Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“This isn’t going to work,” Matt says, interrupting my thoughts.
My stomach drops at his words, though I don’t know whether it’s the blow to my professional pride or the personal implications. “What do you mean?”
He pushes away his plate, wipes his mouth. “We drive each other crazy.”
“You knew that when you asked me to help you,” I point out.
“Momentary lapse. I forgot how frustrating you can be.”
“Me?! You’re the one who—” I take a breath for patience, determined not to let him get under my skin. “It’s the first day. There were bound to be some hiccups and arguments, given our history.”
Matt gives me a curious look. “I’m giving you an out. Why are you not taking it?”
It’s a good question. I should take the out. I should remove us both from this situation before things go to hell, but . . .
The thought of failure tastes bitter. I’ve built my entire self-worth on my ability to control every situation. To fix every situation.
I won’t let him take that away from me.
“You hired me to do a job,” I say quietly. “Let me do it.”
“So that’s all this is about? Our contract?” he asks, his gaze holding mine.
I hesitate only a split second before nodding, but I can see from the way his eyes narrow that he saw the hesitation. That he suspects this is about more than my job. More than his job.
Still, he merely nods in agreement, not pressing me for answers that neither one of us is ready for.
9
MATT
Sunday Brunch, September 24
You know what’s a pretty fantastic plan?
Scheduling your “see and be seen” brunch at your bosses’ favorite restaurant, in hopes you might bump into them and show off your new “girlfriend.”
The second I walk into Rosemary’s, I know my plan’s about to pay off, because who’s sitting at the bar? Sam and Samantha Wolfe, next to Adam Feinstein, an eccentric billionaire known for being old-school with his money strategy.
Granted, this isn’t exactly how I thought it would go. I’d deliberately booked an earlier-than-usual brunch and then purposefully arrived well ahead of the reservation, before Sabrina.
My plan was to ensure I got a table by the door, so that if and when The Sams arrived, I’d be positioned in a very cozy, very visible, romantic brunch with my “girlfriend.”
But . . . this can work, too. Or at least, I’m determined to make it work.
I check in with the hostess, knowing full well that since I’m early, my table won’t be ready yet. She assures me that my table should be available “closer to my reservation time” if I want to wait at the bar. Which I absolutely do.
The Sams and Adam are sipping mimosas, likely waiting for their own table, and haven’t seen me yet.
I approach, clamping my hand on Sam’s shoulder, confident smile already in place. “Mr. Wolfe?”
“Matt!” Sam turns toward me, his expression torn between surprise and wariness. Once again, I feel the intense urge to pummel the jackass who wrote that article and turned my once golden name into the wild card that embarrasses the bosses. “What are you doing here?”
I grin. “It’s Rosemary’s. I’m doing what everyone does. Getting a damn good brunch.”
“Their bread alone is to die for,” Samantha agrees, her voice warmer than her husband’s, though her expression is no less leery. “Matt, do you know Mr. Feinstein?” She gestures to the other man, who’s been more interested in his phone than our conversation about the bread.
Adam Feinstein looks up, shoving his round glasses farther up his nose as he gives me a bland, indifferent smile.
I extend a hand. “Mr. Feinstein, a pleasure. I’m Matt Cannon. I work for Wolfe Investments.”
“I know who you are,” the other man says, turning his attention back to his phone. “The kid from the Journal.” He shakes his silver head without bothering to look up. “In my day, people were more careful with their money and reputation. And more respectful of other people’s money and their company’s reputation.”
I tense, and Samantha closes her eyes briefly in dismay.
Shit. Shit!
As I’m trying to find a respectful rejoinder to Feinstein’s clear disdain, I hear a feminine voice saying my name. “Matt?”
Oh thank God. Sabrina has shown up early, bless her.
I turn toward the voice, only I realize too late that the voice is too high to be Sabrina’s, and find not one but two blonde women grinning at me.
I’ve slept with them. Both of them. Not at the same time, but I’m guessing that distinction is going to do little to save my ass at this point.
“Hi . . .” My brain searches for their names. Either of their names. I’ve got nothing. In my defense, it’s been years. And though my hazy memory tells me I met them at the same bar, I had no idea that they knew each other, much less were brunch buddies.