“What the hell!” I splutter, spraying coffee all over the window.
Nine a.m., and the office has come to life, though the vibe is a little different from usual, the buzz increased. The floor of a hedge fund isn’t ordinarily a quiet place to work. There are quiet spots, but mostly the offices are full of go-getters and proactive folk. As hard work is usually only acknowledged at bonus time, and by money and rarely by praise, people tend to be loud about their achievements in their day-to-day business. But they’re not bigging themselves up this morning. Strangely, the buzz seems a little hushed. Awed, maybe?
This is interesting to me, but not as interesting as the smorgasbord of breakfast foods a catering company has laid out.
“What have you got there?” Arthur, one of the junior traders, asks, hovering by my shoulder.
“This? A Portuguese tart, I think.”
“Sounds like my last girlfriend.”
“What would she call you, I wonder?” I don’t quite manage to keep the bite from my tone.
Arthur pauses as though giving my question some thought. “Probably ‘that workaholic wanker,’” he answers candidly, then reaches for a Danish pastry. “Gor, dees are goog.”
“I’m not sure they’re a one-mouthful kind of pastry,” I say with a chuckle as I add a little fruit to my plate. Melon, papaya, and pineapple. I avoid the grapes because you know they’re just gonna roll right off my plate. “Why are we the only ones eating?”
“Post-Christmas diet blitz and New Year’s resolutions to maintain for, oh, at least ten days.”
“You’re funny.”
“Funny enough for you to buy me dinner?”
I think the local vernacular would refer to Arthur as a chancer.
I slant him a look as I pop a small slice of pineapple into my mouth, mainly to stop myself from respondingUmm ... how about ah-hell no. “Ew.” Suddenly, my mouth turns down, filled with sourness.
“The prospect’s not that unappealing, is it?” Amusement twinkles in his not-wholly-unattractive blue eyes.Pity green is more my thing these days.
“It’s this pineapple. It’s really sour,” I say around the half-masticated mush. While I consider spitting it into my napkin—because I’m classy like that—I swallow it down instead.Urgh.I give in to a shiver because that was really unpleasant.
“Dinner?” he prompts, his blue eyes still twinkling.
“On me?” I respond eventually.
“If you insist.”
“No!” I say.Or laugh.“What I meant is, do you really think that’s a winner, asking me to buyyoudinner?”
“Equal opportunities and all that. Plus, you’ve gotta earn more than I do.”
Can’t say that makes me feel bad, even if Arthur is a chancer. And kind of cute with it. Not that it means anything.
“Well.” I pause, searching for a kinder word thanno, when, through the glass, I notice the arrival of the senior execs in the outer office.Or as they call them here, the big nobs.“Earnings aside,” I say as the lift dings. “I don’t ...” My words trail off as I track Nigel, the CFO, ushering a group through the office.
“Earnings aside?”
“Hm?” But my attention is elsewhere, Martine’s words echoing in my head. “Rich as Croesus and as hot as fuck.” Boy, she wasn’t kidding.
Rich men seem to have an aura, a presence. It’s more than just the cut of their suits or the $500 weekly hair trims. It’s something as intangible as air but just as real, and I sense it in the room the moment they step over the glass-walled threshold.
Hottie number one is tall, dark, handsome, and kind of imperious looking.
Hottie number two is tall, fair, and handsome, with an air of Californian perfection.
Hottie number three, with his head bent over his phone, is tall, dark, and—
Fuck.My stomach plummets, and it has nothing to do with the rancid fruit as I roll my lips together, like the start of his name.Matt.I’m thankful when no sound comes out.
