Stella

“How was your meeting? You didn’t say.”

The question jumpstarts an immediate playback of the whole dreadful experience.

“That’s because I’m trying to forget it ever happened.”

I look up from my computer screen, at the man asking the questions. A thick head of white hair that would make anybody envious and a tan recently acquired in St. Barth. Leaning against the doorframe with his hands neatly tucked into his navy pinstriped suit pants, Ira warmly smiles back at me, though it must be said the smile is edged with cynicism. As if the joke’s on you and you just don’t know it yet. In this case he’s absolutely right. The joke is on me.

As soon as I jumped on the line two subway train to 14th Street, I took out my phone and sent Ethan a text. This is how that went.

It is never. Going to. Happen.

“That bad?”

Ira Spitzberg is as close to a father as I’ve ever known and one of a few men I trust implicitly. Goldman Sachs made me an offer right after graduation, and at the time Ira was running the private banking division. I was one of a few people that stayed at the office later than he did. He took notice of the girl with big curly hair––before I figured out how to use a flat iron––and the rest is history.

Safely ensconced under his wing, he taught me everything he knew. Only later did I learn it had been a difficult time for him. His only son had recently died of an overdose and he was struggling with depression. I became a worthy distraction and four years later, when he decided to leave Goldman to open his own hedge fund, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

“A total bust. I don’t know what Ethan was thinking.”

Walking into my corner office, he takes the seat on the opposite side of my desk and crosses his legs.

How many times has Ira done that? Countless times. Most often it was to explain why he decided to pull out of a deal, or dump a stock I thought was performing well and had more to go before a pullback.

Without Ira guiding me every step of the way, I wouldn’t be nearly as successful as I am. Confidence goes a long way in this line of work. Knowing when to listen and take advice and not let your pride override logic takes you much farther.

“So you’re really doing this?”

After the BIG decision, changes had to be made, starting with my current work schedule. Working twelve-hour days is not conducive to having a personal life or being a good parent so I stepped down as head trader, assuming less responsibility. At first it was nerve-racking. Now, getting out of work by six feels like I can breathe for the first time in my life.

My mother was never home because she had no choice. As much as my brother and I needed her, we had to do without.

I have a choice, however. I’ve dedicated my entire adult life to making enough money to feel safe, to be able to make choices not coerced by guilt or fear, and I finally had.

I’d made enough money to take care of myself, my child, and my family without breaking out in hives every time I made a purchase. Business had been good. Hypothetically, I never needed to work another day in my life again––not that I would ever do such a crazy thing.

“I need a life.”

“When does the clock start?”

“Not for a while. And I’ll only be gone for six months. Besides, David is practically giddy with delight.”

I hate giving that little shit any satisfaction. It’s a given that when a woman starts climbing the rungs of the boys club there is always one snot-nosed boy who tries to knock her down. David, Ira’s nephew and an all-around douchebag that can’t wait to take my place as head trader without doing a damn thing to earn it, has gladly assumed that role at Spitzberg and Co.

“David is a little shit and not nearly as good as you at anticipating a change in the market.”

“I won’t disagree with you.”

A man suddenly appears in the open doorway of my office, a man I’d hoped never to lay eyes on again.

Hair a disheveled mop, scruff that tells me he hasn’t shaved in a week, black eye turning an interesting shade of green. I blink and blink but no, I’m not hallucinating.

“Hi there,” he says, all chipper and smiley, like someone told him he won a trip to Disneyland. Or better yet, the best little whore house in Nevada. That’s probably more his style.

“What are you doing here?” And then it dawns on me. “How did you get in here? Unannounced?”

“Jennifer––”

“Jessica?”

“That’s what I said. The nice lady at the front desk mentioned you were not currently in a meeting.”

I bet she did. Good to know any rapist murderer armed with a great smile can waltz right in. Outside the glass-paned wall of my office, I see every single head poking out from cubicles turned in our direction.

Someone coughs and I remember we are not alone.

Wylder’s eyes move to Ira. As do mine. With his chin resting between his thumb and index finger, Ira appears to be wearing a suspiciously sly smile. I know that smile and it worries me. It’s the same smile he wears when he gets a hunch about a stock.

“The bust?” Ira remarks. I return a stiff smile in answer.

“Dane Wylder.” With an outstretched hand, the man in question walks into the office and heads straight for Ira who, now standing, is more than happy to shake the trespasser’s hand.

“I know who you are,” Ira answers with way too much amusement dancing in his voice. “I’m a season ticket holder––twenty years now. I was there for the Hail Mary win over Green Bay. That fingertip catch was something special.”

“My first Super Bowl,” Wylder rejoins with a crooked grin.

Instalove alert.

It’s hard to watch, and quite frankly, disappointing. I never thought I’d see the day when Ira Spitzberg, financial genius, the leading authority on merger arbitrage, makes a fool of himself over a guy that plays with balls for a living.

I cough loud enough to be heard in the hallway. Both men turn to me as if only now realizing I’m still in the room, intruding on their tête-a-tête.

“Dane Wylder, this is Ira Spitzberg––my boss.” Heavy emphasis on the title lest he think about jumping into round three of an argument. I’m assuming he has basic common decency. Big assumption on my part.

“Nice to meet you, Ira,” the trespasser replies.

“I’ll show you out, Wylder.”

His attention swings back to me, his eyes bright with, dare I say, nervous anticipation. “I came to take you to lunch.”

After our last two encounters? He must be kidding. That or he’s a glutton for punishment.

“No,” is my simple and immediate reply. I wouldn’t let him take me to the ER if I was bleeding to death.

I fuck hard. Those three words have been ringing in my head for days. It’s driving me nuts. I can’t seem to scrub them from my brain. Which is plain odd because I’ve heard things that would make a Marine drill sergeant blush. Working around type A men for nearly a decade, you pick up a few things.

Jaw clenched, lips pressed in a straight line, Mr. Fuck Hard is itching for another debate. It’s plainly written on his face.

“I feel like you got the wrong impression of me and I’d like to rectify that as soon as possible.” After a brief glance at Ira, he adds, “There’s a particularly delicate matter I need to discuss with you.”

Delicate? Rectify? I sigh tiredly. At least he’s eased off the corny accent.

“No.”

“No?”

“Yes––no. I mean…just no. No lunch. No discussion.”

Expression wavering between total dejection and disbelief, his reaction almost has me laughing. I don’t think this guy has ever heard the word no before.

An awkward quiet falls. Wylder makes no move to leave, standing in the doorway paralyzed by indecision. That pesky no word sure has him stumped.

“Maybe you should hear what the man has to say, Stel.”

I shoot Ira a death glare, one straight out of the Mercedes Donovan playbook, which only makes him chuckle.

Judas.

“I won’t take much of your time.”

And now I’m on the spot. As genuinely contrite as he is, and I can see that he is, this is a waste of time. There’s absolutely no chance this guy qualifies as father material. It looks like he’s not done growing up himself.

He waits me out, his long fingers drumming against the black motorcycle helmet he’s holding like he might actually be nervous.

Yeah, right. He’s playing me. I know the type––balls to the wall, win at any cost, accustomed to getting what he wants and can’t bear to lose at anything.

I’ve been around men like him my entire life. The financial world is rife with his type. Good thing I’m skilled in handling this brand of bullshit. Except, I don’t want to look like a total bitch in front of Ira who seems to have fallen hard under this guy’s spell. Embarrassing if you ask me.

“Lunch,” I say with yet another heavy sigh and a glare.

“Perfect.” Then he smiles. He smiles broadly.

“A very short one,” I snap, though at this point my demands seem petty and pointless which only infuriates me more.

“Anything you want.”

“I need to be back here in an hour.”

“We’ll eat somewhere close.”

Sauntering past the trespasser with a smug grin, Ira says, “You two play nice,” and walks out the door.

I make a metal note to murder mentor slash boss later.

Snatching up my purse and my suit blazer off the back of my chair, I head for the door. “You’re on the clock.”

“After you, ma’am.”

* * *

“Why am I here?”

I glance around the lunch crowd of Harry’s Cafe. Located a stone’s throw from the famed Wall Street Bull, it’s close enough to my office to make this lunch as short as possible. I catch a few people watching us. Or more precisely, watching the man I’m having lunch with.

The young waiter who came to take our drink order looked ready to swoon when he realized who was sitting in his section.

I don’t get all the hoopla. I really don’t. So the man was good at throwing a ball…or catching one? Whatever, the man was good with a ball. Did he cure cancer? No? Then why the hell would anyone want his autograph? Besides, I don’t need a legendary anything. I need a dependable father for my child.

Grimacing, he can’t seem to get comfortable in the wooden chair. This guy is big, and the ceiling of this restaurant lower than usual. It’s one of those basement-level restaurants, making him look like Gulliver on the island of Lilliput. His thighs alone could be described as twin ship masts. Frankly, I can’t believe the chair hasn’t collapsed under his weight already.

He twists left then right. Finally he turns it sideways and stretches out his long legs, parking his motorcycle boots next to the side of my chair. The lazy charmer persona he wears without effort is nowhere to be found.

“I would like you to reconsider me for…” His eyes dart from the utensils he’s busy rearranging, to the table next to us where a couple of suits keep glancing furtively in his direction. “You know––as a potential baby daddy,” he adds, turning down the volume of his deep, raspy voice by a couple of decibels.

“Baby daddy?” I repeat, my attention locked onto his hyper-focused gaze. “We’re talking about having a child together, not something to be taken lightly…this isn’t a joke.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

He sounds offended. Boo-hoo. Cry me a river. “No,” I answer, head shaking to drive home my point.

His whole demeanor changes, takes the shape of determination mixed with a touch of resentment. A small vein pops up in between his brows. He runs a supersized hand through his unruly hair and tugs on the ends.

Before he can jump into the argument I can see brewing, I continue. “No, I don’t. I’m not even sure you’re capable of taking care of yourself.”

At my gesture to his eye, he frowns.

“Give me a chance. Get to know me before you say no for good.”

He’s serious. I would venture to say almost desperate to convince me. Not only does this make me suspicious, but also begs the question why. What reason could he possibly have to want a child with a stranger? One that he doesn’t like, and doesn’t like him in return.

I sit back, arms crossed. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to have a baby with me? Why not get married and have one the conventional way? I’m sure there are plenty of women who would accommodate you, three in this restaurant alone by the looks of it. You may even have a couple of kids scattered about the country you’re unaware of, Mr. Fuck Hard.”

He didn’t like that last jab, his eyes turning into slits, his lips pressing together tightly.

I tip my head in the direction of the table near the door where three women of childbearing years are foaming at the mouth as they undress him with their eyes.

Following my line of sight, he spots them and exhales. His expression changes to troubled. Admittedly, I’m a little surprised. I would assume this is the kind of attention he welcomes.

“Give me one good reason why I should consider binding myself to you for the rest of my life.”

The silence continues, for enough time that I assume I’m not going to get an honest answer out of him.

“My mother left us when I was five.” His gaze moves down to the tabletop, to where his long fingers fiddle with the paper wrapper of his straw. I watch him flatten it against the wood, smooth out the wrinkles with the pads of his blunt fingers, his nails short and neat.

“She took off with some carny that was headed out west. He filled her head with a bunch of nonsense that she wasn’t meant to waste her beauty on a ranch…Happened again when I was eight. She called from Vegas beggin’ for money for a bus ticket home. After that she stayed put for three whole years. I was fifteen the last time she left––for good it turns out. By then it was a relief…always waitin’ for the other shoe to drop. If today was gonna be the day.”

This is costing him to tell me. I can see it on his face, in his stiff posture, in the way the cords of muscles of his forearms flex while resting on the table. For reasons unknown, seeing him look so vulnerable makes me uncomfortable. A small pang of shame hits me.

“Each time she left, a part of my father died. It was like…the light went out of him. The only time I saw him shine was when he came to watch me play.”

His face lifts and it’s all in his hard eyes: the leftover pain, the work it took to overcome it, the determination.

“Football gave me everything. A ticket out of sad town and my father back for four quarters on Sunday. I’ll never get married. I don’t believe in it.” His eyes briefly flicker away. He exhales. When they return to me, they’re soft, a bit of hope restored. “But I want a kid…a son, hopefully, to share with him what I have with my dad.”

I expected one of his obnoxious comebacks. I expected more callousness. I didn’t expect him to bare his soul. His honesty, the one thing I didn’t anticipate, gets under my skin and peels back the thick layer of resolve I thought I’d sufficiently shored up. And for the first time, I see what Ethan sees in this guy––I see potential.

“I can promise you I will never shirk my responsibilities. I swear to you that I’ll always be there for our kid.” He pauses. Laser-focused, his gaze won’t let mine go. “And my hunch is you’re the reliable sort, too.”

Every legitimate argument I had a minute ago seems trivial under the weight of his stare, and the conviction behind his words.

“Okay,” I say half-dazed, the word sliding out without thought.

“Okay?” he repeats, sounding genuinely surprised.

“I’ll give you a chance. We’ll get to know each other and then I’ll decide––don’t make me regret it.”

No smile this time. Wylder’s expression is serious like it never is. “I won’t.”