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)
Even without his name in the description, who else would be in the Wall Street Journal, straddled by a half-naked woman with her back to the camera?
Who else would have his hand on her waist, his grin as cocky as ever?
Who else, besides Matt Cannon, would ruin my appetite for a perfectly good croissant?
Because that’s what Matt Cannon does. He turns my otherwise in-control life upside down, every damn chance he gets.
3
MATT
Tuesday Morning, September 19
“So, what are you going to do?” Kennedy asks, his eyes watching the bar I’m benching as he spots me.
“Hell if I know,” I manage with gritted teeth as I push through the rep. “Know any rent-a-girlfriend services?”
“None that aren’t glorified escort services and won’t get you into more trouble.”
“I don’t think that’s even possible,” I say, finishing the last rep in my set and letting Kennedy guide the weight back to its resting place.
I sit up, and my other best friend, Ian, tosses me a towel, which I catch with one hand.
Ian sits on the bench opposite mine, hands clasped loosely between his knees. “I sent you a fucking million texts yesterday. You didn’t reply.”
I wipe my face with the towel. “Sorry. The Sams figured everyone would be buzzing, and that I’d be better working from home.”
“Everyone was buzzing,” Kennedy says. “Still doesn’t explain why you ignored us.”
“Not intentional,” I grumble. “I was on the phone all day doing damage control with clients, and then I turned off my phone last night to . . . I dunno. Think.”
What I don’t tell them is that those conversations were a hell of a lot rougher than I’d anticipated. My bosses weren’t exaggerating. This is bad. Really bad.
The guys nod without bugging me further, and I’m grateful for the understanding. Or at least the temporary free pass on not talking about it.
We all belong to the same gym, but it’s rare for us to be here at the same time. The guys did a decent job of playing innocent, but I sense they showed up at the same time because of me—for me.
The three of us started at Wolfe Investments at the same time, six years ago. Me as a twenty-two-year-old cocky brat with a brain for numbers, them a couple of years older, a little less whiz kid but no less cocky.
With as cutthroat as Wall Street is, it’s a wonder the three of us didn’t end up killing each other on our way to the top. Instead, we rose to the top together, competing, sure, but in a way that pushed each other to be better. No, the best. Because damn it, we are the best.
Guess the cockiness didn’t fade with age.
Kennedy leans on the bar, a water bottle dangling from his hands, looking unflappable as he always does. He’s the serious, old-fashioned one of our group, the type of guy who you should never challenge to a game of Scrabble or chess, and whose first word was probably mahogany, or some shit.
Ian’s charming, confident, and the most determined, stubborn son-of-a-bitch I know. He had a shitty time of it growing up, but he took all the crap of his childhood and used it as fuel to put himself through Yale and elbow his way in with the Wall Street hotshots.
Me? Well, I’ve already mentioned the whole boy-wonder crap. My brain’s sort of a human calculator of sorts, but my parents did a decent job of not letting me nerd out. I was equally good at math and football, and, well, how do I put this . . .
My life’s always been damn good. Easy.
Until . . .
Now, apparently.
“So it’s that bad?” Ian asks.
I drag the towel over my damp face once more. “Worse. Since I met with The Sams yesterday morning, a half dozen other clients have called to ‘express their concerns.’” I put air quotes around the last part.
“Oh, come on. Who hasn’t done something crazy at a bachelor party?” Ian scoffs. Kennedy nods in commiseration.
I rest my elbows on my knees and let my chin drop toward my chest for a second. Much as I appreciate my friends’ loyalty, at the moment, it does nothing to solve my problem.
I know that what I do in my free time doesn’t affect my work. I know that I’m one of the best damn brokers at Wolfe. I know that my clients’ money is safe, that I can do my job in my sleep and do it well. But it turns out The Sams were right. Perception is everything, and right now, I’ve got a serious image problem.
“What about Lara?” Kennedy asks Ian. “She got any friends who want to play the part of Mrs. Cannon?”
Oh hell no.
I hold up a hand. “Easy there. The bosses said I need a girlfriend, not a wife.”
“Yeah, but for this to work, people have to believe there’s a chance this woman could be your wife. It’s about you settling down.”