lifting a hand in greeting toward one of my parents’ neighbors, who gives us a wave that’s both friendly and nosy as hell.

  “Is it really?” she asks, looking over at me.

  “Yup.”

  “Huh,” she says thoughtfully. “I have to say, I sort of thought this lifestyle only existed in movies.”

  I pull into my parents’ driveway. “In a few minutes, you’re going to wish it did.”

  She laughs lightly. “It can’t be that bad.”

  I nod at the Lexus that’s pulled into the driveway just ahead of us as a woman steps out of the driver’s side. “See her?”

  “Yeah. That your mom?” Sabrina asks, her hand lifting to smooth her hair.

  I’d grin at the atypically nervous gesture if my stomach wasn’t so knotted in dread. Sabrina’s about to see what my story’s really about, and it isn’t pretty.

  “That’s my dad’s former assistant.”

  “Oh.” Sabrina’s hand drops, and she undoes her
seat belt. “She looks nice.”

  I lift my hand to wave at the woman in tight jeans and a low-cut white sweater. “She’s also my father’s mistress.”

  “What?” Sabrina’s head whips toward me, but I’m already pushing open the car door and stepping out.

  “Matt, sweetie. It’s been too long.” She grins and beckons me forward, arms spread for a hug.

  “Felicia, good to see you,” I say, kissing her cheek and embracing her.

  Felicia’s hands find my shoulders, and she pulls back to study me. Then she smiles wider. “You look happy. Well, your shoulders are a bit tense, but your eyes are happy.”

  Felicia’s gaze shifts to Sabrina, who’s stepped out of the car, looking composed instead of shell-shocked, God bless her.

  “And this must be Sabrina. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I introduce the two women. “Felicia Levin, this is my girlfriend, Sabrina Cross.”

  Sabrina extends a hand, but Felicia ignores it and goes in for a hug. “I’m so glad Matt’s found someone to help him settle down. We were all so tired of him moving from woman to woman with less care than he did swapping out his cuff links.”

  It’s a bold accusation from someone who’s been having an affair with a married man for a couple dozen years, but Sabrina’s smile never wavers.

  A tinny version of Beyoncé’s “Halo” interrupts the moment, and Felicia looks toward her still-open car door. “Oh, that’s my daughter calling. She’s getting married next month, and she’s a basket case. You guys go on inside, tell your parents I’ll be along shortly.” She trots back to her car in her platform sandals and leans in to grab her cell phone. “Bridget, honey. I’ve told you, we can always let the dress out a bit if we need to . . . No, you are not fat . . .”

  I set an arm to Sabrina’s back, propelling her toward my parents’ front door. The sooner we get this started, the sooner we can leave.

  “Does your mom know?”

  “Yup.”

  “Does she care?”

  “If she does, she’d be a hypocrite. She carried on with my Little League coach for years before switching to my history tutor. Then it was one of my dad’s golf buddies, and I’m pretty sure there was a pool boy in there somewhere.”

  Sabrina looks up at me as I ring the doorbell, and I stand very still, very tense, bracing for the questions, the judgment, the horror at the salacious shallowness I grew up in.

  “Cannon.”

  I don’t look at her. I can’t. “Yeah?”

  She leans toward me slightly and whispers, “You had a history tutor?”

  I let out a startled laugh. Her response is so unexpected and so fucking perfect that I do the only thing I can do.

  I bend my head to hers and kiss her.

  20

  SABRINA

  Saturday Evening, September 30

  Matt’s mouth is warm and firm on mine, and any thought I have to remind him we’re no longer hooking up goes out the window when his hand gently cups the back of my head, pulling me closer.

  His lips nudge mine apart, and mine respond, welcoming his kiss as though I’m made for it. Made for kissing him.

  Matt’s tongue touches mine, and a little moan slips out . . .

  Just as the front door opens.

  “Oh! Oh my!”

  I push away from Matt, baffled by the heat flooding my cheeks. Oh, this is what blushing feels like. I haven’t felt it in . . . forever.

  I turn to find a thin blonde woman grinning at me. “Matthew Cannon, I haven’t seen you embarrass a girl like this since you took Brianne Ross to prom and whispered something in her ear that made her blush redder than tomato sauce.”

  I turn to Matt. “What’d you whisper?”

  Matt’s mother lets out a delighted laugh. “Oh, I can see why he likes you. You’re Sabrina, obviously. And I’m Maureen Cannon, Matt’s mother, obviously.”

  Actually, there’s really nothing obvious about it, considering I met a woman in the driveway who acted just as motherly toward Matt. But I don’t say this. Obviously.

  “Mother,” Matt says, bending to kiss his mom’s cheek as he steps inside. “Good to see you.”

  She wraps her arms around him and gives a quick squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re here. Okay, Sabrina, come in, come in. Get your coat off, and let’s get you a drink.”

  “Felicia’s here,” Matt says, helping me out of my trench coat. “Bridget called, so she’ll be in in a minute.”

  “Oh, poor Bridget,” Maureen says with a regretful sigh as she reaches out to take my coat from Matt. She looks at me. “Poor thing’s put on a good amount of weight just before the wedding.”

  “Mom.” Matt’s voice is gently chiding.

  “I don’t say it to be mean!” Maureen insists. “She can’t help she has her mother’s body type.”

  It’s a catty little jab, to be sure, but there doesn’t seem to be much malice behind it. Instead it’s like the way I’ve heard competitive sisters talk about one another—little put-downs here and there to lift their own egos but no real venom. Almost as though she’s simply resigned to the other woman’s presence at family dinners.

  Maureen turns her head slightly toward a hallway on her right. “Gary! Your son’s here!”

  A masculine voice replies immediately. “Matt! Get in here a sec—I want to show you something.”

  Matt gives me an apologetic look. “He has a new laptop. Ten bucks says he doesn’t want to show me anything, just ask me how to use it, all while pretending he’s teaching me.”

  I smile to reassure him I’ll be fine with his mother. “Hopefully you’re better with computers than history.”

  Maureen lets out a laugh as Matt makes a ha-ha face and heads down the hall to wherever his father is.

  “Told you about that, did he?” Maureen says as she motions for me to follow her. “I’d forgotten all about that. It was the funniest thing seeing his face when he realized he’d gotten a C in British history. I thought he was going to pass out.”

  “His first C?”

  She rolls her eyes. “First anything that wasn’t an A plus. Though he always had to work a bit harder on anything that wasn’t numbers. He’s like his dad that way. Calculator for a brain, but when it comes to reading and writing, he’s merely average.”

  “Heard that!” Matt calls from somewhere.

  “Sit, sit,” his mom says, ignoring her son as she leads me into a fussily decorated living room. “What can I get you to drink? Wine, cocktail, soda?”

  “White wine would be great,” I say, setting my purse on a bench by the door. “You have a beautiful home.”

  I say it to be polite more than anything. It’s not that the Cannon home isn’t beautiful, it’s just . . . intense.

  The floor in the entryway is white marble, the chandelier the size of a small car. And maybe I’ve just grown used to the minimalist decor of most New York apartments, but there seems to be stuff everywhere. Pretty stuff—gorgeous centerpieces, tall vases, fresh flowers, ornate boxes, gold-framed art on the walls.

  But still . . . stuff.

  I wouldn’t go so far as to call the home stifling, but I can’t imagine living here. Hell, for that matter, I can’t imagine Matt living here. I haven’t put much thought into Matt’s background before, but I definitely wouldn’t have pictured this. Not the lavishness, and certainly not the apparently open nature of his parents’ marriage.

  It provides a little glimpse into the man that I haven’t seen before, and I’m not at all sure what to do with the new information. I know only that the tense man who picked me up this evening is nothing like the devil-may-care charmer I’ve known for years. I can’t help but wonder which is the real Matt.

  I wonder if he even knows.

  It’s hard to believe the guy’s turned out as normal as he has, though I suppose his parents’ choices did leave a lasting mark: his wariness of all things relationships and marriage.

  “So, I hear from Matt you guys met through a mu
tual friend,” Maureen says, coming back with a glass of white wine for each of us and patting the seat next to her on a white-and-gold love seat.

  I sit beside her and cross my legs. “Yes. I grew up with one of his coworkers.”

  “Ian, right?”

  I nod.

  “He’s a handsome one. Well, so is that Kennedy, though his parents are somewhat standoffish. Especially his mother. Did you know, we were at the same fund-raiser as they were a couple years ago, and I thought it would be nice if we got to know each other. But let me tell you, that woman . . .”

  I tune her out as she prattles on about the evils of Kennedy’s mother, interjecting only the occasional nod and “mm-hmm.”

  It’s not that Maureen Cannon is a bad woman. She’s friendly and seems to truly adore her son. But she’s also self-absorbed, a bit gossipy, and, even though it’s none of my business, I just can’t fully embrace a woman who cheats on her husband.

  Even if he cheats on her as well.

  Poor Matt. I wonder how long he’s known. He mentioned his mom sleeping with his Little League coach, and I can only hope he learned about it long after the fact. It’d be a hell of a thing for a kid to grow up with.

  My mother slept around plenty as well, but at least she had the good sense never to get married.

  “I’m sorry, I just hijacked our entire conversation,” Maureen says, touching my arm. “Tell me about you. I confess I looked you up, but I didn’t learn much about your people.”

  My people?

  My tolerance for Maureen Cannon dips a tiny bit lower. I suppose on some level, I should be relieved that she’s bought the facade I’ve built for myself. That she sees me as one of them.

  I’m not surprised. I’ve made darn sure people see exactly what I want them to see: a polished, poised, successful woman who wears the right clothes, knows the right people, makes the right small talk.

  Still, tonight, the whole thing feels vaguely distasteful. Perhaps because I’m fairly certain she wouldn’t be nearly as welcoming if she knew my real background.

  “I’m from Philadelphia.” I take a sip of my wine.

  “Oh, Philly!” she says with fake delight. “Do you go back often?”