“Oh, no, you don’t need to come. We can establish your upper limits and I can have you on the phone.”
“I don’t think so, but we’ll discuss it at lunch tomorrow. Twelve thirty. Come to my office.”
And he was gone.
I stared at the screen on my phone. Not only had he hung up on me, he’d ordered me to his office without telling me where it was. He just assumed I knew. Which I did, because of course, since he’d made me come like it was his job, I’d thought it only polite to Google him. But it was an arrogant move. Spoiled.
The problem was, he wasn’t as typically spoiled as I’d thought when I first met him. Some things fit—he was demanding, confident he’d get what he wanted. But then there was the part of him that didn’t have any furniture in his apartment. And the way he listened a little more than he spoke. And most of all, I was attracted to him.
That wasn’t typical at all.
I went back inside, the rush of the air conditioning bringing me back to the moment.
“I met someone I thought might be good for you,” Harper said as I sat down.
“Did Scarlett turn him down?”
I looked between the two of them. Scarlett was single and always dating two or three people at any one time. I couldn’t keep up. But I admired the way she picked up and started again after her divorce.
“Duncan and I decided to be exclusive,” Scarlett said.
My eyes widened. Duncan was a tool. “Really? Wow. When did that happen?” I asked as Scarlett grinned from ear to ear.
Shuffling excitedly in her seat, she said, “Last night. He took me to dinner and said he’d suspended his online dating account.”
No more violins or roses. Suspension of an online dating profile was the grand romantic gesture in New York.
“Well, that’s exciting,” I said.
“I just think you should keep your options open. I don’t trust him,” Harper said, which was what everyone else was thinking.
“As long as you’re excited about it,” I said, kicking Harper in the shin.
“Hey, don’t kick the breastfeeding lady. I’m only saying what you’re thinking.”#p#分页标题#e#
I shook my head. “Who’s this guy, anyway?” Not that I was interested. I didn’t trust my judgment at the moment. Sam wasn’t falling into my clearly defined boxes, and despite thinking it was the rich who used people, Steve had proven me wrong on that, too. Everything was topsy-turvy. I needed a time-out from men.
“He’s a client of mine,” Harper said. “I met him last week and he’s just divorced his wife. He’s rich and I know you hate that, but I swear I’m not making this up, he works at a homeless shelter twice a month.”
I chuckled. “He’s either not as rich as you’re saying, or he’s lying to you.”
“Don’t be so cynical.” Harper accusing me of being cynical was like the Queen of England calling me posh. “You should give him a chance.”
“I’m not ready for . . .” Anything. I wanted nothing at all, at least for a while.
“You were ready for casual sex with a new client,” she said. Harper and I always challenged each other. It was part of the reason we’d been friends for so long. The difference was I nudged and she shoved.
“That was different.” I wasn’t about to give in.
“Different?” Scarlett asked.
“Yeah, like exercise or something.” I hadn’t invested anything in Sam, and the freedom felt good. So good I was looking forward to seeing him for lunch the following day.
It was warmer than fall in Manhattan should be at lunchtime. I’d chosen my favorite Chanel skirt suit—black and white and paired with bright red matte lipstick and scarlet stilettos. The skirt was a little shorter than I usually wore. I wanted to see if Sam noticed my legs.
I was looking forward to seeing him. I wanted to check if I actually found him as attractive as I remembered. I wanted to know whether that jawline was quite as sharp as I pictured. Whether that quiet smile was as beguiling as lived in my mind.
Clearly, being ten minutes late was bad form if this was just a client meeting, but this was something a little more complicated. A business meeting with someone who’d been naked the last time I’d seen them called for slightly different etiquette. If it had been a drink with a casual fling, I’d have been twenty minutes late. Ten was a compromise.
“Grace Astor for Sam Shaw,” I said to the receptionist behind the high, shiny maple desk. She was the girl men loved—a younger, hotter version of Jennifer Lopez, if it was at all possible.