Page 65 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
Hallie laughed, but her eyes didn’t leave mine. “Later,” she murmured, quiet enough that only I could hear.
Later, definitely. But not now.
Still, the truth of her words lit something inside me. When the chaos quieted again, and the fireworks picked back up, I couldn’t help myself.
Fuck it.
That was the motto of my night as I pulled her against me and kissed her. Deeply. Fully. My control snapped the instant that her tongue pressed against my lips, begging for entrance to my mouth. Tongues danced. Teeth thrashed. Her hands slipped under the band of my underwear, fingers digging into the top of my ass.
“Maybe you’re right,” I groaned as Hallie kissed the curve of my jaw.
“I’m always right,” she teased, her voice like honey in my ear. “What am I right about now?”
“That I’m not Mr. Old Fashioned,” I murmured against her lips, breathless. “Because there’s nothing old fashioned about what I want to do to you right now.”
23
Hallie
Returning to work after a long weekend was always awful, but coming back from the paradise that is the Hamptons? That was a new kind of torture.
“Hallie!” Anthea’s voice rang through the office, silencing the easy chatter of the other staff. She was a god among us mere mortals, and we waited with bated breath for her next move. “Come to my office.”
Janelle gave me a thumbs up from the cubicle next to me.
My article went live on the magazine’s website this morning and it was already the most shared of my entire series. Apparently, the idea of being taken to a mansion in the Hamptons for the weekend, learning to sail and eating at some of the hottest locations on the east coast really got all the matcha latte girls going.
Anthea glanced up from behind her computer when I knocked on her door. “Please, come in.” She gestured toward the chair across from her.
I tried my best to sit as gracefully as possible. Being in the presence of Anthea made my brain short-circuit—all confidence leaked from my body the second that she looked at me from behind her red-rimmed glasses.
Anthea leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingersunderneath her chin as she studied me. The weight of the silence had me shuffling in my seat.
“The last time we spoke, I told you that you had a genuine gift for these kinds of columns.” Somehow, Anthea sounded graceful even when she spoke. “Have you considered our conversation since then?”
Oh, yes. The conversation where she crushed my hopes and dreams?
“I’ve thought about what you said.” I chose my words carefully. If Anthea was now leaning toward giving me a permanent column on the topic of relationships instead of the restaurant critic position, the last thing I wanted to do was encourage her. “I would still prefer your original proposition of writing these articles for the end goal of obtaining the food critic position.”
Anthea’s eyes narrowed.
“You know how many people would kill for your assignment—going on dates and being treated well by a nice, rich man? Women across the globe would sign on the dotted line for that experience. And just think, you could duplicate this experience and make a living off it. It could be all about dating in New York City. So many women would love to be back in their mid-twenties and have the freedom to date around this city. But you would rather spend your time reviewing food?”
I fought to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.Sophisticate’s food critic was widely respected in the industry. The kind of writer whose presence could make chefs drop their knives in panic. That position had launched careers, transformed neighborhood joints into global sensations, and helped restaurants earn Michelin stars in cities acrossthe world. And now Anthea wanted me to give up ten-course meals, the best hole-in-the-wall diner food, and the people that made the magic happen back in the kitchen—for dating commentary?
Before I could muster another response in defense of my aspirations, Anthea started again.
“Have you seen the response to this week’s article? I’m not sure I remember the last time a piece delivered this much foot traffic to the website. Marketing were saying something in our morning meeting about how it’s started some sort of internet trend among women in the city trying to find their very own Mr. Old Fashioned.”
“Has it?” I asked, caught off guard. “I haven’t been on social media much lately.”
I startled as an unfamiliar sound omitted from Anthea’s mouth.
Was that a laugh? From Anthea Sparks?
“Of course, you haven’t had time to be on social media when you’ve been dating Mr. Old Fashioned. My goodness, Hallie.” Anthea pressed a hand to her chest and …swooned?“I’m not sure how you keep yourself from falling for him. He sounds like he’s the perfect man.”
If someone had told me two years ago that I would sit in Anthea Spark’s office gossiping about boys, I would have assumed that they’d suffered a head injury. Yet here I was, watching one of the most intimidating women in journalism light up over a man that I’d grown real feelings for—and something in my stomach twisted.
