Hard Sell| ETHMA

9

ETHAN
Sunday Brunch, September 24

You know what's a pretty fantastic plan?

Scheduling your "see and be seen" brunch at your bosses' favorite restaurant, in hopes you might bump into them and show off your new "girlfriend."

The second I walk into Rosemary's, I know my plan's about to pay off, because who's sitting at the bar? Sam and Samantha Wolfe, next to Adam Feinstein, an eccentric billionaire known for being old-school with his money strategy.

Granted, this isn't exactly how I thought it would go. I'd deliberately booked an earlier-than-usual brunch and then purposefully arrived well ahead of the reservation, before Emma.

My plan was to ensure I got a table by the door, so that if and when The Sams arrived, I'd be positioned in a very cozy, very visible, romantic brunch with my "girlfriend."

But . . . this can work, too. Or at least, I'm determined to make it work.

I check in with the hostess, knowing full well that since I'm early, my table won't be ready yet. She assures me that my table should be available "closer to my reservation time" if I want to wait at the bar. Which I absolutely do.

The Sams and Adam are sipping mimosas, likely waiting for their own table, and haven't seen me yet.
I approach, clamping my hand on Sam's shoulder, confident smile already in place.

"Mr. Wolfe?"

"Ethan!" Sam turns toward me, his expression torn between surprise and wariness. Once again, I feel the intense urge to pummel the jackass who wrote that article and turned my once golden name into the wild card that embarrasses the bosses. "What are you doing here?"

I grin. "It's Rosemary's. I'm doing what everyone does. Getting a damn good brunch."

"Their bread alone is to die for," Samantha agrees, her voice warmer than her husband's, though her expression is no less leery. "Ethan, do you know Mr. Feinstein?" She gestures to the other man, who's been more interested in his phone than our conversation about the bread.

Adam Feinstein looks up, shoving his round glasses farther up his nose as he gives me a bland, indifferent smile.

I extend a hand. "Mr. Feinstein, a pleasure. I'm Ethan Dolan. I work for Wolfe Investments."

"I know who you are," the other man says, turning his attention back to his phone. "The kid from the Journal." He shakes his silver head without bothering to look up. "In my day, people were more careful with their money and reputation. And more respectful of other people's money and their company's reputation."

I tense, and Samantha closes her eyes briefly in dismay.

Shit. Shit!

As I'm trying to find a respectful rejoinder to Feinstein's clear disdain, I hear a feminine voice saying my name. "Ethan?"

Oh thank God. Emma has shown up early, bless her.
I turn toward the voice, only I realize too late that the voice is too high to be Emma's, and find not one but two blonde women grinning at me.

I've slept with them. Both of them. Not at the same time, but I'm guessing that distinction is going to do little to save my ass at this point.

"Hi . . ." My brain searches for their names. Either of their names. I've got nothing. In my defense, it's been years. And though my hazy memory tells me I met them at the same bar, I had no idea that they knew each other, much less were brunch buddies.

They're both looking at me expectantly, and the alarm bells in my head are in full siren mode now, especially when I hear Feinstein sniff behind me, all the judgment in the world infused into the tiny sound.