King of Wall Street: a sexy, standalone, contemporary romance by Louise Bay Page A

Arwen. Any moment now she’d ruffle my hair and say, “You’re a dear little thing.”
    Max King might be an asshole, but he had great taste in women, even if I did say so myself.
    It wasn’t as if I’d expected anything from Max, but it stung a little to run into his latest conquest when he hadn’t even given me the time of day. Asshole.
    “Another glamourous Friday night in New York City?” she asked, smiling as she gestured toward my bag of laundry.
    What a bitch. She didn’t know I wasn’t going out later with a hot guy or a hotter girl. “Something like that,” I replied. “But better that than waste my time on men who don’t deserve me.”
    She laughed. “Yes, doing laundry is preferable to spending time with most of the men I’ve dated.”
    Okay, maybe she was being funny rather than bitchy. Did she realize what an asshole Max was? Should I warn her?
    “Let’s hope my date tonight raises the bar,” she said. “He seems nice so far, and every now and then you have to take a chance on someone, right?”
    I couldn’t reply but smiled manically. She thought Max was nice? Oh yeah, a nice kind of asshole .
    The elevator doors opened and she stepped out.
    “Enjoy your evening,” she said with a little wave.
    Max King was notoriously guarded about his private life. He never mentioned anyone in the articles I’d read about him. It had led to some speculation he was gay. If he was, he certainly did a great impression of a straight man. And he didn’t owe me anything, but just because we’d gone to Vegas, didn’t mean I wanted him making the trip with someone else quite so soon.
    When the elevator got to the basement I got out, dragging my laundry behind me. Maybe I should think about trying to sublet my place and move to Brooklyn after all.
    I’d dumped my Ikea bag on the floor, muttering to myself, when I realized I wasn’t the only one in the laundry room. A young teen sitting on the long table opposite the washers and dryers caught my eye. I looked up.
    “Hi,” I said.
    “Hey,” she replied with a smile. Papers on her lap, she looked like she was doing homework.
    “Are you hiding?” I asked. I’d loved escaping from real life at her age. There was never any peace in my house growing up, and I’d longed for quiet.
    She furrowed her brow as if thinking hard about my question. “Not really. I’m doing laundry and homework at the same time.”
    “You do your own laundry?” I flipped open the washer and began to fish out my towels from the bag.
    She shrugged. “Only certain times of the month. When I’m at my dad’s place there are some things . . .”
    “I get it. Boys have it easy, huh?”
    She rolled her eyes and I wanted to chuckle. She was a pretty girl with olive skin and long dark hair that fell around her shoulders.
    “ So easy. I mean, no periods? How did God decide that was fair?”
    I shut the first washer and flipped open a second. “Well, you’ve got to assume God is a man, right?” I pulled out my colored items and loaded up the machine. “And I guess he understood that men are such babies they wouldn’t be able to cope.”
    “Babies is right. They squeal when they don’t get their way, just like infants.”
    I laughed. “You’re totally right.”
    “And they always think they’re right about everything . My dad went ballistic yesterday because I picked out a dress for my eighth grade dance he didn’t like.” She leaned forward, making circles in the air with her hands. “I told him I’m growing up and that wearing a strapless dress doesn’t make me a slut.”
    “No, it doesn’t. But I guess dads have a different view. I can’t say because I didn’t have a father growing up.” I’d always wanted an overprotective father. Someone who would tell my boyfriends to treat me well and keep their hands to themselves. My dad hadn’t known when my eighth grade dance was, let alone had an opinion regarding my dress.
    “You didn’t? Did he die?” she