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“So you’re really doing this?”
After the BIG decision, changes had to be made, starting with my current work schedule. Working twelve-hour days is not conducive to having a personal life or being a good parent so I stepped down as head trader, assuming less responsibility. At first it was nerve-racking. Now, getting out of work by six feels like I can breathe for the first time in my life.
My mother was never home because she had no choice. As much as my brother and I needed her, we had to do without.
I have a choice, however. I’ve dedicated my entire adult life to making enough money to feel safe, to be able to make choices not coerced by guilt or fear, and I finally had.
I’d made enough money to take care of myself, my child, and my family without breaking out in hives every time I made a purchase. Business had been good. Hypothetically, I never needed to work another day in my life again––not that I would ever do such a crazy thing.
“I need a life.”
“When does the clock start?”
“Not for a while. And I’ll only be gone for six months. Besides, David is practically giddy with delight.”
I hate giving that little shit any satisfaction. It’s a given that when a woman starts climbing the rungs of the boys club there is always one snot-nosed boy who tries to knock her down. David, Ira’s nephew and an all-around douchebag that can’t wait to take my place as head trader without doing a damn thing to earn it, has gladly assumed that role at Spitzberg and Co.
“David is a little shit and not nearly as good as you at anticipating a change in the market.”
“I won’t disagree with you.”
A man suddenly appears in the open doorway of my office, a man I’d hoped never to lay eyes on again.
Hair a disheveled mop, scruff that tells me he hasn’t shaved in a week, black eye turning an interesting shade of green. I blink and blink but no, I’m not hallucinating.
“Hi there,” he says, all chipper and smiley, like someone told him he won a trip to Disneyland. Or better yet, the best little whore house in Nevada. That’s probably more his style.
“What are you doing here?” And then it dawns on me. “How did you get in here? Unannounced?”
“Jennifer––”
“Jessica?”
“That’s what I said. The nice lady at the front desk mentioned you were not currently in a meeting.”
I bet she did. Good to know any rapist murderer armed with a great smile can waltz right in. Outside the glass-paned wall of my office, I see every single head poking out from cubicles turned in our direction.
Someone coughs and I remember we are not alone.
Wylder’s eyes move to Ira. As do mine. With his chin resting between his thumb and index finger, Ira appears to be wearing a suspiciously sly smile. I know that smile and it worries me. It’s the same smile he wears when he gets a hunch about a stock.
“The bust?” Ira remarks. I return a stiff smile in answer.
“Dane Wylder.” With an outstretched hand, the man in question walks into the office and heads straight for Ira who, now standing, is more than happy to shake the trespasser’s hand.
“I know who you are,” Ira answers with way too much amusement dancing in his voice. “I’m a season ticket holder––twenty years now. I was there for the Hail Mary win over Green Bay. That fingertip catch was something special.”
“My first Super Bowl,” Wylder rejoins with a crooked grin.
Instalove alert.
It’s hard to watch, and quite frankly, disappointing. I never thought I’d see the day when Ira Spitzberg, financial genius, the leading authority on merger arbitrage, makes a fool of himself over a guy that plays with balls for a living.
I cough loud enough to be heard in the hallway. Both men turn to me as if only now realizing I’m still in the room, intruding on their tête-a-tête.
“Dane Wylder, this is Ira Spitzberg––my boss.” Heavy emphasis on the title lest he think about jumping into round three of an argument. I’m assuming he has basic common decency. Big assumption on my part.
“Nice to meet you, Ira,” the trespasser replies.
“I’ll show you out, Wylder.”
His attention swings back to me, his eyes bright with, dare I say, nervous anticipation. “I came to take you to lunch.”
After our last two encounters? He must be kidding. That or he’s a glutton for punishment.
“No,” is my simple and immediate reply. I wouldn’t let him take me to the ER if I was bleeding to death.
I fuck hard. Those three words have been ringing in my head for days. It’s driving me nuts. I can’t seem to scrub them from my brain. Which is plain odd because I’ve heard things that would make a Marine drill sergeant blush. Working around type A men for nearly a decade, you pick up a few things.
Jaw clenched, lips pressed in a straight line, Mr. Fuck Hard is itching for another debate. It’s plainly written on his face.
“I feel like you got the wrong impression of me and I’d like to rectify that as soon as possible.” After a brief glance at Ira, he adds, “There’s a particularly delicate matter I need to discuss with you.”
Delicate? Rectify? I sigh tiredly. At least he’s eased off the corny accent.
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes––no. I mean…just no. No lunch. No discussion.”
Expression wavering between total dejection and disbelief, his reaction almost has me laughing. I don’t think this guy has ever heard the word no before.
An awkward quiet falls. Wylder makes no move to leave, standing in the doorway paralyzed by indecision. That pesky no word sure has him stumped.
“Maybe you should hear what the man has to say, Stel.”
I shoot Ira a death glare, one straight out of the Mercedes Donovan playbook, which only makes him chuckle.
Judas.
“I won’t take much of your time.”
And now I’m on the spot. As genuinely contrite as he is, and I can see that he is, this is a waste of time. There’s absolutely no chance this guy qualifies as father material. It looks like he’s not done growing up himself.
He waits me out, his long fingers drumming against the black motorcycle helmet he’s holding like he might actually be nervous.
Yeah, right. He’s playing me. I know the type––balls to the wall, win at any cost, accustomed to get
ting what he wants and can’t bear to lose at anything.
I’ve been around men like him my entire life. The financial world is rife with his type. Good thing I’m skilled in handling this brand of bullshit. Except, I don’t want to look like a total bitch in front of Ira who seems to have fallen hard under this guy’s spell. Embarrassing if you ask me.
“Lunch,” I say with yet another heavy sigh and a glare.
“Perfect.” Then he smiles. He smiles broadly.
“A very short one,” I snap, though at this point my demands seem petty and pointless which only infuriates me more.
“Anything you want.”
“I need to be back here in an hour.”
“We’ll eat somewhere close.”
Sauntering past the trespasser with a smug grin, Ira says, “You two play nice,” and walks out the door.
I make a metal note to murder mentor slash boss later.
Snatching up my purse and my suit blazer off the back of my chair, I head for the door. “You’re on the clock.”
“After you, ma’am.”
“Why am I here?”
I glance around the lunch crowd of Harry’s Cafe. Located a stone’s throw from the famed Wall Street Bull, it’s close enough to my office to make this lunch as short as possible. I catch a few people watching us. Or more precisely, watching the man I’m having lunch with.
The young waiter who came to take our drink order looked ready to swoon when he realized who was sitting in his section.
I don’t get all the hoopla. I really don’t. So the man was good at throwing a ball…or catching one? Whatever, the man was good with a ball. Did he cure cancer? No? Then why the hell would anyone want his autograph? Besides, I don’t need a legendary anything. I need a dependable father for my child.
Grimacing, he can’t seem to get comfortable in the wooden chair. This guy is big, and the ceiling of this restaurant lower than usual. It’s one of those basement-level restaurants, making him look like Gulliver on the island of Lilliput. His thighs alone could be described as twin ship masts. Frankly, I can’t believe the chair hasn’t collapsed under his weight already.
