Wall Street Titan (Wall Street Titan #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,47
the morning and most of the afternoon, and then, because my restlessness is returning, I call up my friend Ashton for a sparring session at our MMA gym.
He happens to be free, and we meet up an hour later. He’s as good at mixed martial arts as I am, and after an hour of nonstop back-and-forth, the score is even and we’re both dripping with sweat.
“Grab a beer after we get changed?” he offers as we walk to the locker room, and I gladly agree.
Anything to keep me from thinking about Emma.
“So, how did the matchmaker work out for you?” Ashton asks as we sit down at the bar. It’s barely six o’clock, so even though it’s a Saturday, the place is quiet enough to carry on a conversation. “My aunt told me you got in touch with Victoria,” he continues as the bartender hands us our beers. “Did she find you a wife yet?”
I lift my beer and take a long sip in an effort not to snap at him. This is the last thing I want to talk about right now, but since he’s the one who turned me onto Victoria Longwood-Thierry, I owe him an answer.
“She put me in touch with a promising candidate—a woman named Emmeline Sommers,” I say, putting down my beer. “But she’s in Boston, so we’ll see how that goes.”
“See? I told you.” He grins, showing off his pearly whites. “That shit works—at least if you want it to. You couldn’t pay me enough to be with one chick for the rest of my life, but if that’s what you’re after, might as well make sure that pussy is top notch.”
He sounds like the asshole that he is, but the two women standing by the bar look dazzled by his smile. It’s always that way with him. Ashton Vancroft comes from old money—serious money—and it shows. His innate rich-boy arrogance, coupled with his athletic physique and golden surfer looks, draws women like a magnet, and it has for as long as I’ve known him—which is soon to be well over a decade.
We met in business school, where we were both getting our MBAs—me, so I could convince investors to trust me with their money, and Ashton, because it was expected of him. As he explained to me once, his career options were lawyer, doctor, or investment banker; anything else was deemed unacceptable for a Vancroft. He finally rebelled by dropping out of business school to become a personal trainer, but the damage was done.
He’d acquired too much business savvy to live the poor and carefree life he’d always wanted.
What started off as a few clients on the weekends quickly grew into a profitable business, thanks to word of mouth about his hardcore, no-nonsense approach to fitness and the app Ashton created to train his clients remotely during their travels. Before long, he had thousands of clients all over the world, and as their before-and-after pictures flooded Instagram, his training app exploded in popularity, rocketing to the top of all the app stores. Now he’s a multimillionaire even without his parents’ money—and is in denial about the whole thing.
“How’s the business coming along?” I ask, because I know that will aggravate him—which is only fair, given how much his prying into my dating life has aggravated me.
Predictably, he grimaces. “Awful. Revenues grew by another twenty percent last month, and I’m getting flooded with sponsorship offers. I don’t want any of that shit, but do they listen? No. They’re convinced I must be dying to peddle their shitty supplements or gym equipment or whatever crap they’re selling. Never mind that none of that quick-fix bullshit works. It’s all about proper nutrition and challenging your body and—”
I automatically tune out as he launches into his usual rant about couch potatoes looking for magical solutions to their laziness, and my thoughts drift to Emma. I wonder what she’s doing this Saturday night. Is she in her PJs cuddling with the cats, or is she out somewhere?
Maybe on a date?
My hand tightens on my beer mug as I picture her sitting in a restaurant with some asshole, smiling at him with her pretty, dimpled smile. He’d be panting over her, all but salivating as she ate her cheap slice of pizza or whatever, and then they’d amicably split the bill before going together to her place and—
Fuck, no. I’m not going there.
I’m already feeling homicidal as it is.
She’s not yours, I tell myself as I drain my beer.