“We ate at like six thirty,” I complained.
“I thought all you hedge fund guys were up super early so you could communicate with Tokyo.”
“This isn’t the nineteen eighties,” I said with a laugh. “It’s all about the African continent now. And I’m not gambling on the stock market. I’m making big investments with an eye to the long term.”
I opened the bag to see what the driver had picked up for lunch.
“Score!” I said. “Cecily’s sandwiches.” I fished one of them out of the brown paper sack. “And caprese salad.”
Grace pulled a small plastic container out of her purse.
“You’re eating wilted lettuce, and what is that, organ meat?”
“It’s baked chicken breast,” Grace huffed. “Not all of us can have a sandwich from the best sandwich shop in Manhattan delivered all the way out to the Connecticut countryside.”
I unwrapped my sandwich and took a bite. “But it’s so amazing.”
“Yeah, rub it in.”
I gave her an incredulous look.
“I had the driver pick up food for you too,” I said. “I’m not a complete asshole, just a dick.”
“Oh,” Grace said.
“Do you want an Italian club sandwich, the chicken parmesan, or a chipotle turkey?”
“I—” She looked longingly at the sandwiches. “I’ll just eat my chicken.” She wrinkled her nose. “I could barely fit in the dress last night.”
“Grace,” I said seriously, “you looked hot as hell in that dress last night. You were sex on a stick wrapped up in a bow.”
“Oh,” she said, picking at her food.
“You don’t believe me?”
She shrugged. “It’s not important.”
I reached over to tilt her chin toward me.
“Grace, believe this,” I said, putting all my ill-advised desire in the words. “If there wasn’t an annulment on the line, I would have fucked you in the coatroom at the party.”
She sucked in a breath and almost choked on the piece of chicken.
I patted her on the back and handed her one of the mineral waters in the delivery bag.
“This,” she said, waving between us, eyes watering after she had finished her coughing fit, “is not that. This is professional. We are in a business arrangement. Not…” She gestured wildly. “You know. I don’t even like you like that.”
“To be fair, you don’t have to like someone to fuck their brains out,” I said, my dick really starting to hop on board with this idea. “Besides, we may not be granted an annulment.”
“We will. We have to,” she said firmly. “I can’t be married to someone I never met.”
“Technically,” I reminded her, “you did know me. You just didn’t like me very much.”
She scowled.
“Now,” I said, taking away her Tupperware container, “you can’t eat this. Clearly the chicken is trying to kill you. If you don’t like any of these sandwiches, there’s also all sorts of sides—chips, pickles, pasta salad, and I guess this is couscous salad which I am not eating, so that’s all yours.”
Grace glared at me.
