Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I chuckle. “Because I’m rich and handsome?”
“Because you’ve got balls of steel.” He glances at the girl at the end of the bar who keeps looking my way. I hold up my beer to her. She holds up hers, smiling. “You could get a nun to get naked, couldn’t you?”
“I could.” I look down when my phone vibrates on the bar. “And I would. Her next round’s on me, okay?”
I grab my phone to see a text from a new number with a Charlotte area code.
+1 (704) 893-1549
Hey, it’s Kristin Malone. I enjoyed running into you this morning at the printer ;) Still up for that drink tonight? I just opened a bottle of wine if you’d like to come to my place.
Always good to have options. Especially considering I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Greer today, despite being busy as hell.
I have to do something to head off these feelings, or I’m going to lose my fucking mind. This isn’t a crush. It can’t be. It’s just—
I don’t know. Sexual frustration, maybe? Loneliness?
I’m typing out my reply when I feel a hand land heavily on my shoulder. I glance up and see my dad smiling down at me. He’s still dressed in his suit and tie, like he’s come straight from the boardroom.
Knowing him, he probably has.
“My son.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze.
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. Instead, I stand and offer him my hand, which he takes for a perfunctory shake. “Dad. How’s it going?”
“It’s going all right.” He unbuttons his blazer and sits on the stool next to me. “I’m glad we could meet. It’s been too long.”
Mom and I chat once or twice a week, mostly small talk. But it’s been months since I’ve had a conversation with Dad. Years since we had a good conversation.
Forever since we’ve had a real one.
I drain my beer and signal for another. “It has, yeah. How’re things in the corner office?”
“Better than they are on the trading desk.”
I manage a rueful smile. “We’re jumping right in, then.”
“No point beating around the bush.”
You could ask me how I’m doing with the anniversary coming up, the way Greer did.
But we don’t talk about that.
Instead I say, “It’s been a rough year for trading desks everywhere. Even so, I think we’ve done a decent job of navigating these wild swings in the market. Our leadership is on point—Theo and Nora made the right calls almost every step of the way.”
“You made the right calls every step of the way,” Dad corrects before ordering a gin and tonic from Mikey. “Your models predicted every swing. It’s like you were riding the rollercoaster before it was even built.”
As a quantitative analyst, or “quant”, I build computer trading models that make the bank big money. The math nerd I’ve always been absolutely loves it. I get to use cool shit like game theory and differential equations to code the trading algorithms that have made Atlas & Teton millions—and I mean millions—of dollars. I’m part programmer, part economist, part gambler. All badass. (Kidding. Kind of.)
My job is the one thing that’s kept me sane over the past decade. That, and rowing.
And sex.
“You don’t need to tell me I’m good.” I don’t know where this is going, but something about Dad’s tone makes me uneasy.
“You’re better than good, Brooks. You’re great. And it’s time you were acknowledged as such.”
Ah. There it is. The old, you-need-to-be-doing-more knife in the ribs.
I’m an ambitious guy. As this man’s son, I’ve never had a choice in the matter. But even my drive pales in comparison to his. It’s obnoxious.
I tilt my head so Dad can’t catch me rolling my eyes. That’s when I see a group of girls spill into the bar from the street. I immediately recognize Nora with her pregnant belly, along with another girl who works on the High-Yield Desk—Keira, I think her name is?
My stomach drops when I see Greer enter a step behind them. I don’t usually see her out.
My stomach fucking plummets when I see what she’s wearing. She’s changed out of the tee and jeans she was in this morning. Now she’s in tighter jeans and this teeny tiny crop top that is more like a bra than a shirt.
I frown. How is she not freezing? It’s only early May, and it’s definitely not warm yet. Not at night.
She’s combed her heavy dark bangs forward, the tips catching on her long eyelashes as she blinks, glancing shyly at a table of guys to her right.
One of them checks her out. His eyes rake over her ass and tits. I feel a swift, hard surge of . . . something.
I tighten my grip on my beer.
I can’t blame the guy. Greer looks—
Nope. Not gonna let myself even think the word.