Wall Street Titan (Wall Street Titan #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,36

wears on, I find myself watching the clock, to the point that I’m counting the minutes during the weekly fund performance review with my portfolio managers. It’s nearly five p.m., which means that in two short hours, I will see Emma again.

I can’t fucking wait.

“—and so I think this will make a great pitch for your Alpha Zone presentation next month,” my telecom PM says, bringing my attention back to the meeting. “If you want, I’ll have my analyst email you his research.”

I have no idea which stock he’s talking about, having zoned out like a schoolboy daydreaming about his crush, but there’s no way I’m admitting that in front of everyone. “Yes, have him email it to me,” I say coolly. “I’ll take a look at it over the weekend.”

Alpha Zone is an association of the most influential players on Wall Street, and the December conference is its bedrock. There, we each pitch our best idea—whether it be a currency play, a private equity investment, or something as boring as going long a particular stock—and the best-performing investment is awarded a prize at the following year’s event. The prize itself is nothing major—a trip to Bora Bora or some such—but the boost to one’s reputation is priceless.

The telecom PM’s proposal better be something good.

Jarrod, my Chief Investment Officer, gives me a weird look—he’s not used to me being less than 110-percent engaged—and I force myself to concentrate for the rest of the meeting, digging into the fund’s major positions as thoroughly as I always do. Though the healthcare team had a big trade go against them yesterday, the fund overall is up another half a percent this week, putting us at nearly ninety-three billion in assets under management.

If this winning streak keeps up, we’ll breach a hundred billion in no time.

Normally, the thought would fill me with great anticipation, but the only thing I’m anticipating right now is picking up Emma in two hours. I can already picture how this date will unfold: I’ll ring her doorbell, and she’ll jump out, all adorably flushed as she escapes her cats. I’ll clasp her hand in mine, pulling her to me for a carefully controlled kiss—our first—and then we’ll step into my car. There, we’ll make out as Wilson drives us to my favorite Greek restaurant in the East Village—one that happens to be reasonably priced, as per her request.

By the time we get to the restaurant, food will be the last thing on both of our minds, and as soon as the meal is over, I’ll take her to my Tribeca penthouse and fuck her senseless.

We’ll spend the weekend in bed, and by Monday, I’ll have her out of my system.

I’ll be rid of this unhealthy craving for good.

19

Emma

I turn off the water and pull open the shower curtain to find the bathroom floor looking like it’s been snowed on. Some bits of paper are so small they float in the air as I step out, hollering, “Puffs!” at the top of my lungs.

That damn cat. He must’ve sensed that I’m about to leave him and his siblings alone for the second evening in a row, so he shredded the entire roll of toilet paper while I was in the shower.

Swearing, I hop around on one foot, trying to get sticky pieces of damp toilet paper off my other foot with a towel. It takes forever to do that, not to mention clean up the bathroom, and the doorbell rings as I’m frantically applying my mascara.

Crap. I’m still in my underwear.

“One sec!” I yell as I rush across the room to grab my clothes from the closet. Mr. Puffs hisses at me from the top shelf, and Cottonball lets out a plaintive meow, batting my leg with his paw so I’ll cuddle him in front of the TV, as is our custom on Friday nights.

“Sorry, not tonight, buddy. I have a date.” I bend down to scratch his head apologetically when Mr. Puffs jumps down from the top shelf—right onto my shoulders.

“Ahh!” I pitch forward with a startled cry, pushed off balance by fifteen pounds of feline slamming into me from an almost-six-foot height. Queen Elizabeth jumps off the bed and runs over, meowing in obvious concern as I land on all fours, and at the same time, the doorbell rings again, followed by a deep voice calling my name.

It’s Marcus, and he sounds worried.

Mr. Puffs is still on my shoulders, somehow balancing without sinking his claws into my skin,