Page 33 of The Wrong Wife

"What else can it be?" She reaches for the box-wine, eyes it with skepticism then pours some into her glass anyway. "He’s attracted to you, but he’s fighting it."

"He’s certainly fighting something," I muse.

"Do you think he was injured when he was prisoner of war, and now, he can’t… You know—" She holds up a finger.

This time, I chuckle. "Oh, trust me, he can… Very much—" I hold up my fist.

"Ah." She nods, then gapes when I hold up my other fist next to my first.

"Like that, hmm?"

"He’s, ah… hung, all right." My cheeks flush. "And I’m not talking about this with you anymore."

"Aww." She pouts. "At least, you’re getting some action."

"More like, I getre-actions from this man. He’s battling something inside of himself."

"His lust for you." She makes a slurping sound. "He’s fighting to keep his python in his pants."

I stare at her. "Did you call his whatchamacallit a python."

"Or perhaps, I should say mamba."

"Mamba?"

"You know that phrase ‘milking the mamba’?" She makes air quotes with her fingers.

"Ugh, whatever. How do you know all these euphemisms?"

"You mean, how do I know that you can also call that particular act choking the chicken, bashing the bishop, flogging the dong, beating the—"

"Stop." I laugh. "Enough. I can’t decide if I should be impressed you know all these urbanisms or worried?"

"That’s what comes when you gorge yourself on smut. I’m a smuthead. What can I say? And as things go, it’s a fairly innocent thing to OD on, don’t you think?"

"I think you should—"

The intercom buzzes. We look at each other. "Were you expecting someone?"

"No, you?"

She shakes her head, then walks toward the intercom and presses the buzzer. “Delivery for Ms. Easton."

"Eh?" I blink. "I didn’t order anything."

There’s silence, then the man says, "It’s definitely for Ms. Easton."

I exchange a glance with Mira, then place my glass on the coffee table. I walk past her, head out the door and down the flight of steps, with Mira on my heels. I open the door to find a man standing there with his arms full of paper bags.

"What’s this?"

"It’s a delivery from the restaurant of James Hamilton."

"But I didn’t—"

"James Hamilton?" Mira squawks from behind me. "The Michelin-starred, celebrity chef who has his own show?ThatJames Hamilton?"

The man grins. "Yes, Miss. May I bring this up to the apartment? There are a lot of bags."

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