I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. I make a million bucks today, or—”
“Or you wear Nicky’s clothes tomorrow,” Nora says with a mean little grin. “I’m talking everything. Pants, shoes, shirts that aren’t green.”
“What?” I stand, very much aware that we have an audience now. “He’s half my size. Literally.”
Nicky frowns. “I’m not that small.”
“You’re practically a hobbit.”
Nora pats Nicky’s arm. “I happen to think hobbits are lovely.”
“But the hairy feet,” Nicky says. “And the little breeches they wear—”
“The opposite of sexy. Yes.” I flex my arms, not missing the way Nora’s gaze darts to my biceps. I smirk. I still row three times a week and do five a.m. CrossFit sessions the other four days (for the most part, anyway), which apparently kills two birds with one stone: helps with stress, and also distracts pain-in-the-ass coworkers. “I’ll barely be able to button his shirt.”
“That’s the point,” Nora says, eyes locking on mine. “How about this: to sweeten the bet, I’ll dress up as Frodo if I don’t get a million in sales credits today.”
Brooks groans. “Don’t give Nicky an excuse to develop a cross-dressing kink.”
“What if I already have a cross-dressing kink?” Nicky asks.
Nora’s eyes sparkle. “C’mon, Morgan. A million in P&L or a million in sales credits—whoever gets there first wins.”
Sales credits are dollar amounts rewarded to salespeople when they complete a trade with a client. While they don’t translate to hard-dollar payouts—meaning a saleswoman like Nora won’t take home $50k in cash after selling some bonds I need to get rid of—they are often indicative of how important a trade, and therefore a salesperson, is to the desk.
Back at Felix, only my very best salespeople got a million sales credits on their very best days. Making a bet like that is a bold move on Nora’s part. Very bold. Especially considering every single salesperson or trader who’s gone up against me in the past ten-plus years has lost.
This woman has no idea what’s coming. And I have no idea why it suddenly feels a little too hot in here.
“Done,” I say. “I can’t wait to see how hairy your feet are.”
She smirks. “I can’t wait to see you stuff your meathead self into the sausage casing that is Nicky’s clothes.”
“Health is wealth.”
“Tell me,” she says, rounding our row to stand in front of her desk. She bends over to hit enter on her keyboard, bringing her tower to life. I’m hit by that anger again when I see Burrito Boy rising up in his chair to salivate over her ass. “Exactly how bad is your back acne? From the steroids. I hear it can get pretty wicked.”
“This machine is perfectly clean, thank you very much.” I flex my arms and chest, just because I can. “Tell me, where is the broom storage closet around here?”
“For the broom I rode to work.” Her lips twitch again, and something catches low in my core. I ignore it. “I recently purchased a broom that folds up, actually, so it fits right in here.” She holds up her enormous tote bag. Seriously, what does she keep in that thing? “Super convenient. I’m just waiting for them to invent a folding witch hat. The wide brim kind of prohibits making it any smaller, but I’m holding out hope. In the meantime, I keep it in my bottom drawer here if you ever want to have a look. Don’t put it on, though, or it will make your ’roid rage even worse.”
Nicky’s laughing, slapping his knee. Even Brooks lets out a low chuckle. I blink, frozen to the spot.
Nora’s . . . actually funny. No—it’s more than that. She’s capable of self-deprecation while also slinging well-timed barbs. She rolls with the punches while landing some of her own.
Damn.
I should sit down and get my day started. Our High-Grade morning call starts in ten minutes, and I need to review the bonds I want to sell or buy today one last time before broadcasting them to the group. If I want this promotion I also need to act like a leader, and leaders don’t spend their mornings trading insults with gorgeous, fast-talking women.
But this woman—fuck, she’s wittier than I expected, whip-smart too, and I kinda want to keep pushing her to see where that sharp brain of hers takes us.
“I don’t mean to be a dick,” I say, “but can you cackle for us? Just once?”
She shakes her head, banging her ID and password into the keyboard. “But I can shove my wand up your ass. That fits in my bag just fine without needing to be folded up.”
“Burn!” Ian, who’s suddenly appeared at the printer at the end of our row, is smiling like a Cheshire cat.
“Literally,” Nora replies, finally sliding into her seat. Burrito Boy pouts, but turns back to his mangled breakfast. “With the right incantation, it will melt your body from the inside out. Terrible smell, but cool to witness.”