Page 29 of One Wealthy Wedding

She spears me with those chocolate eyes. “I’m getting my MBA.”

I set my mousse down. “Bit old for an MBA, don’t you think?”

She reddens. “I’m twenty-eight. Not the oldest in the class by any means. Didn’t you get yours? At night or something?”

“Checking up on me?” I give her a smug grin.

“We were forced to read interviews with modern business leaders. Somehow, yours slipped in there too.” She gives me a flat, unamused stare.

“I did. I traded stocks for years before I met Miles and Jonah. They wanted me to come on to Kings Lane but wanted me to have a degree too. I went to night school.”

“You traded stocks?” She tilts her head. “I didn’t know that.”

“A man has to support his lavish lifestyle somehow.” I don’t tell her the truth, which is that I traded like a goddamn drug addict, at all hours of the night, and made twenty million dollars from two thousand by the time I was twenty-five.

“Be serious, Theo.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I wave my spoon in her direction. “Want help? You’ve been staring at that same problem for ten minutes.”

She purses her lips. “Because someone keeps bothering me. And no. I have to figure this out myself.” The words are resigned, like she’s tired of figuring things out on her own.

I narrow my eyes at her. She’s hiding something. It’s there in the way her expression goes flat sometimes and her spine straightens. She’s oblivious to my perusal, biting that full bottom lip and scratching notes on her paper. She leans over the counter, and the strap of her tank top slips. It’s so close to falling off her shoulder. Oh lord, no. I can’t handle that. A flash of the other night hits me. Cat’s smooth, lickable skin bared, her breasts edged with lace. My mouth watering when I looked at her. I need the money. I freeze, my spoon halfway in the mousse. That can’t be right. Cat Peterson does not need money. Her parents have gobs of it, and as soon as she runs out, she’ll be back in their loving arms.

“Catherine.”

Her head snaps up.

“What did we talk about the other night at the bar?”

“You don’t remember?” She looks relieved. Why does she look relieved?

“Here and there. It’s hazy. I guess I got really drunk.”

She smiles. “You did. I stuffed you into your car at closing time and had Daniel drive you home.”

I wince. Not my best look. “Did I say anything embarrassing?”

“Let’s see.” She taps her chin. “You admitted to playing with Barbies at age fifteen, and you told me you can’t last more than two minutes in bed.”

I burst out laughing. “Sounds like me.”

She grins at me, and my stomach flip-flops like it did those summers after college when she’d flirt with me. I was powerless to resist her then.

Not anymore. I’ve built up tolerance to Catherine Peterson.

“So you admit it? You can’t last more than two minutes?”

“Want to find out?” I wag my eyebrows. “Best two minutes of your life.”

She giggles and smacks a hand over her mouth, like she’s embarrassed I made her laugh.

Her smile falls just as quickly as it came. “How does your girlfriend feel about the fact that you’re married?”

“Girlfriend?” I stare at her in shock. “What girlfriend?”

She squints at me. “The woman you were with that night. Rose. Or did you already forget her name?”

Cat’s jealous face. Rose’s hand on my shoulder. I called her babe. “Rose likes women,” I say slowly.

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