Page 37 of Cruel Lies

Which begs the question…

"What are you doing here?"

"I had a meeting." He pushes off the column and takes a step toward me. "A few of them, actually. One of them got interrupted by something far more interesting."

The penny drops.

"You were in the room," I come to understand slowly. "Just now. Upstairs."

He nods. "You didn't see me. It almost hurt my feelings."

My face heats up, though I don't know why. I've got nothing to be embarrassed about. But there's something about knowing he watched the whole thing that makes my skin prickle. In a good way? In a bad way? I'm not so sure yet.

"How much did you see?" I ask.

"All of it," he says with obvious pleasure. "From the smart scale to Santorini."

I purse my lips. "Well," I say, "now, you know I wasn't lying about my husband having a bad year."

"No." His mouth curves. "You undersold it, if anything."

I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself.

"I'd like to buy you a drink," he adds. "If memory serves, I owe you at least one more."

"It's eleven-thirty in the morning," I point out.

"But today is such a special occasion."

"I told you at the bar. I'm done with men. The whole gender can take a long walk off a short bridge." I hike my bag higher on my shoulder. "That includes you."

"I'm not asking you to marry me," he chuckles. "But surely this life event deserves a celebratory toast?"

I open my mouth to say no one more, firmly and permanently.

But the thing is, he's not wrong.

I just pulled off the single most satisfying thing I've ever done, and I'm about to walk out into a sunny Manhattan afternoon completely alone. There's no one to call. My mom would ask too many questions. My friends—the real ones, not Paula—don't know any of this is happening yet. There's no one in my whole life I can sit down with right now and say,I did it, can you believe I did it,and have them understand.

Except, apparently, this man.

He saw it.

He gets it.

And I do, when I really sit with it, want a toast.

I check my watch. It's eleven thirty-four. I don't have to pick up Hayden and Isabella until three. I've got hours to kill and absolutely nothing to fill them with except the long, quiet ride home and the slow, careful work of figuring out what comes next.

One drink won't hurt.

"I have to pick up my kids at three," I say. "So whatever this is, it's done by two-thirty."

"My office is across the street," he says. "I can have you out the door by two."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Your office? That's a pickup line if I've ever heard it."

"It's nicer than a bar," he explains. "And it's private. Besides, I have a very good bottle of something I've been saving for an occasion exactly like this."