Hard Sell| ETHMA

5

ETHAN
Tuesday Night, September 19

When I first met Emma Chamberlain, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.

Four years later?

I still think it.

The woman's a perfect ten. Fantasy-worthy curves. Her long coffee-brown hair is streaked with gold, her eyes piercing and blue, her features as feminine as they are stubborn.

She's also a royal pain in the ass.
I hate that I find her attractive, but I thought I'd resigned myself to the fact.

Tonight, however, my attraction to her is trickier.
For starters, she's not even remotely trying to be hot. Her hair's in a messy knot, makeup washed off for the night. Her pants, while sinfully tight, are of the comfortable "night at home" variety. And I wasn't lying about my surprise at the sweatshirt.

I've only ever seen Emma in tight dresses or slinky negligees.

This version's . . . softer. And absurdly appealing.

But you know what's not soft? My cock.

Also, the murderous glint in her eyes.

"No way. No way in hell." She puts her glass on the counter and reaches for the vodka, clearly intending to make herself another drink.

I pull the bottle of Grey Goose from her hand and begin to make us each another martini.

We're going to fucking need it.

"I just need you for a month," I say, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. "People will believe it. We've known each other for years, and it'd be more plausible that Michael set us up than me suddenly dating some new thing. Plus, I can count on you not to get . . . the Cinderella complex or whatever."

Emma blinks. "Cinderella what?"

"You know . . . fancy dresses, the ball . . ."

Her eyes go wide. "Ball?"

"Gala. The Wolfe Gala. I need you to go with me."
She laughs and hands me the vermouth bottle. "Of course you do."

Okay. So she's going to be a hard sell. I was prepared for that.

I measure the vermouth, dump it into the shaker, and turn toward her. "Triple your rate."

She shakes her head emphatically. "I don't need money."

No. She doesn't. Her place is nearly as lavish as my own, and even if it wasn't, she's not the type of woman who does anything for financial gain. I learned that in a big way four years ago, and I paid the ultimate price:
Her.

"Okay, forget the money," I say, going to the ice maker and filling the shaker. "What do you want?"

She tilts her head. "What do you mean?"
"There's got to be something you want. If money doesn't incentivize you, name something that does."

"Your head on a silver platter?"

I ignore this and keep my attention on the cocktails. "Seriously. Name your price."

She fishes an olive out of the jar and pops it into her mouth. "Seriously. You have nothing I want."

I could kiss her sassy mouth, lick the salty olive brine off her lips, and prove her a liar. But right now, there's something I need more than her body, though barely.

I set the lid on the shaker and pound it shut with a punch of my fist, harder than necessary. The woman's damn stubborn.

I lift it to my shoulder and shake it with all the frustration coursing through my body. Frustration over the idiots in Vegas, the dipshit from the WSJ, the fact that my bosses and my clients can't see past the drama of it all.