Page 77 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
He answered with a cocky smirk—a slow, deliberate curl of his lip that sent a shiver down my spine. There was no mistaking it … he wanted me.
But the look in his eyes, full of unspoken promise, did something to me. It made me feel bold. Excited. Alive. And for the first time in a long time, unafraid.
I closed the distance between us, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. There was nothing more than a mere breath between us, and the slightest movement of our heads would have his lips on mine.
“Then take me home, James,” I said softly, looking up at him. “And help me find the words.”
26
James
“I thought for sure you were going to live in Central Park West or One Waterline Square. At least one of the skyscrapers here on the Upper West Side. I definitely didn’t see you in a brownstone,” Hallie said as I unlocked the front door to my place.
“Can you imagine moving furniture up to the top of one of those skyscrapers?” I shuddered. “I’ll pass.”
“If you have enough money for a place like this, you have enough money to hire movers.”
“But what if I find a cool couch on the side of the road and want to take it home with me?”
Hallie rolled her eyes, but a soft laugh escaped anyways as she followed me inside, her gaze already sweeping over the space, taking it all in. From the various wool coats I had hanging on hooks above the bench in my entryway to the pictures of my family that hung on the wall leading into my kitchen and living space. She paused at one in particular—a shot of me from my lacrosse days, back when I was still at that private school I’d attended from grade school through graduation. A Princeton hoodie was still thrown over the back of one of my barstools at the kitchen island from where I’d shed it this morning after my workout before heading into the office.
The brownstone had been bought with money left to me by my mother’s father—part of a trust he set up before he passed. This place was his idea of a legacy. I hadn’t planned to live alone forever, but for now, solitude felt like control. And I’d needed that, especially after Cassidy.
“That’s what Roxie and I do,” Hallie said, brushing her fingers over the sweatshirt. “Pick up furniture on the side of the curb meant to be thrown away. We bring it home, clean it up, and give it a new life. I highly doubt you’re doing the same.”
I knew what she saw when she looked at me—a kid from the Upper East Side, raised in privilege, private schools, nice clothes. And yeah, some of that was true. But not all of it.
“I don’t think we are as different as you think we are,” I said, guiding her further down the hallway to a picture of my family standing in front of Rossi Pizzeria last summer. It had been the first time all year that everyone could be at the restaurant together. One local that stopped in for a slice every day had snapped the picture.
“That’s my grandfather and grandmother, Lorenzo and Giulietta. First-generation immigrants from Italy. They came here with nothing but a dream—to build something lasting for their family. And they did. Enough to give their kids a better life. But it wasn’t easy.”
I pointed to an old photo of my parents that was hanging on the wall next. “You already know my mom’s dad didn’t approve of my dad. But my father didn’t care. He loved my mother and had no interest in trying to fit into her family’s mold. Brooklyn is in his blood, and he made sure I knew what it meant to earn my way.
“My parents never handed me a dime. I have a trust fund, but I only used it for this place. My dad’s rule. He wanted to know I could make something of myself without it.”
Hallie didn’t respond right away. Her gaze drifted back to the family photos. I could tell she was sizing it all up—me, this place, what I’d just told her. “My parents may not get my lifestyle, but they’ve always supported me. Helped with NYU. Made sure I had what I needed growing up.” She gave a small shrug. “So, I guess we’re not as different as I thought.”
This conversation was a distraction from what either of us clearly wanted to do right now. After a few dates, we’d obviously both realized we liked each other and had more in common than we initially thought. But Hallie wouldn’t have come home with me if she’d wanted to discuss our life stories.
Given how she pushed me away when we were finally getting close this past weekend, I wasn’t going to be the one to make the first move tonight. Every time I saw her after the Hamptons, things seemed to improve. A tease. A kiss on the cheek after lunch on Tuesday. Making out on her couch after family dinner on Wednesday. Each time I waited for cues from Hallie, carefully watching her body language and listening for any hesitations in her voice to make sure I never crossed her boundaries.
“So, tell me about this loss of words you’re facing,” I said, instead of reaching out for her like I wanted to. “Is this recurring? Critical? Should we find a word doctor?”
Hallie let out a slow sigh. “I have no clue what’s going on,” she said, finally.
“That deconstructed banana cream pie nearly struck me speechless, too.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, and I felt a desperate need to keep that smile there, to be the reason for it. I ached forher. To be close to her. To have her in my arms like she’d been last weekend. To grip her ass in my hands. To hear that breathy moan again. To have that crimson mouth onme.
“The food was amazing,” she said. “If I were to post about it, I’d highlight that tomahawk steak cooked to perfection. The plating was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in a long time. I’d focus on the community. That’s what made it unforgettable.”
She lit up when she talked about food like that—passionate, focused, real. It was when she was her most irresistible.
“So, what’s the issue?” I asked.
Another sigh. “Sophisticate? Anthea? I’m not sure.”
“What’s so different about what they want and what you already write?”
