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I just got out of a long but productive meeting with Nora Frasier, Head of High-Grade Sales & Trading. She also happens to be Theo’s wife—they’re expecting their first baby in a few months. But before she goes on maternity leave, she wants to finish setting up the leadership program we’ve been working on that will focus on promoting minority candidates here at A&T. She tapped me at the beginning of the process to help with logistics. It’s important work. I’m proud to be part of it.
Even so, I hate all meetings in general. I always come back to the desk annoyed. But today, I’m also apparently starving.
Greer thought of that.
She thought of me.
Heart skipping again, I bang harder on my keyboard.
“I’ll take those muffins if you don’t want ’em.” Theo reaches over. “They look deli—”
“Touch them and see what happens.” I meet his eyes. “I dare you.”
Grinning, he holds up his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I thought you already ate her muffin,” Nicky says. “Why would she give you more?”
Theo smirks. “Because he can’t get enough. Clearly.”
George groans. “How many times do I have to ask y’all to stop making jokes about my sister’s muffins? Especially in relation to Brooks. Just . . . let’s not go there, all right?”
“Seriously, stop,” I say, as much to myself as to my dumbass coworkers.
“Sorry, sorry,” Theo says. But his lips still twitch.
Checking my email, I devour the egg muffins. They’re ridiculously good for something so simple. Fluffy. Cheesy. Satisfying.
I could wring Greer’s neck for being sweet to someone as salty as me.
I could also hug her for being kind when grief hit me out of nowhere, the way it usually does, after I finished that last bite of chocolate.
Thank God I didn’t.
I’d have to be blind not to notice that Greer’s grown into a beautiful girl. She’s smart too. Great sense of humor.
But I’ve known her since she was eight. And then there’s the fact that she’s George’s baby sister. It’s weird to feel anything but brotherly affection for her.
It’s wrong.
Still. When she showed up a year and a half ago on the trading floor in her cute little Drury Lane tee shirts with her cute little muffin cart, my skin started to feel a size too tight whenever she was around.
I do my best to ignore it. I’m attracted to lots of women. I tell myself it’s just my body doing what it does. Old news.
Something new? The way my body fucking lit up when Greer and I chatted this morning. Not only did Greer ask how I am. She also genuinely cared about my answer.
The look in her eyes when she pressed, saying you don’t look okay? I saw eager kindness there, but also . . . hunger? Curiosity too?
Eagerness. Interest.
Deadly combination.
The type-A neat freak in me has always nursed a control kink. Shows up as bossiness in the bedroom.
Would Greer want me to boss her around?
Shoving that dangerous thought aside, I make a second attempt at focusing on my inbox. My attention snags on a note from my dad. He wants to meet tonight for a drink. How like James Brookfield Huntley, head of Atlas & Teton’s investment bank, to ask his son out for a beer over email.
Whatever. Guess it’s better than nothing. Maybe he finally wants to talk about . . . everything.
Who am I kidding? I can’t expect him to randomly open up. To give a shit, the way Greer did.
I shoot a reply to Dad, saying I’ll meet him. I could use a night out. Maybe I can pick up someone at the bar and stop thinking about Greer fucking Fieldstone already.
As if the universe wants to drive the point home, I catch George’s eyes through the gap in our screens.
My chest contracts at his frown. We’re close. We’ve been friends for, God, over fifteen years now. Can he read my mind?
Does he know I’m thinking about his sister?
My pulse drums in my ears. I can’t lose him. Not after everything we’ve been through.
But then he blinks, eyes returning to his monitor. I breathe a silent sigh of relief.
Back to work.
Later that evening, I step into Connolly’s on Fifth right on time. Dad hasn’t arrived yet, so I belly up to the bar alone and order a Guinness.
Despite its swanky uptown location, Connolly’s is a bit of a dive. It’s why I chose it. Dad won’t want to linger here longer than necessary. The smells of stale beer and sweat fill my head as I attempt to get buzzed. I have a feeling this conversation is going to be painful.
They all are.
A U2 song comes on, and I glance at Mikey, the bartender, just in time to see him roll his eyes. “Feckin’ Bono.”
“It’s hilarious how much y’all hate him.”
“Thinks he’s God, he does.” His brogue hasn’t gone anywhere, despite moving to Charlotte from Ireland five years ago. “Sorta reminds me of you, actually.”
