Hard Sell (21 Wall Street)

by Lauren Layne

  His jaw tenses, and he looks down at the floor before looking up once more. “What if it wasn’t a charade?”

  I put a hand to my still-fluttering stomach. “Matt. You don’t want to get married.”

  “Not in the traditional sense, no,” he says. “But I wouldn’t mind trying it your way.”

  “My way?”

  “You know. Sex. Companionship. None of the emotional, messy stuff.”

  I can’t breathe. Somehow this moment feels like my ultimate fantasy and my worst nightmare, all rolled into one confusing, heartbreaking moment. Because now I know I want so much more.

  “I can’t,” I whisper.

  “Why not?” he says, his voice urgent as he steps closer. “I’ve enjoyed these past few weeks, and I know you have, too. You said yourself, you want someone to come home to at the end of the night, and . . . hell, why can’t that someone be me? We know we’d fight, but we also know the make-up sex would be outstanding. We respect each other, and neither of us would have to pretend that we’re the next great love story—”

  “I can’t,” I repeat, more desperately this time.

  Matt frowns in concern at my tone, reaching out a hand toward me. “It’s okay; I know it’s sudden. You need time to think, and—”

  “No.” I shake my head and close my eyes. “I mean, yes, it is sudden, but that’s not why I’m saying no.”

  When I open my eyes again, his expression is shuttered and unreadable. “Why are you saying no?”

  I take a deep breath. “Because you don’t love me.”

  Matt’s eyes widen slightly in shock. “Well . . . no. I mean . . . I don’t really do that. But neither do you.”

  I bite my bottom lip so hard my eyes water. Actually, no. My eyes are watering for another reason entirely. This hurts.

  “Sabrina.” His tone is sharp. “You don’t love me. Do you?”

  I take a deep breath as I realize I owe it to him—and to myself—to be completely honest.

  Forcing a smile, I lift my shoulders and let them fall. “Apparently, I do. And knowing what that feels like now, I don’t think I can do marriage the companionship-only way I always imagined. I want . . . more. I want a real marriage. And I don’t think I can settle for less.”

  29

  MATT

  Sunday Night, October 8

  Sabrina’s statement lingers in the air like the aftermath of an explosion, my shock rendering me speechless.

  When I finally do manage words, they’re hardly eloquent. “What?”

  She flinches. “I know. I was surprised, too.”

  I don’t move; I can only stare. “Sabrina, I thought—”

  “It’s not like I’m joining a cult, Cannon,” she says, some of her usual sass returning.

  “Might as well be.” The words are cold and callous, and I don’t mean them to be, not really. But to say she’s caught me off guard here is an understatement. I can barely think clearly, much less speak eloquently.

  Her blue eyes seem to blaze at me as she comes closer. “You’re terrified.”

  Damn straight.

  “I’m confused. Just a few days ago, we were on the same page. You yourself said you wanted to avoid the emotional, messy stuff.”

  “I know I did! And it’s precisely because of moments like this,” she says, sounding slightly frustrated. “Because this”—she gestures between us—“sucks.”

  “Exactly,” I say, reaching out and grasping her shoulders. “So let it pass. It’s just the proximity messing with your head. We can go back to the way we were, just friends who enjoy each other’s company. Or we can go back to fighting.”

  Just don’t leave me. Don’t walk away.

  “Look, Matt.” She lifts her shoulders and eases away. “I’m not asking anything of you. I know I changed it up. You don’t feel the same, and that’s . . . f-fine.”

  She stutters over the word as though it pains her, then takes a deep breath and continues.

  “I get it. I’m not exactly thrilled, either, but my feelings are there, and they’re complicated, and they’re not going away anytime soon. You don’t want a wife who loves you, and I don’t want a husband who doesn’t love me. Where does that leave us?”

  I close my eyes and try to sort out the mess of thoughts going through my head. “I don’t know.”

  “Well I do,” she says matter-of-factly, as though she didn’t just drop the L-word up in here and destroy every good thing we had going on. “We need some space.”

  “I don’t want some damned space!” I shout, opening my eyes again. “I want . . . I want . . .”

  “What?” she says.

  You.

  I try to tell her out loud, but the words don’t come. It’s as though they’re buried deep, lodged in my throat.

  “I want things back the way they were,” I say instead, hating the pleading note in my voice but unable to hold it back.

  She says nothing.

  I’m losing her. I know I’m losing her, and yet the only way of keeping her is to take that idiotic plunge, to go over the edge with her, and risk everything.

  I won’t do it. She matters too much.

  “Sabrina,” I say quietly, closing the distance between us. “You know I care about you . . .”

  Her face twists. “Don’t. Please don’t do that.”

  I clench my fists in impatience. “Don’t what, speak the truth?”

  “Not if the truth involves some sort of placating but. You care about me, but. You want to keep sleeping with me, but. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I want what we have without the buts. I want what Ian and Lara have. What I suspect The Sams have. I want someone to be with me not just because it’s convenient and we’re well suited but because he can’t stand the thought of not being with me.”

  I swallow, thinking of my parents. Thinking of how they made all those promises to each other, how they were supposedly once like Ian and Lara, but none of it lasted.

  I think of how they are now. Indifferent to each other.

  I won’t do that to Sabrina. I won’t do that to us.

  But neither can I bear to see her unhappy. If this is what she needs . . .

  I reach out and gently cup her face, my thumbs drifting over her cheeks. “I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want,” I say quietly. “But if you want to chase the fairy-tale ending, I won’t stand in your way.”

  Her face crumples for a moment, but she recovers almost immediately, giving a quick nod. “Thank you. I still need some space, though, Matt. I can’t fall in love with someone else as long as I’m in love with you.”

  I feel her words like a knife in my chest.

  But I nod, knowing what she means. No more casual sex when it suits us. No more verbal foreplay disguised as arguments. And for me, no fellow realist—no more safety in Sabrina’s shared knowledge that love destroys relationships, not fosters it.

  “Still friends?” she says, sounding more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard her.

  My gut clenches at the word, somehow both vitally important and not nearly enough. “Of course,” I whisper, setting my forehead to hers. “Of course.”

  Our arms slowly find their way around each other, and there’s a desperation to the goodbye hug—not forever, not for good, but goodbye to the way we were. The way we’ve become.

  I press a lingering kiss to her temple. “Be happy.”

  I hear her swallow, then she nods.

  I pull back, intending to give her my standard cocky smile, but I can’t summon it forth. Not when I see the unshed tears in her eyes.

  Her hands drop from my waist, and I release her with a backward step.

  I walk to her front door, knowing she won’t stop me. She wants love. I want her to have it.

  And I wish like hell I had it in me to give it.

  30

  SABRINA

  Monday Lunch, October 16

  “So, are we going to talk about it, or are you going to keep pretending everything’s cool?”
/>
  I look at Ian over my Diet Coke. “You mandated this meeting. You have something say, say it.”

  It’s Monday afternoon, a little more than a week since Matt basically proposed marriage.

  Sans love.

  I’m trying really hard not to think about it. Or him.

  But Ian’s making it difficult. Because as much as I know that he’s my best friend and loves me like a sister, he also loves Matt like a brother.

  It’s hard to share a meal with this man without thinking of the man.

  Ian pushes aside his plate and, crossing both arms on the table, studies me with his piercing blue eyes. I can’t help but compare them to another pair of blue eyes. Ian’s are ice-blue, slightly almond-shaped. Matt’s eyes are dark blue, the ocean on a sunny day, wide and bright and . . .

  I suck in a sharp intake of breath as the pain hits. Again. I know it’ll pass. Eventually.

  But damn, this sucks.

  Damn, it had hurt to stand there and put my heart out there, knowing he didn’t feel the same, and have him all but shake my hand and wish me well.

  I take a bite of my tuna Nicoise salad and pretend not to notice Ian’s scrutiny.

  “He’s irritable,” Ian announces.

  I nip a green bean cleanly with my front teeth. “Who?”

  My best friend’s look is withering. “Really?”

  Fine. I sigh and set aside my fork. “I’m sorry Cannon’s acting like a juvenile, but it’s really not my problem. I sent him an email letting him know that I’d be happy to continue our working relationship through the end of the contract despite our personal entanglements. He’s yet to take me up on the offer.”

  “An email,” Ian repeats. “You two make love and war like both are going out of style for the better part of the past God knows how many years, and you sit there and tell me you sent him an email?”

  “What do you want me to do here, Ian? What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to tell me what happened.”

  I sip my soda. “Ask him.”

  “I did ask him. Kennedy asked him. Kate asked him. Half the office thinks he received a six-months-to-live sentence from his doctor, that’s how unhappy he’s been.”

  “And that’s my fault because . . . ?”

  Ian throws up his hands in frustration. “I swear, I don’t know why I try to talk to either of you.”

  “Well, I just don’t see why I’m supposed to shoulder the blame for Matt’s irritability. Maybe it’s work related. Has he heard anything on the Jarod front?”

  I keep my voice casual, careful not to betray the real reason I agreed to meet Ian for lunch. It’s not that I don’t enjoy my best friend, but as I said, seeing Ian makes me think of Matt, and, well, lately . . . that’s painful as all get out.

  Ian’s eyebrows lift at my question. “Jarod? You and the world’s most famous billionaire are on a first-name basis?”

  I fiddle with my fork, knowing that I’m going to have to rip this Band-Aid off sometime. Might as well be now.

  “He’s been in touch.”

  Okay, so I chickened out a little bit. That’s the truth but not the whole truth. We’ll get to that part later.

  Ian reaches across the table and snags an olive from my plate. “You and Lanham have been in touch . . . how?”

  “Mr. Lanham got my email and reached out.”

  Ian sits back in his chair. “Ten seconds ago, he was ‘Jarod.’ You can’t go all formal on me now.”

  “I can do whatever I want.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Sabrina. You’re the most direct person I know, so this whole cagey thing isn’t suiting you.”

  I swallow, a little stung by the rebuke, even though I know it was well deserved. “Jarod wants to hire me,” I say, sipping my soda.

  “For what?”

  “That’s between him and me.”

  “Sabrina—”

  I hold up a hand. “No, I draw the line there. I don’t share my clients’ requests with anyone, even you. You’d expect the same privacy if you hired me.”

  “I have hired you,” he points out. “You got me the best lawyer in the city when I needed one.”

  “I did that because you’re my best friend,” I say, waving my hand. “The point is, when someone asks for my help, I’m a vault.”

  “But the whole group knows about your ruse with Cannon.”

  “Because it was half your idea,” I point out. “Had Matt come to me for help on his own and asked me to keep it between us, I wouldn’t have told a soul.”

  “Not even me?” Ian gives his best smile.

  “Not even you, you pain in the ass.”

  “You and your pesky professional ethics,” he says, shaking his head. “Okay, fine, don’t tell me what Lanham wants. Can you at least tell me what happened between you and Matt? As a friend?”

  I hesitate, then realize that though I don’t particularly want to talk about it, maybe I need to. Goodness knows trying to bury it deep and pretend it doesn’t exist hasn’t been serving me well for the past week. I’m not sleeping, I’m barely eating . . .

  I take a deep breath and look up. “It would seem I fell in love with the idiot.”

  I’m prepared for Ian’s shock, but I see none. Instead he gives me a sympathetic smile. “Yeah. I figured.”

  “Did you?” I murmur. “Might have been nice if you would’ve mentioned it. To me.”

  “Yeah, I can just imagine how well that conversation would have gone.”

  I lift my elbows to the table and drop my head tiredly into my hands. “How did this happen? Why did this happen?”

  Ian smiles slightly. “Does he know how you feel?”

  I nod once, not particularly wanting to relive the moment in which I admitted my feelings and Matt did . . . nothing.

  “And?”

  I lift my head, not quite able to tell him about Matt’s proposal, but I say enough to give him the gist. “He suggested. . . sex. Companionship . . .”

  Everything I thought I wanted. Everything that just until a week or so ago I would’ve probably been perfectly satisfied with. Someone to take the dog out when it rains, someone to laugh with. Heck, even someone to argue with, which I know sounds nuts, but even at our worst moments, fighting with Matt made me feel alive.

  I wish I didn’t want more. I wish I didn’t want it all—the life partner and the fairy tale.

  I meet Ian’s gaze miserably. “I don’t just want someone to be with. I want someone to love me.”

  He reaches across the table and gives my arm a brotherly squeeze. “Of course you do. You deserve that, Sabrina.”

  I smile faintly. “Try telling Matt that.”

  “I shouldn’t have to,” he mutters. Ian’s gaze turns considering. “You’re sure he doesn’t feel the same way? Because the way he’s been acting—”

  “Ian, you weren’t there. You didn’t see his face. Whatever I feel for him . . . it’s not mutual. Or if it is, it’s not strong enough on his side for him to be brave enough to act on it.”

  Ian’s head drops in defeat. “For someone so smart, he’s such a fucking idiot.”

  I pick up my Diet Coke and chew my straw in agitation, a habit I thought I’d kicked by the time I was twelve. “Agreed.”

  “So what happens now?”

  I shrug. “Eventually I’ll get over my feelings for him, and he and I can go back to the way we were.”

  “The whole enemies-with-benefits thing?” Ian asks with a wince.

  “No, not that.” I continue to chew my straw. “I think . . . I think I want to date. I want to find someone for real. Much as this whole love thing hurts like hell, I don’t know that I want to settle for anything less.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Ian says firmly. “But you know you can’t go treating this like a project. You can’t just decide to fall in love with someone. Especially not when you’re in love with someone else.”

  “I know,” I say with a sigh. “It’s annoying, but I know. But I can star
t putting myself out there, right?”

  “Sure,” he says slowly. “After a time. When you’re ready.”

  I say nothing, and he gives me a knowing look.

  “Sabrina, what are you not telling me?”

  I take a deep breath, already having a good sense of just how well my bombshell is going to go over. “Jarod Lanham is going to give Matt his business,” I say.

  “What? He told you that?”

  “Yes. He’ll give Matt his business . . . if I go to the Wolfe Gala with him.”

  “Seriously?” Ian looks shocked and confused, and I don’t blame him. The situation is . . . odd.

  “I met with Jarod a couple days ago, regarding a potential business venture,” I say. “He congratulated me on my ‘engagement,’ and I told him that the rumors weren’t based on fact.”

  “Sabrina—”

  “I didn’t tell him that the thing with Matt and me was a ruse,” I say, holding up a hand to stop his objections. “I just clarified that the engagement wasn’t true.”

  “Then why would he ask you to the gala, if he thinks you and Matt are still an item? Seems like the ultimate dick move to me.”

  It does, sort of. To be honest, I don’t have a clue what Jarod’s angle is. This whole thing with Matt’s apparently thrown me off my game, because instead of being able to assess someone’s motives in an instant, I’d shared an entire meal with Jarod, and I don’t have a clue where his head’s at.

  “Surely you’re not thinking about agreeing—” Ian says.

  “Hear me out,” I interrupt. “This thing with Matt and me isn’t real. He hired me to pretend to be in a relationship with him to clean up his reputation so that he can get clients like Jarod Lanham. I honestly don’t think Matt will care how it happens, so long as it happens. Lanham’s always been the goal.”

  “So you’re going to do it?”

  “I don’t know yet. It really should be Matt’s decision,” I say. “We signed a contract that I’d accompany him to any events, specifically the gala. But I can’t imagine he wouldn’t prefer to have Jarod as a client.”

  “And how will you feel about that?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me.”

  I take a deep breath and consider.