Hard Sell| ETHMA

13

ETHAN
Tuesday Midday, September 26

"Jacket on, Dolan, let's go."

I'm not sure how long it takes my brain to register the interruption. I've been told it's a full minute until I shift from Calculator Ethan to Human Ethan.

It's always been that way, though luckily my colleagues at Wolfe Investments are a good deal more understanding than the jerks in fourth grade who'd been less than impressed by my early ability to do complex equations.

I don't need to do math in my head as much anymore—my job's more about intuition and research than it is actual number crunching. But it still feels like there are two parts of my brain at work when I review a portfolio: the part that's processing the trends, the word on the street, that particular client's financial goals, and the computer part, as I use to think of it, that can't see a set of numbers without processing them endlessly.

My assistant's used to my process more than most, so after barking her initial order to get my jacket, she remains still, waiting for Human Me to catch up.

"What?" I finally say.

She points at the suit jacket I've hung on the back of my chair. "Put that on."

Other than glancing at the clock, I don't move. Unless I've got an in-person meeting, I don't wear my suit jacket in the office. And my sleeves are rolled up to my elbows more often than not. I like to be comfortable when I work. Or as comfortable as I can be in a career where suit-and-tie's basically an official uniform.

"You have a lunch appointment."

I frown. Admittedly I'm awful at managing my calendar, but I'm at least adept at reading the damn thing. And there was no lunch meeting when I checked it that morning.

"It's just a conference call with—"

"Nope, I rescheduled that," Amanda says.
I narrow my eyes, because though I trust my assistant implicitly, rarely does she change my schedule without telling me first. It means something's up.

She glances over her shoulder, then goes to close the door before returning to my desk and sitting in the chair across from me.

"The Sams have lunch at Nobu today."

"So?" I can't imagine why I would possibly care that Wolfe's CEOs are having sushi for lunch.

"They're not going alone. Jarod Lanham is joining them."

That gets my attention. Jarod Lanham is one of the world's most famous billionaires. American by birth, he's been a resident of Monaco for the past decade or so. The man's only thirty-six, but already rumors of his net worth hover in the nine-billion range.

In other words, exactly the client Wolfe and every other company on Wall Street would kill to have. Not just because of the sheer amount of money, but his relative youth means that it could be both a profitable relationship and a long-standing one.
I want him. Everyone wants him, but I really want him on my list. I've been following him for years, impressed by his investments, his ability to steadily amass wealth even as he dominates the social scene in every country he visits.

In other words, Jarod Lanham is me but on the other side of the accounts. A fellow "boy wonder," so to speak.

Amanda knows my obsession. So do The Sams.

"They didn't invite me," I mutter, standing and unrolling my shirtsleeves. Even after Emma saved the brunch situation on Sunday, they've been keeping their distance.

"Can you blame them?" she says. "You're persona non grata around here. They already have an uphill battle to impress Lanham with Michael's scandal being so fresh."

I nod. I understand, even though it sucks. This should be a pivot point in my career, and instead of having the opportunity to convince Lanham I'm his guy, I'm sitting idly by while everyone mistakenly assumes I spend my weekends cock-deep in cocaine and hookers.

"I got you a table," she says as I button the sleeves. "And I think I sweet-talked the hostess into getting you into the same part of the dining room as The Sams, but she couldn't promise anything."

"She sound like the bribing type?" I ask with a grin. Movie cliché as it may seem, slipping a hundred or more to a maître d' is hardly unheard of around this part of town.

"No, she sounded young and flirty."

My grin widens. "Say no more."

Amanda sighs impatiently. "Ethan. That was your old reputation. If you go around flirting with a nineteen-year-old hostess, you'll confirm what everyone thinks of you. Which would be an especially awful idea today."

Something in her tone gives me pause. "Why especially today?"

Amanda smiles smugly. "I called Emma."

I freeze in the process of reaching for my jacket. "What?"

"This is what you're paying her for. We need people to think you're dating her seriously, but more important, we need the right people to think that. The whole reason you're doing this is to convince people like Jarod Lanham that you're stable and trustworthy. You need her there."

I groan.

Amanda tilts her head. "Why are you so resistant? Isn't this the plan?"

I shove my hand through the sleeve of my jacket with less care than the expensive garment deserves. "I'm not resistant."

Amanda crosses her arms. "Yes, you are. Spill."

"We're not talking about this," I mutter, heading toward the door.

Hell, I don't even want to think about this. I don't want to think about the fact that my stomach knotted at the thought of seeing Emma, not because of hate, not even because of want, but because after last weekend . . .

I worry I could start to enjoy her. Enjoy us.
To an extent I've always enjoyed what we have—the bickering, the sex. Definitely the sex.

But this past weekend, even around the frustration and exhaustion, there was something else there. Potential. Potential that the two of us share something deeper.

Sure, she wants me dead. And there were a handful of times I'd have happily strangled her. But counterintuitively, there was a strange easiness between us, too. Almost as though our mutual wariness of the other person and romantic entanglements frees us up to be our true selves. With each other.

I'm annoyed she's coming to lunch. Not because I don't want her there.

But because I do.

Makes sense, right? Crap.

"She'll meet you there," Amanda says bossily, following me down the hallway toward the elevators.

"Your reservations are at noon under your name. The Sams and Lanham have twelve thirty reservations, so your being at the same restaurant should seem coincidental instead of desperate stalker." She says.

I punch the elevator button and look down at her. "How the hell do you know these things? Not only that he's in town and having lunch but also the when and where?"

She smiles. "As if I'd reveal my methods."

"You're damn good at your job," I say as the elevator doors open.

"I know."

I step inside and turn to face her. "I'm grateful."

Amanda rolls her eyes. "I know that, too."

"Anything you don't know?" I ask with a grin.

"What happened with you and Emma all those years ago?" she says hopefully.

My smile drops, and the elevator doors close, saving me from responding. As if I could.
I'm not sure I even know what happened.