Page 13 of Undercover Emissary


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He dropped his arm from around my waist, but I could feel his fingers on the small of my back.

“I have one of those,” he said, pointing to the exercise bike. “Been on it?”

I took a container out of the bag, set it on the counter, and tilted my head. “Look where it is.”

“Yeah?”

“No, I haven’t been on it. If I had, it wouldn’t still be sitting there.” I did want to try it out, though, and could use the exercise. Maybe over the weekend, I’d ask one of the doormen to help me move it away from the windows.

I watched Cope walk over, kneel down, and flip a switch. “Have you ever tried out one of these? They’re amazing.” He tapped his finger on the screen. “The software needs to update, but once it does, I can show you one of its really cool features.”

I had the containers out of the bag and stuck my fork into what looked like a gyro salad. “Oh my God,” I groaned when I took a bite of the succulent meat. “This is so good.” I took two more bites, barely swallowing in between. “No wonder you wouldn’t give it up.”

He walked over and stood across the counter from me. “I’m sorry about that too.”

“Too?”

“And I’m sorry about forgetting you were waiting in the lobby for me today.”

“And?”

He cocked his head.

“What else are you sorry for?”

His eyes opened wide. He looked at the containers in front of me, and then he shrugged. “There’s more?”

“Telling me I couldn’t be at the courthouse, for starters.”

“I’m not sure I owe you an apology for that.”

“You were rude.” I took two more bites, closing my eyes as I chewed, moaning at how good it tasted.

“Anything else?”

My mouth was full, so I nodded.

“What?” he asked right before I stabbed another piece of the meat.

“You snapped at me in the car.”

He rolled his eyes. “No, I didn’t.”

“‘As far as anything to do with the trial, I can’t talk about it. Especially to you.’”

“I was stating a fact. I didn’t snap.”

I pushed aside the lettuce, looking for another piece of the meat, smiling when I found one.

He reached over and opened one of the containers. Inside was baklava, and when he took a piece, I smacked the back of his hand with my fork. “Ouch! Why’d you do that?”

“Put it back.”

He didn’t. He took a bite, and I glared at him.

“That was mine.”

“I bought it.”

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