Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“And Amy?” Sabrina asks. “How’s she liking Harvard?”
“Nothing but happy phone calls these first few weeks,” Mr. Feinstein says proudly. “We couldn’t be prouder, and also, more grateful. Without you making that phone call . . .”
“Oh stop,” Sabrina says with a wave of her hand. “Amy’s brilliant. I’m sure she’d have gotten into Harvard without my help.”
My head is spinning. Sabrina knows Adam Feinstein? And his wife?
And helped his daughter get into Harvard?
“You’re here with, ah—” Adam looks at me, as though he either can’t remember my name or doesn’t want to remember it.
“You’ve met Matt, right? Matt Cannon?” She moves back to my side and makes a big show of rolling her eyes. “I can’t say I’m loving how well everyone knows his name these days. Bachelor parties—every woman’s worst nightmare, right?”
She gives a playful wink at Samantha, and the CEO doesn’t miss a beat. “Let’s just say I’m grateful Sam’s bachelor party days are behind him. I don’t have to worry about him getting into too much trouble anymore.”
Sam clamps my shoulder with fatherlike affection and leans in. “Had myself a lap dance or two in my day. Is it just me, or are those women persistent? Never could figure out how to get out of the situation without being rude.”
The hostess appears with three menus. “Wolfe, party of three? Your table is ready. I apologize for the wait. The party at your table decided to order dessert at the last minute.”
“A decision I can get behind,” Mr. Feinstein says, standing and picking up the fedora he left on the bar. “I might go for some dessert myself. Sabrina, sweetheart, it was so good to see you. Geraldine will be upset she missed you.”
Sabrina pats his hand with a smile. “We’ll have to get together when she gets back from Florida. Cocktails?”
“That’d be great.” Mr. Feinstein’s gaze is less fatherly when he looks at me but a good deal friendlier than before. “Mr. Cannon, good to meet you. You’d best stay out of trouble if you’re going to be worthy of this one.” He hitches a thumb at Sabrina.
“Absolutely, sir. Lesson learned.”
The man smiles and pats my arm with a nod.
The Wolfes give me a meaningful look that says we’ll talk later before we all say our goodbyes, the three of them following the hostess toward the back of the restaurant.
Sabrina takes the barstool vacated by Feinstein and, catching the bartender’s eye, orders two mimosas before crossing her legs and turning to face me with a triumphant smile. No doubt about it, she knows that she skillfully unfucked my entire morning and did it well.
Damn it. There’ll be no living with her now.
10
MATT
Sunday Brunch, September 24
“Why aren’t you gloating?”
Sabrina sips her mimosa. “Why would I gloat?”
“Because you know full well that you saved my ass.”
She shrugs. “That’s what you’re paying me for. I don’t need to gloat. I already know I’m good at what I do.”
“Yes, you are. I . . . underestimated you. I apologize.”
She gives me a startled look, then studies me, as though looking for sarcasm. She can look all she wants; there is none. I can give credit when it’s due, and it’s definitely due here.
We’ve been seated at our table for nearly half an hour, and every moment that passes, my tension eases a little bit more. While I’m not out of the woods as far as my reputation goes, I’m confident I made a solid step forward in the damage-control department, thanks to her.
“Are they watching us?” I ask.
“Can’t tell,” Sabrina says. “But just in case . . .” She scoops up a forkful of eggs and holds it across the table for me, an adoring smile on her face.
I roll my eyes, something I can get away with, since my back is to the Wolfes and Feinstein.
Still, I dutifully eat the eggs off her fork, because apparently, that’s what people in love do? I wouldn’t know.
“You think he bought it?” I ask.
“Who, Adam?” she asks before taking another sip of her mimosa.
I shake my head at her casual use of his first name. “Yeah, Adam. How is it you’ve never mentioned you’re on a first-name, best-friend level with Adam Feinstein? And his wife? And his daughter?”
“This is why you’re paying me the big bucks,” she says with a smile. “And they’re a sweet family. They invited me to a Hanukkah party last year.”
“You celebrate holidays with them? You’re not even Jewish.”
She shrugs. “So? They know that. Just like they know the holidays can be lonely.”
I look up at that, a little startled by the admission. For some reason, it never occurred to me that someone as sassy and confident as Sabrina Cross would ever be lonely, but . . .
Of course she would be. How could she not be? My family drives me up the fucking wall, but it’s still a warm place to go during the holidays, where they’re happy to see me.