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Game on.
Chapter Three
Theo
The following Monday is my first day on the trading desk. I stand up to glance over my tower—phone and intercom turret, six computer screens stacked in two rows of three—and my pulse seizes.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I hiss, taking in the familiar black notebook and green pen that sit on the desk directly across from mine. I also spot a gold tube of lipstick standing upright next to the keyboard.
Nicky shoots me a look. “Yes, you lucky bastard, you get to sit three feet away from Nora. I wouldn’t complain. Look who I sit across from.” He tips his chin at Brooks. “He’s the worst.”
Brooks holds up his hand from the desk opposite Nicky’s. “I am.”
“Yes, he is.” I reach over to give Nicky’s shoulder a squeeze. “But the Ice Queen—”
“Shut up,” Brooks murmurs. He’s facing the entrance to the trading floor, which means he’s able to see everyone as they arrive this morning.
Which means he’s able to see Nora Frasier heading this way.
I immediately fall down in my seat, heart skipping a beat as I move my mouse to hover over my hedges. Only there aren’t any yet because this is my first day on the job, so basically I’m staring at an empty blotter like a brain-dead dickbag, frantically bobbing my knee underneath my desk.
The trading floor is still quiet this early, so I can hear everything. My pulse marches in time to the sound of approaching footsteps, an ominous thud thud THUD that makes me screw one eye shut and wish I hadn’t stayed so late at Mom’s last night. Has it gotten even quieter as Nora approaches?
“Morning, Nora,” Nicky is saying.
“Morning! I didn’t get to mention this on Friday, Nicky, but congrats on landing the new accounts.”
Nicky beams. “Thanks. Wow, great dress. Is that new? I don’t think I’ve seen it on you before. That color really complements—”
“Dude, stop,” Brooks growls. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
I hear the smile in Nora’s voice when she replies, “I appreciate the compliment, Nicky. And yes, this is a new dress. I treated myself to some shopping over the weekend.”
My pulse is thundering now. What kind of dress is she wearing? Is it as sexy as the suit she wore Friday? Sexier?
Please, God, don’t let it be sexier. If she dressed to kill today—
“Hello, Morgan.”
I look up and almost swallow my tongue.
Ah, Christ, she definitely dressed to kill. Her dress is a crime on par with murder: it’s somehow modest but egregiously provocative, a pink-purple number that skims every curve and compliments her blonde hair and brown eyes. She’s wearing sky-high heels and that goddamn pink lipstick, and fuck me, she’s beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that makes my skin feel two sizes too tight.
I made a mistake coming back to Charlotte.
I was right about it getting quieter; the half of the trading floor that’s already at work is staring at her too. I turn my head to see one guy even drop his breakfast burrito in his lap. Some strong, awful emotion punches me square in the gut, and I’m shocked by the sudden impulse I have to wring Burrito Boy’s neck.
I quickly identify said emotion as anger—it’s not jealousy, why the hell would I be jealous?—and clear my throat. “Morning, Frasier.”
Beside me, Nicky stifles a laugh at the scraped-bare sound of my voice. I’m going to wring his neck too.
“Already busy, I see,” Nora says, nodding at my empty blotter.
I cross my arms over my chest and turn my chair in her direction. “By the end of the day, this thing’ll be full. Guaranteed.”
She arches a brow. “That’s a bold promise to make on your first day. What if it’s slow?”
“It won’t be. I don’t have slow days.”
“Lucky for you, neither do I,” she replies, pink lips twitching. “But I’m not the one with something to prove.”
I bite back a smile. “It’s cute, you trying to fuck with my head.”
“You’re the one wearing the green shirt. Now who’s cute?”
“What’s wrong with green?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Mister Boiler Room. It’s the color of money.”
“Color of my eyes,” I fire back. “Which is why I do in fact look cute in it.”
Her head falls to the side, her shoulder-length hair brushing the top of her arm as she twists her lips and surveys me. “Hmm.”
“Let’s make a deal,” I say, trying very hard to ignore the arrow her dismissal sends through my chest. “I not only fill this blotter by close of trading, but I also make a million in P&L.”
Profit and loss is how a trader measures how much money he’s lost or made as he buys and sells bonds from his sales team and their clients. Making a million bucks is tough on a good day, but I know I’m that good.
“That’s a dumb deal,” Brooks warns. “Flows here aren’t the same as they were at Felix Brothers.”
