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Careful went out the door the second Brooks backed me against my hotel room door and kissed me senseless.
It’s time to pull out the big guns. I just hope I don’t burn everyone’s futures to the ground in the process.
When the morning rush subsides around 7:30 or so, I bring George’s coffee to him at his desk.
He smiles. “Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
BROOKS
George is already on the desk when I arrive at my seat.
He sits two chairs down from me, and he’s the only other person here.
I check my watch. Give it a shake and hold it up to my ear.
Seems to be working. Which means Porg is indeed at work early. Not even on time.
Forty-four whole minutes early. That only happens once a year, on the anniversary of Lizzie’s death.
But it’s happening again, today.
My heart begins to pound. This is either a really good sign or a really, really bad one.
I glance at Greer, who’s already busy plucking muffins out of her cart. She doesn’t look upset.
In fact, she looks cheery as ever, smiling with delight when a girl from FX buys not one, but two strawberry rhubarb muffins.
“These are so freaking good, I can’t stop at just one,” I hear her say.
Greer’s smile is some fucking feat, considering the dark, dark cloud that is a potential pregnancy and my father hanging over us. I certainly don’t feel like smiling.
But I do when Greer looks my way. The fear I saw in her eyes last night is gone, replaced by a warmth, a steadiness, I adore.
I resist the urge to lean in her direction. A plant moving toward sunlight.
Instead, I plop down in my chair.
“Morning,” I say to George as I bang on my keyboard.
“Morning,” he grunts.
That’s it.
That’s all I get.
Okay then.
I log into Bloomberg. I already see my screen full of messages: runs from our traders in Asia, commentary from our research analysts, axes from my brokers.
And a single message from George.
Swallowing, I open it.
I know you’re a good human being. Be good to her. AND BE SAFE FOR F’S SAKE. PS sorry your dad is such a d!ck.
I put a hand on my chest and lean forward, feeling like the oxygen’s been sucked out of my chest cavity.
Relief. Happiness. Worry.
So much of everything.
Thank you, I type back. So you guys talked?
We did. I’m happy for y’all. Let me know what I can do to help. I’m giving some options a ponder now.
“Wow,” I say out loud.
George turns to me, one hand still on his keyboard. “You really that surprised my sister is excellent at making her case?”
“She must’ve been superb if you’re not only on board, but also willing to lend a hand.”
“Y’all aren’t going to get destroyed,” he replies. “Not on my watch.”
Ah, fuck, my throat’s getting all tight and shit. I’ve been more emotional in the past few weeks than I’ve been in . . .
Well, since the funeral.
But I don’t feel like I’m drowning. For the first time, I feel like I’m actually able to swim.
Like I’m actually able to feel all my feelings and still keep myself afloat. I’m no longer terrified I’ll get pulled under, because I have a life vest now.
Her name is Greer Fieldstone.
I reach over and let my hand land heavily on George’s shoulder. “I appreciate that. So much.”
“I know you do,” he says quietly. “I’ll tell you what I told her: no fucking PDA. You hear?”
“PDA? This sounds interesting,” Theo says, pulling off his jacket before sitting down across from me. “What’d I miss?”
“I think our little man-rocket here is actually ready to settle down,” George says.
My turn to groan. “Please don’t go into detail.”
“Please do." Theo rubs his hands together, eyes lighting up. “I can’t be the only one who swore off the girl, then fell for the girl, then lost her, then got her back.”
“I have no plans of losing her.”
Nicky sets his coffee on the desk beside mine. “Who? Greer?”
“Oh my God,” Theo says. “You finally made it happen with Porgy’s sister, didn’t you?”
George rolls his eyes. “Keep it clean, y’all.”
“What do you mean, I ‘finally’ made it happen?” I ask, trying not to smile.
Nicky lifts a shoulder. “We’ve all seen the way you look at her.”
“You do love a muffin,” Theo adds.
“Y’all,” George says. His face is bright red.
Mine is hot too. But instead of continuing to brush off the comments the way I usually do with college friends, I decide to lean into them.
I need my friends’ support, not their ribbing.
“Anyone up for a coffee run?” I stand, grabbing my coat. “Spoiler alert: you’re all coming. Yes, Nicky, I see you already have yours, but I don’t give a shit. Let’s go.”
“We should tell Wall Street Bathroom,” Porg says.
I narrow my eyes at him. “And how would we go about doing that? Do you know who’s behind that account?”
