Page 9 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
“Well, look who finally made it home,” he said, his deep voice warm, the anger that had been audible moments before nowhere to be found.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, returning the handshake. “You okay?”
He shrugged, his demeanor shifting to something lighter. “Of course I am. Everything’s fine.”
But he couldn’t fool me. “What happened with the restaurant?”
He hesitated for a moment, glancing at my mother. “It’s the same thing again, James,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his thick dark hair. “They’re going to run the business into the ground. I’ve been trying to get your uncle to see reason, but …” He trailed off, looking away.
“You both are stubborn. It’s in the Rossi blood,” my mother chimed in, not missing a beat. She moved to pour herself a glass of wine, as if this conversation was already old news to her. “The two of you are far more similar than you are different.”
I crossed my arms, leaning against the counter. “How bad is it?”
“This is the third month in a row that we’ve had to float some cash into the business to keep them out of the red,” my father said, his voice now quieter, tinged withfrustration. “I don’t know how much longer we can keep doing this.”
“I’ll help,” I said, without thinking.
Both of my parents turned to look at me.
“No,” my father said quickly, shaking his head. “You’ve got your own life to worry about. We’ll figure it out.”
But I was already firm in my decision. “I can’t just ignore this. It’s been a part of this family since the fifties. You’re not going to let it fail, are you?”
He ran a hand through his hair again, clearly exhausted. “I’ll handle it.”
“I’m not going to let it fall apart, Dad. Let me help.”
My mother placed a hand on my arm. “Enough about business. It’s not good for you to get worked up.”
But I couldn’t let it go. My family’s restaurant had always been a part of our lives, and I wasn’t going to let it slip through our fingers without trying to do something about it. Despite my father’s protests, I stood my ground.
“I’ll find a way to help,” I insisted.
He sighed. “Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I nodded, then glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to go, but we’ll talk more about this soon.”
As I headed toward the door, my father’s voice called out, a hint of pride in his tone. “It was good to see you, son. You should come around more often.”
3
Hallie
“Think of this as a celebration for your new think piece,” Roxie whispered in my ear as we climbed the staircase of her client’s home in the Upper East Side to the kitchen, where the sounds of clinking glasses and soft conversation floated down to greet us.
Roxie looked like she belonged here.
She had pulled her dirty-blonde curls into a sleek twist that somehow made her look both editorial and effortless. Her Vivienne Westwood dress—a structured plaid number with a nipped waist and dramatic neckline—was vintage, yes, butintentionalvintage. Fashion-editor vintage. She carried herself like someone who regularly dined on rooftops under string lights, not in our shared apartment where the radiator never worked properly, and the walls were thin enough to hear our neighbors’ nightly arguments.
The doorman had greeted her like she lived here. Not in the building, but in the neighborhood. Like he expected her to glide past velvet ropes and into penthouses scented with Diptyque candles and generational wealth. Like he somehow knew she drank her espresso black, owned real pearls, and knew instinctively which fork to use at a seven-course dinner.
We’d stepped out of the cab into a part of the Upper East Side that looked like it had been airbrushed. The buildings were limestone and pre-war, with those ornate iron balconies that made it feel like Paris if Paris had hedge funds and legacy admissions. The sidewalks were unnaturally clean—like someone power-washed them every morning just in case a billionaire might stroll by.
The trees were wrapped in white twinkle lights, the kind you usually only see in wedding vision boards, and they gave the whole block this ethereal glow, like the evening had been staged just for us. Or rather, just for the people that lived on the Upper East Side. The kind who knew how to navigate a cocktail hour with charm and a touch of well-timed eye contact. The kind who didn’t flinch at coat check or get self-conscious about ordering the cheapest glass of wine on the menu.
A line of town cars idled out front, their chauffeurs leaning against the doors in crisp uniforms, talking quietly into earpieces like they were coordinating a discreet rescue mission. A woman in a camel coat walked by with a tiny dog that probably had its own monogrammed carrier and a social media following. Even her leash was designer.
The awning above the entrance was forest green, embroidered with gold script that spelled out a name I’d only ever seen in real estate listings I clicked on for fun—way past midnight, usually, when I was feeling particularly reckless. Inside, the lobby was marble and moody lighting, with a chandelier that looked like it had once belonged to someone with a title and a minor palace. A man in a tuxedo had held open the door, and I was pretty sure he’d mistaken Roxie for a socialite. Or a model. Or both.
