Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
The contrast is like something out of Schitt’s Creek.
“Does anyone know what these yellow things are in my salad?” Mrs. Banks asks.
“Mangoes,” Mark says, patting his mom’s hand. “They’re delicious.”
“Have you never had mango?” Monsieur gasps. “I was once almost killed by a mango. We were biking in Hawaii . . .”
“Fiji,” his wife corrects.
“. . . And I stopped to fiddle with my backpack . . .”
“Your shoelace.”
“. . . When I heard this whistle near my ear. Like the sound of a mortar shell flying past. Then a loud smack, and the biggest, ripest mango I’ve ever seen had made a crater in the earth right next to my bike. It fell from a fifty-foot tree. I swear, it could have brained me.”
“I don’t think we have mangoes in Ohio,” muses Mrs. Banks.
“At least, not homicidal ones,” Mark snickers.
“Did you eat it?” Flip asks. “Five second rule!”
“Of course we didn’t eat it,” Madame says with a shudder. “But they served lovely local fruit that afternoon at The Ritz.”
Hannah nudges her wineglass toward me, and I take another surreptitious gulp.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“It is my absolute pleasure.”
Beneath the table, Hannah touches my elbow in gratitude.
And on the other side of me, her brother puts his hand on my thigh.
I fucking love Florida, from the clubs to the beaches to the hammocks. Especially the hammocks. I never want to leave.
33
EVERY CELL OF MY SPREADSHEET
MARK
Holy shit, this party is hilarious.
I can’t imagine having the Duboises as in-laws. I don’t think Hannah can imagine it either. Her wide eyes and rapid glances around the table tell me she’s a little freaked out. Luckily for her, they live on another continent, so she won’t have to tolerate them for more than a few days a year.
Besides, the modest twenty-room country home in the south of France, as Flip’s mom just described, doesn’t sound like a bad place to visit.
“All escargots are snails,” Madame is saying. “But not all snails can be escargots.”
“Obviously.” Flip says with a grin. He seems to enjoy his mother’s wild pronouncements. “Not every living squiggly creature deserves to be bathed in butter and garlic for your pleasure.”
“Well, I think that sounds gross,” my daughter says suddenly. And very loudly.
Beside me, Asher chokes on a sip of my sister’s wine.
“Now Rosie,” Hannah squeaks, laying a hand on her silky hair. Rosie loves Aunt Hannah, and never misses a chance to take the seat beside hers. “We don’t yuck someone else’s yum.”
“We do if it’s a snail,” my kid insists. “Ew.”
Madame Dubois sniffs. “In France, children do not dine with the adults at the table. They dine in the kitchen with the au pair.”
At the other end of the table, Bridget clutches the stem of her wineglass. But her eyes are twinkling merrily. She’s obviously holding back the same bark of laughter that I am.
Our eyes lock. And by silent, mutual agreement, we each take a sip of our drink instead of saying a damn word to our daughter about this particular culinary opinion.
Because snails are gross. And because she’s barely six. And because Madame Dubois is a bully in pearls and a diamond brooch.
I catch myself smiling at my ex-wife for the first time in a long time. I guess it’s hard to stay bitter when you’re eating a sumptuous meal in a mansion on the bay. And getting laid on the regular.
Just then, Asher shifts in his chair. He hooks a bare foot under mine and pulls it closer to him.
Then he puts a hand on my knee and strokes.
I don’t dare glance at Bridget again, in case she can read the situation from my face. Not that it really matters anymore. My attitude toward her is shifting now that she’s not the only one who has a life. In fact, this week has shown me that it’s possible I could someday feel grateful about the way our marriage turned out.
For the first time, I’m liking this divorced life. As well as the hand on my leg.
I don’t wear a watch, so I don’t know what time it is. But I’m still counting down the minutes until everyone turns in for the night.
This time I won’t conk out early. There’s no chance I’ll miss my last night with Asher St. James. We’re going to lock the guest house door tonight and have all the sex.
Every goddamn cell of that spreadsheet is going to be kissed and licked and boinked into oblivion. The program will probably crash before we’re through.
Tomorrow, all hundred thousand employees of the Microsoft Corporation will probably feel strangely horny, and they won’t know why.
Asher nudges me with his toe. “You’re smirking,” he murmurs.
“I don’t smirk.” A waiter leans in to remove my empty salad plate. “What do you think the main course is? Something with a complicated French name?”