“I wouldn’t have minded. But thank you. Thanks for taking care of all that this morning. I thought I was walking in to sit on the folding chair and table again. This is a nice surprise.”
“No problem.” She looked down at her watch. “I have a video conference in a few minutes, but I’m open from twelve-thirty to two today if you want help setting up your office. I can order in and make it a working lunch, if you want.”
“That would be great. I have a call that should end before twelve-thirty.”
“What do you feel like for lunch?”
“Surprise me.”
“Anything I want?”
“Anything. Unlike you, I’m not picky.”
Emerie smiled and turned to walk back to her office. I stopped her to ask a question that had been on my mind since dinner with Roman last night.
“What kind of psychologist are you? Do you specialize?”
“I do. I thought I told you. I’m a marriage counselor.”
“A marriage counselor?”
“Yes, I work to save troubled marriages.”
“We definitely didn’t discuss that. I’d have remembered, considering I also work with troubled marriages—to dissolve them permanently.”
“Is it a problem?”
I shook my head. “Shouldn’t be.”
Famous last words.
Chapter 9
Emerie
“Here are a few more messages.”
Drew had just hung up the phone after waving me into his office. I set the bag containing our lunch on his desk and handed him the little slips of paper. He shuffled through them quickly and held one up.
“If this guy calls back—Jonathon Gates—you have my permission to hang up on him.”
“Can I call him a name first?”
Drew looked amused. “What would you call him?”
“That depends. What did he do wrong?”
“He beats his wife.”
“Oh, God. Okay.” I twisted my lips as I thought of a good name for Mr. Gates. “I’d call him a fucking animal, and then hang up on him.”
Drew chuckled. “You don’t curse like a New Yorker.”
“What do you mean?”
“You pronounce the entire word. F-u-c-k-i-n-g.”
“How should I pronounce it?”
“Fuckin. Leave off the hard g.”
“Fuckin,” I repeated.
“It sounds stiff. You should practice more so it sounds natural.”
I reached into the bag and pulled out the food I’d ordered. With a smile, I offered it to him. “Here’s your fuckin lunch.”
“Nice.” He smiled. “Keep it up. You’ll sound like Tess in no time.”
“Tess?”
“My secretary who’s out because she had hip surgery. She’s sixty and looks like Mary Poppins, but she swears like a sailor.”
“I’ll practice some more.”
I’d ordered us sandwiches from a deli I discovered on my first day of fake tenancy. Since Drew looked like he took care of himself, I picked him out a turkey club on whole wheat with avocado and ordered myself the same, though I usually tended to eat less healthy food. Drew devoured his entire sandwich before I could finish half of mine, and I wasn’t a slow eater.
Looking at his empty wrapper, I asked, “I take it you liked the sandwich?”
“Went to the gym at 5 a.m. and didn’t have time to eat before an early meeting uptown. That was the first thing I’d eaten today.”
“5 a.m.? You went to the gym at five in the morning?”
“I’m an early riser. From the appalled tone in your voice, I take it you’re not.”
“I try to be.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“Not so good.” I laughed. “I have trouble falling asleep at night, so mornings are tough.”
“Do you exercise?”
“I started taking that Krav Maga a few times a week at night to wear myself out, hoping it would help me sleep. It doesn’t really help. But I like it anyway.”
“How about those drinks with melatonin in them?”
“Tried them. Nothing.”
“Sleeping pills?”
“I wind up groggy for twenty-four hours after I take anything. Even Tylenol PM wipes me out.”
“Prolactin then.”
“Prolactin? What’s that? A vitamin or something?”
“It’s a hormone you release after orgasm. Makes you sleepy. Have you tried masturbating right before bed?”
I was mid-swallow and choked on the sandwich bite. Not the sputtering, coughing, it-went-down-the-wrong-pipe cute kind of choke. No. I choked. Literally. A small chunk of bread lodged in my throat, blocking my airway. In a panic, I stood, knocking the wrapper with the rest of my turkey club and my soda to the floor, and began to point furiously to my throat.
Luckily, Drew took the hint. He ran around to my side of the desk and smacked me on the back a few times. When I remained unable to breathe, he wrapped his arms around me from behind and performed the Heimlich. On the second hard thrust, the bread blocking my airway dislodged and flew across his office. Even though the entire episode probably only lasted fifteen seconds, I bent and gasped for air as if I’d been deprived for three minutes. My heart thundered inside of my chest, the sudden adrenaline surge hitting hard.
Drew didn’t let go. He kept his arms locked around me tightly, just under my chest, as I heaved in long breaths.