Wall Street Titan (Alpha Zone 1)

Finally, I give up on sleep and go for a ten-mile run. The hard pace I set is sufficiently exhausting, and by the time I sit down to eat the gourmet breakfast my butler has prepared for me, some of my frustration has eased. Still, I decide to call Emmeline to really get my mind off things.

We have another pleasant chat. I learn that she’ll be coming to New York on a business trip in December, and we agree to meet for dinner the night she’s free. It’s all very proper and civilized, and when I hang up the phone, I don’t feel the slightest urge to stalk her or drag her off to a cave.

And that’s how it should be, I tell myself as I go into my home office to catch up on some work. With Emma, I was constantly on the verge of losing control and forgetting what’s really important. The hunger the little redhead awakened in me was too potent, too dangerous. I want to be attracted to the woman I’m with, but not like that.

Not to the point where she’s all that matters.

I work through the morning and most of the afternoon, and then, because my restlessness is returning, I call up my friend Ashton for a sparring session at our MMA gym.

He happens to be free, and we meet up an hour later. He’s as good at mixed martial arts as I am, and after an hour of nonstop back-and-forth, the score is even and we’re both dripping with sweat.

“Grab a beer after we get changed?” he offers as we walk to the locker room, and I gladly agree.

Anything to keep me from thinking about Emma.

* * *

“So, how did the matchmaker work out for you?” Ashton asks as we sit down at the bar. It’s barely six o’clock, so even though it’s a Saturday, the place is quiet enough to carry on a conversation. “My aunt told me you got in touch with Victoria,” he continues as the bartender hands us our beers. “Did she find you a wife yet?”

I lift my beer and take a long sip in an effort not to snap at him. This is the last thing I want to talk about right now, but since he’s the one who turned me onto Victoria Longwood-Thierry, I owe him an answer.

“She put me in touch with a promising candidate—a woman named Emmeline Sommers,” I say, putting down my beer. “But she’s in Boston, so we’ll see how that goes.”

“See? I told you.” He grins, showing off his pearly whites. “That shit works—at least if you want it to. You couldn’t pay me enough to be with one chick for the rest of my life, but if that’s what you’re after, might as well make sure that pussy is top notch.”

He sounds like the asshole that he is, but the two women standing by the bar look dazzled by his smile. It’s always that way with him. Ashton Vancroft comes from old money—serious money—and it shows. His innate rich-boy arrogance, coupled with his athletic physique and golden surfer looks, draws women like a magnet, and it has for as long as I’ve known him—which is soon to be well over a decade.

We met in business school, where we were both getting our MBAs—me, so I could convince investors to trust me with their money, and Ashton, because it was expected of him. As he explained to me once, his career options were lawyer, doctor, or investment banker; anything else was deemed unacceptable for a Vancroft. He finally rebelled by dropping out of business school to become a personal trainer, but the damage was done.

He’d acquired too much business savvy to live the poor and carefree life he’d always wanted.

What started off as a few clients on the weekends quickly grew into a profitable business, thanks to word of mouth about his hardcore, no-nonsense approach to fitness and the app Ashton created to train his clients remotely during their travels. Before long, he had thousands of clients all over the world, and as their before-and-after pictures flooded Instagram, his training app exploded in popularity, rocketing to the top of all the app stores. Now he’s a multimillionaire even without his parents’ money—and is in denial about the whole thing.

“How’s the business coming along?” I ask, because I know that will aggravate him—which is only fair, given how much his prying into my dating life has aggravated me.

Predictably, he grimaces. “Awful. Revenues grew by another twenty percent last month, and I’m getting flooded with sponsorship offers. I don’t want any of that shit, but do they listen? No. They’re convinced I must be dying to peddle their shitty supplements or gym equipment or whatever crap they’re selling. Never mind that none of that quick-fix bullshit works. It’s all about proper nutrition and challenging your body and—”