although she might look like one in her Bettie Paige wig. “I’m just lonely. So talk to me for a while, all right?”
“Absolutely. What would you like to talk about?”
“Tell me all about your love life,” she drawled.
If Emma thought Jeff would spill his guts the second she asked him to, she was sorely mistaken. Two hours later, insight about what went wrong between Susan and Jeff was not forthcoming. Emma was nursing her cognac. Jeff had been talking non-stop about everything but his love life.
”…and that’s when I got promoted to senior vice president of accounting at Dooey, Fleecum & Howe. I made a couple of fast deals and now I’ve got more money than I can spend. Yes, it’s been a long climb, but I’ve finally reached the top.”
“I’ve reached the bottom,” said Emma, showing Jeff her empty glass.
He poured her another dram. “Today was my last day at Dooey,” he said. “I’m taking my winnings off the table, leaving the city, the office, the suit. Going to live on a beach somewhere.”
“Sounds like you’re running away,” said Emma.
He said, “I’m not running. I’m going on vacation. Permanently.”
Emma wondered if Susan knew about his windfall or his travel plans. He’s shared his body with her, but, apparently, little else. And for that kind of relationship, Susan would turn herself inside out. The vicarious thrills in this case were more like chills.
“But the economy is terrible,” Emma said. “Stocks down, huge deficit. Corporation scandal. Enron, Tyco, Riptron.”
“I’ve been careful,” said Jeff. “Kept my nose clean. My firm handled the Riptron accounting. Twenty people went to prison because of that.” He leaned in close. “Just between you and me, for every person who went to prison, someone else got rich.”
Emma’s stomach lurched. “Can we get back to your emotional history? Your recent romantic past?”
He paused. “I do have one regret about leaving New York.”
Emma softened. “A girlfriend in the city?”
“My regret is that I’ll be spending my last week here alone,” he said. And then he put his hand on her bare knee.
She flinched. “Your hand is freezing.” It felt like he’d dropped an icicle on her skin. “Mind moving it?”
He moved it higher up her thigh.
Emma had long believed her sense of touch was her weakest. But, at times like this, it showed its super strength. An icy spread crept from her knee to her hips. The same man who made Susan melt had frozen Emma’s entire leg. She brushed his hand off her and sighed. This was a waste of time, she thought. He wasn’t talking. She’d learned nothing.
She’d have to chalk it up as a no-win night.
Emma said, “Well, it’s been incredibly dull talking to you, Jeff. I’ll be shoving off now.” Emma tried to slide off the stool but her right leg was still defrosting.
Jeff grabbed her elbow, stopping her. “Where’s the fire?”
“Let go,” she warned.
“You walked into this bar and made right for me.” His voice sounded deeper. “Why?”
“You were the best looking guy here,” she said.
“You can speak the truth and still be a liar.”
“You can be handsome and still turn my stomach.”
He squeezed her elbow tighter and the freeze seeped through the fabric of her dress, numbing her arm. Jeff said, “I think you were sent here by a man who shall remain nameless to spy on me. You can tell him to back the fuck off.”
While he spoke his gibberish, Emma struggled to wrench her arm free. The bartender appeared. “Any trouble?”
“We’re just saying goodbye,” said Jeff, giving her a weird warning with his beady eyes.
He was insane. And paranoid. “I wasn’t sent here by a man,” said Emma. “And I’m not a spy.”
Jeff said, “Your wig is crooked.”
Chapter 8
“T hese pictures are horrible. No offense, Victor.” asked Emma the next morning, in Saturday yoga pants and a red poncho. “Are you sure this is what she wants?”
Victor was
“Absolutely. What would you like to talk about?”
“Tell me all about your love life,” she drawled.
If Emma thought Jeff would spill his guts the second she asked him to, she was sorely mistaken. Two hours later, insight about what went wrong between Susan and Jeff was not forthcoming. Emma was nursing her cognac. Jeff had been talking non-stop about everything but his love life.
”…and that’s when I got promoted to senior vice president of accounting at Dooey, Fleecum & Howe. I made a couple of fast deals and now I’ve got more money than I can spend. Yes, it’s been a long climb, but I’ve finally reached the top.”
“I’ve reached the bottom,” said Emma, showing Jeff her empty glass.
He poured her another dram. “Today was my last day at Dooey,” he said. “I’m taking my winnings off the table, leaving the city, the office, the suit. Going to live on a beach somewhere.”
“Sounds like you’re running away,” said Emma.
He said, “I’m not running. I’m going on vacation. Permanently.”
Emma wondered if Susan knew about his windfall or his travel plans. He’s shared his body with her, but, apparently, little else. And for that kind of relationship, Susan would turn herself inside out. The vicarious thrills in this case were more like chills.
“But the economy is terrible,” Emma said. “Stocks down, huge deficit. Corporation scandal. Enron, Tyco, Riptron.”
“I’ve been careful,” said Jeff. “Kept my nose clean. My firm handled the Riptron accounting. Twenty people went to prison because of that.” He leaned in close. “Just between you and me, for every person who went to prison, someone else got rich.”
Emma’s stomach lurched. “Can we get back to your emotional history? Your recent romantic past?”
He paused. “I do have one regret about leaving New York.”
Emma softened. “A girlfriend in the city?”
“My regret is that I’ll be spending my last week here alone,” he said. And then he put his hand on her bare knee.
She flinched. “Your hand is freezing.” It felt like he’d dropped an icicle on her skin. “Mind moving it?”
He moved it higher up her thigh.
Emma had long believed her sense of touch was her weakest. But, at times like this, it showed its super strength. An icy spread crept from her knee to her hips. The same man who made Susan melt had frozen Emma’s entire leg. She brushed his hand off her and sighed. This was a waste of time, she thought. He wasn’t talking. She’d learned nothing.
She’d have to chalk it up as a no-win night.
Emma said, “Well, it’s been incredibly dull talking to you, Jeff. I’ll be shoving off now.” Emma tried to slide off the stool but her right leg was still defrosting.
Jeff grabbed her elbow, stopping her. “Where’s the fire?”
“Let go,” she warned.
“You walked into this bar and made right for me.” His voice sounded deeper. “Why?”
“You were the best looking guy here,” she said.
“You can speak the truth and still be a liar.”
“You can be handsome and still turn my stomach.”
He squeezed her elbow tighter and the freeze seeped through the fabric of her dress, numbing her arm. Jeff said, “I think you were sent here by a man who shall remain nameless to spy on me. You can tell him to back the fuck off.”
While he spoke his gibberish, Emma struggled to wrench her arm free. The bartender appeared. “Any trouble?”
“We’re just saying goodbye,” said Jeff, giving her a weird warning with his beady eyes.
He was insane. And paranoid. “I wasn’t sent here by a man,” said Emma. “And I’m not a spy.”
Jeff said, “Your wig is crooked.”
Chapter 8
“T hese pictures are horrible. No offense, Victor.” asked Emma the next morning, in Saturday yoga pants and a red poncho. “Are you sure this is what she wants?”
Victor was
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