Hard Sell| ETHMA

23

ETHAN
Monday Afternoon, October 2

I don't know what the hell is wrong with me.
I'm sitting across the table from a billionaire who's contemplating giving me free rein to his money.

And instead of visualizing the moment of victory when I get Jarod Lanham's business, I'm visualizing him.

And Emma.

As a couple.

The image is bitter as hell, and yet I can't get it out of my head. Because not only is Lanham richer than hell, he's also . . . decent.

And decent-looking. I've never really given two shits about whether women consider another man attractive.

Sure, I'm vaguely aware that Michael and Kennedy are good-looking guys.

And that Wolfe's chief technology officer, Dan, looks like a mushroom. But generally speaking, I'm secure enough in my own appeal to the opposite sex not to worry about the competition.

And yet, as I sit here, waiting for Lanham to finish being schmoozed by some corporate goon who ambled over to interrupt our lunch, a guy whose name I've already forgotten, I find my attention's not on my sell. It's not on the overpriced Kobe burger I've barely touched. Instead, I'm looking at Lanham, trying to figure out if he's Emma's type.

Which is bullshit. Emma doesn't have a type. Does she?

It bothers me that I don't know.

What I do know is the way Lanham was looking at Emma last week at lunch, and later at the bar. He'd been a man who saw something he wanted—her.

And for her part, Emma had seemed . . . intrigued.

I take a sip of my drink, studying him from a woman's point of view. From Emma's.

Damn it.No way around it, the man's tall, dark, handsome, and absurdly rich.

No, not rich. I'm rich. Jarod Lanham is overwhelmingly, couldn't-spend-all-his-money-if-he-wanted-to wealthy.

Not that Emma cares about that. I don't know the details of her financial situation, but from what I can tell, she's plenty comfortable.

Her apartment, while medium sized, is in a luxury building, and I've never seen her hesitate buying anything she wants, whether it be a new handbag or an expensive glass of wine.

Or high-end clothes. But those, of course, she simply put on my bill. I didn't mind. But Lanham really wouldn't mind. Hell, he could have bought her the entire store if he felt like it.

The man who's been talking Lanham's ear off apparently realizes he's overstayed his welcome and shakes both our hands in farewell before returning to his table.

Lanham smiles in apology. "Sorry about that. I barely know the guy, but he seems to think we go way back."

"No problem." I take a half-hearted bite of my burger; he takes a more enthusiastic forkful of his salad.

I'm about to dive into my assessment of his current portfolio, which I spent half the night reviewing, when he speaks first.

"You from here, Dolan?"

"Sort of. I grew up in Connecticut, but my dad worked here in the city. We'd come into Manhattan for the usual things—Broadway shows, the tree at Rockefeller Center during the holidays, the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade."

I don't tell him that at about half those events, it had been my dad and Felicia who'd brought me, not my dad and mom. Not because my mom wasn't all about the New York stuff but because it gave her an opportunity to spend the day with her flavor of the month. Because that's the sort of fucked-up thing my parents did that was okay in the name of "modern parenting."