Wall Street Titan (Wall Street Titan #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,5
beers, I mentioned my specifications for a wife. “You’re talking about American aristocracy here, Mayflower and all that shit. If you’re serious about tapping high-end pussy, you need to talk to my aunt’s friend. She’s a professional matchmaker working with politicians and rich Wall Street dudes like you. She’ll find you exactly what you need.”
I laughed and changed the conversation, but the germ of the idea had been planted, and the more I investigated Ashton’s aunt’s friend, the more intrigued I became. It turns out Victoria had matched at least two hedge fund managers I know—one with an Olympic gymnast, the other with a Princeton biologist who once moonlighted as a model. Upon further digging, I learned that both marriages are going strong so far, and that, more than anything, convinced me to give the matchmaker a shot.
I intend to be as successful in my personal life as I have been in business, and having the right kind of wife is a big part of that.
Sitting down at my gleaming ebony wood desk, I turn on my Bloomberg monitor and pick up a stack of research reports. I have Victoria on the case, so I put the wife hunt out of my mind and focus on what really matters: my work and making my clients money.
It’s already eight p.m. when my phone buzzes with an incoming message. Rubbing my eyes, I look away from my computer screen and see that it’s a text from Victoria.
I have the perfect candidate for you, the text says. She can meet you at Sweet Rush Café in Park Slope tomorrow at 6 p.m. If that works for you, I will email you more details. Emmeline lives in Boston and is only in town for a couple of days.
I frown at my phone. Six o’clock? I almost never leave the office that early on a Tuesday. And Boston? How am I supposed to get to know this Emmeline if she doesn’t live in New York?
I start texting Victoria that I can’t make it, but stop at the last moment. This is what I wanted: for Victoria to introduce me to a woman I would never meet on my own. Given the matchmaker’s track record, I can spare one evening to see if there’s anything worth pursuing there.
Before I can change my mind, I fire off a quick text to Victoria agreeing to the date, and turn my attention back to my computer screen.
If I’m leaving the office early tomorrow, I have to work a few more hours tonight.
3
Emma
I’m all but bouncing with excitement as I approach Sweet Rush Café, where I’m supposed to meet Mark for dinner. This is the craziest thing I’ve done in a while. Between my evening shift at the bookstore and his class schedule, we haven’t had a chance to do more than exchange a few text messages, so all I have to go on are those couple of blurry pictures. Still, I have a good feeling about this.
I feel like Mark and I might really connect.
I’m a few minutes early, so I stop by the door and take a moment to brush cat hair off my woolen coat. The coat is beige, which is better than black, but white hair is visible on anything that’s not pure white. I figure Mark won’t mind too much—he knows how much Persians shed—but I still want to look presentable for our first date. It took me about an hour, but I got my curls to semi-behave, and I’m even wearing a little makeup—something that happens with the frequency of a tsunami in a lake.
Taking a deep breath, I enter the café and look around to see if Mark might already be there.
The place is small and cozy, with booth-style seats arranged in a semicircle around a coffee bar. The smell of roasted coffee beans and baked goods is mouthwatering, making my stomach rumble with hunger. I was planning to stick to coffee only, but I decide to get a croissant too; my budget should stretch to that.
Only a few of the booths are occupied, likely because it’s a Tuesday. I scan them, looking for anyone who could be Mark, and notice a man sitting by himself at the farthest table. He’s facing away from me, so all I can see is the back of his head, but his hair is short and dark brown.
It could be him.
Gathering my courage, I approach the booth. “Excuse me,” I say. “Are you Mark?”