Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
I’d probably put up with ten Brandons and their bullshit to live here, but the icing on the cake is I don’t have to. Theta is a hedge fund, still largely male dominated, but (so far) without the level of noxiousness of Dreyland Capital.
“Any idea what today’s meeting is about?” Martine asks, reappearing next to me.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I say as she passes me a coffee. I inhale the fragrant steam. There’s just something special about the first coffee of the day. Though I’ll admit coffee in London hasn’t been quite as enjoyable. Maybe it’s the water over here. “No idea. I was just invited to sit in.” My new job is a promotion. I’m a PM—a portfolio manager, though I’m still getting to grips with how things are done within the organization.
“I wonder if all three of them will turn up together?” Martine slips a hunk of her expensive, colored honey-blond hair behind her ear.
“All three of who?” Bringing the coffee cup to my lips, I blow gently on the scalding dark liquid. Before I realize what I’m doing. Low-class Ryan escapes again.
“Maven Inc. It’s who the meeting is with this morning, or so I’ve heard on the old grapevine.”
“Should I have heard of them?”
“Only if you’re interested in the most prestigious PE firm in the city. Or their hot-as-fuck principals.”
I make a face. Private equity? Not my specialty. PE are longtime investment specialists, whereas hedge funds are all about making those quick bucks. Also, men? Not necessary, because I’m still living on the fantasies of October’s Mr. Killer Jawline. Mr. Talented Tongue. Mr. Cost-me-two-grand-for-the-night. He was worth every penny.
“You okay?”
“Hmm?” I realize I’ve zoned out, daydreaming about my audacity and his great big—
“Maven has three primary partners. Each one of them is as rich as Croesus and as hot as fuck,” she says, enunciating the latter heavily.
“Thanks for the heads-up.” Martine is a little older, twice divorced, and her cynicism matches my own. Also, we seem to have scarily similar taste in men, at least, according to our occasional lunch dates. She likes them younger, and I do not. Which is where we meet in the middle. Though it’s an academic kind of appreciation, as neither of us has time in our lives for men. And I have no interest, especially after . . .
“Tell me something.”
I stifle a sigh at the echo of his voice in my ear. It’s not that my libido is still on the fritz, because Matt certainly reignited that flame. But I have a sneaking suspicion that he might’ve ruined me for other men. It’s such a cliché, but clichés are a thing for a reason.
I take a sip of my coffee and try not to grimace as I burn my tongue. One way to make sure I don’t recoil at the taste is to burn off my taste buds, I guess.
“Of course they’re all married.” Martine glances my way. “The good ones always are.”
“Or payable by the hour.”
“What?” The word bounds from her mouth, full of mirth.
“It’s just a thing,” I say evasively, hopefully, as I set my cup on the sill. Maybe I’ll water the ficus with it when it’s cool.
“A good thing, I hope. Though it would have to be a really good thing to pay for it.”
“I’ve never . . .” Only, that’s not strictly true. Not after that one time when I forced myself to visit the two ATMs nearest to a certain Manhattan hotel, the morning after what I have come to remember as the Night of My Life. Capitalization required.
As I stuffed what I was able to withdraw from my account into a mooched hotel-branded envelope, I told myself it didn’t matter what the desk clerk thought. It needed to be this way. No matter how special my night with Matt had been, I had to draw a line under it. And I told myself that it was just a momentary madness that’d made me consider checking his wallet while he slept to see if he carried a business card.
Nate from Nine Inch Males. I stifle a soft sigh at the memory.
I briefly considered including a note, but what would I have said?
Thanks for the night of my life.
Kudos, sir. You railed me good.
You should be paid by the inch and the minute.
Or maybe it should’ve just said . . . thank you. Just . . . thank you.
I still don’t have the words to adequately express what that night was, what it meant to me. So instead, I scrawled his name on the envelope, then handed it over to the desk clerk before I could change my mind. And deliver it myself.
The money made me just another satisfied client and not someone who’d pine or lust after him. But the night, the experience, was truly something special. Revisiting it could only end in obsession. And eventual bankruptcy.