Hard Sell| ETHMA

3

ETHAN

Tuesday Morning, September 19

"So, what are you going to do?" Kennedy asks, his eyes watching the bar I'm benching as he spots me.
"Hell if I know," I manage with gritted teeth as I push through the rep. "Know any rent-a-girlfriend services?"
"None that aren't glorified escort services and won't get you into more trouble."
"I don't think that's even possible," I say, finishing the last rep in my set and letting Kennedy guide the weight back to its resting place.
I sit up, and my other best friend, Michael, tosses me a towel, which I catch with one hand.

Michael sits on the bench opposite mine, hands clasped loosely between his knees. "I sent you a fucking million texts yesterday. You didn't reply."
I wipe my face with the towel. "Sorry. The Sams figured everyone would be buzzing, and that I'd be better working from home."
"Everyone was buzzing," Kennedy says. "Still doesn't explain why you ignored us."
"Not intentional," I grumble. "I was on the phone all day doing damage control with clients, and then I turned off my phone last night to . . . I dunno. Think."
What I don't tell them is that those conversations were a hell of a lot rougher than I'd anticipated. My bosses weren't exaggerating. This is bad. Really bad.
The guys nod without bugging me further, and I'm grateful for the understanding. Or at least the temporary free pass on not talking about it.
We all belong to the same gym, but it's rare for us to be here at the same time. The guys did a decent job of playing innocent, but I sense they showed up at the same time because of me—for me.
The three of us started at Wolfe Investments at the same time, six years ago. Me as a twenty-two-year-old cocky brat with a brain for numbers, them a couple of years older, a little less whiz kid but no less cocky.
With as cutthroat as Wall Street is, it's a wonder the three of us didn't end up killing each other on our way to the top. Instead, we rose to the top together, competing, sure, but in a way that pushed each other to be better. No, the best. Because damn it, we are the best.
Guess the cockiness didn't fade with age.
Kennedy leans on the bar, a water bottle dangling from his hands, looking unflappable as he always does. He's the serious, old-fashioned one of our group, the type of guy who you should never challenge to a game of Scrabble or chess, and whose first word was probably mahogany, or some shit.
Michael's charming, confident, and the most determined, stubborn son-of-a-bitch I know. He had a shitty time of it growing up, but he took all the crap of his childhood and used it as fuel to put himself through Yale and elbow his way in with the Wall Street hotshots.
Me? Well, I've already mentioned the whole boy-wonder crap. My brain's sort of a human calculator of sorts, but my parents did a decent job of not letting me nerd out. I was equally good at math and football, and, well, how do I put this . . .

My life's always been damn good. Easy.
Until . . .
Now, apparently.
"So it's that bad?" Michael asks.
I drag the towel over my damp face once more. "Worse. Since I met with The Sams yesterday morning, a half dozen other clients have called to 'express their concerns.'" I put air quotes around the last part.
"Oh, come on. Who hasn't done something crazy at a bachelor party?" Michael scoffs. Kennedy nods in commiseration.
I rest my elbows on my knees and let my chin drop toward my chest for a second. Much as I appreciate my friends' loyalty, at the moment, it does nothing to solve my problem.

I know that what I do in my free time doesn't affect my work. I know that I'm one of the best damn brokers at Wolfe. I know that my clients' money is safe, that I can do my job in my sleep and do it well. But it turns out The Sams were right. Perception is everything, and right now, I've got a serious image problem.
"What about Olivia?" Kennedy asks Michael. "She got any friends who want to play the part of Mrs. Dolan?"
Oh hell no.
I hold up a hand. "Easy there. The bosses said I need a girlfriend, not a wife."
"Yeah, but for this to work, people have to believe there's a chance this woman could be your wife. It's about you settling down."
"I don't need to settle down," I say, agitatedly running my hands through my hair. "I need everyone else to get their heads out of their asses and quit blowing this out of proportion."
"Look," Michael says with a sigh. "If anyone knows what it's like to have his life turned upside down overnight, it's me. I understand even more what it's like to have accusations hurled at you that are unfounded. You want to fight, and I get that. But you've also got to ask yourself what you want more: to stand on principle or your job."
I look back up. "You're saying I should give in? Play along?"
"I'm saying, there are worse things than pretending to have a girlfriend for a few weeks until this blows over. Nobody's asking you to walk down the aisle or go diamond shopping. Just let people think that you might consider doing it . . . someday."
I grunt, not in the mood to get into all the reasons why I have zero intention of walking down the aisle or going diamond shopping—ever.
"Michael's right. Things could be worse. Like having the SEC on your ass for insider trading," Kennedy says with a bland look at Michael.
Michael glares. "Alleged insider trading. And I was cleared."
Kennedy's hands lift in surrender. "I know. I was just trying to back up your point that Ethan's situation could be worse."
They're right. I feel like an ass complaining about my situation when it's nothing compared to what Michael went through.
His worst-case scenario had been prison; mine's . . . what? Playing house for a few weeks? Pretending to be a doting boyfriend? It's a small price to pay for keeping the life I've worked for—the life I love.
"Okay, fine," I say, draping the towel around my neck as I look at Michael. "Kennedy's right. Olivia's my best bet for finding a woman to play the part."
Michael's blue eyes blink. "How the hell do you figure that?"
"Because she's the only nice girl we know."
"Amanda's nice," Michael points out.
"I don't think the guy who bones his assistant is what the bosses had in mind when they suggested this plan," Kennedy points out. "Olivia's social group's a better bet."
"What about that Gabby chick, Lara's best friend?" I say.
"Moved to Paris with her boyfriend. A long-distance fake girlfriend's not going to do you any good. What about her friend Megan, the cute redhead from her yoga class? You met her at our dinner party last month."
I immediately shake my head. Not that Megan wasn't cute and fun and all that, but she gave off a distinct vibe that she was looking for more than a fling. The type of girl who wants to find a boyfriend who turns into a husband who turns into a dad. None of that's for me, which is why I'd politely avoided her all evening.
"Too risky," I say.
Kennedy raises his eyebrows. "Risky? That woman was five two if an inch and as likable as they come."
"Exactly," I say, standing and gripping the towel around my neck with both hands and tugging in aggravation over this whole situation. "That's exactly my problem. You guys know as well as I do what it's like to be a single millionaire under thirty . . . five," I add with a glance at a glowering Kennedy, remembering he's got a few years on me. "At the risk of sounding like a conceited asshole . . ."
"You don't know any women who can pretend to be your girlfriend without actually wanting the part?" Michael asks.
"Not really, no. And while I can think of a handful who'd be game to play along, I wouldn't trust any of them to know how to conduct themselves in a business meeting. They'd probably order shots at dinner and end up doing more harm than good."
"So no marriage-minded women, but no party girls, either," Kennedy muses.
"Right. I need someone who will know the stakes from the very beginning and who won't misconstrue anything when I act besotted with her in front of clients."
"Did you just use the word besotted?" Michael asks.
I hitch my thumb at Kennedy. "His dopey vocabulary is rubbing off on me. But you guys get what I mean, right?"
"Yeah, you're not wrong," Kennedy says as the three of us make our way over to the squat rack that's finally freed up. "It doesn't help that the light at the end of the tunnel is the Wolfe Gala. You're going to have to convince a hell of a lot of people you're in love, all while champagne and absurdly expensive dresses are involved."
"What do dresses have to do with anything?" I ask.
"The Cinderella complex," Michael chimes in as he adds weight to the rack.
I stare at him, then Kennedy. "The what now?"
"You know." Kennedy waves his hand impatiently. "The whole princess-ball thing. Fancy dresses, chandeliers. Dancing."
"What the hell do you two watch in your downtime? How about more sports, less Disney Channel?"
Michael shrugs and steps into the rack. "Fine. Go ahead and risk it."

I grimace, because the scene they just described is exactly what I'm trying to avoid.
"Unless . . . ," Kennedy says.
I glance at him. "I'll take an unless. What've you got?"
"You're not going to like it."
"I'll like anything better than your Snow White scenario."
"Cinderella," Michael corrects.
"Whatever. Kennedy, talk to me."
Instead of answering, Kennedy looks at Michael, and I know these two guys well enough to know that whatever they're about to launch at me, it's been their plan all along.
"Shit. What?" I say impatiently.

"You need someone to play along who has zero risk of emotional entanglements," Michael says slowly.
I roll my finger to speed him along. "Yes, we've covered that. You know someone?"
"We all know her," Michael says, holding my gaze.
The answer hits me like a kick to the balls.
Emma Chamberlain.
Michael 's friend since childhood, Emma's an annoying constant in our social circle.
My friends are right. She is the last woman on earth to be at risk of falling for me. Because Emma Chamberlain hates my guts.