Page 12 of Keeping the Score

He turns and steadies me with those big hands. “Are you okay?”

I swallow. “I think so.”

“What is her problem?” he rumbles. “Jesus.”

“She’s… I think she’s jealous.”

“Yeah, I’d say so.” He rubs my back in gentle circles that both comfort me and send sparks down my spine. “What the fuck?”

“Thank you.” I draw back from him, gathering my composure. I glance around. “Thanks for standing up for me.”

“Of course. She’s a loon.”

“That was not cool,” the woman next to me says. “Wow.”

“Unprofessional,” her partner says, frowning.

“I think… I’d like to leave now.” I gaze up at Ford.

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

I grab my little purse and my trophy, holding myself together long enough to say good night to the others sitting with us, then Ford leads us out of the room, down to the ground floor, and out into the city night. The sun has set and the lights of Manhattan glitter and sparkle around us.

I pause. I don’t know which direction to go.

“Should we get an Uber?” Ford asks.

“I need a drink. Let’s walk.” I stalk along the sidewalk toward West 46th.

Ford falls into step with me. “You okay in those heels?”

“My feet are killing me,” I admit. “But I’ll make it.”

There are lots of restaurants on this street just up ahead. We pause at one of the first we come to, an Italian place with a tiny patio in front. Miraculously, there’s an empty table and we are quickly seated there.

I pick up a cocktail menu and study it.

“Are you warm enough?” Ford asks.

I realize I shivered in the evening breeze. “I’m fine.”

He shakes his head and takes off his suit jacket, moving around to drape it over my shoulders. His warmth and scent—like warm leather and spice—envelop me and for a moment I feel a wee bit dizzy. I resist the urge to drop my chin and press my nose into the lapel to breathe in more. “Thank you.”

He sits back in his chair and loosens his tie, all smooth and sophisticated in his expensive clothes, a contrast to the sweaty, half-naked guy doing martial arts, or the athlete on the ice, or even the automaton he appears to be at home, all regimented and organized.

A waiter appears and I order a dirty martini. Ford gets a beer.

“So,” he says. “Did you steal her client?”

“No!”

His lips twitch and I see he’s teasing.

“I didn’t steal them,” I say more calmly. “They were a client I worked with at Design Edge. We had a good working relationship. When I left Design Edge, they had a couple of months left on their contract, and they decided not to sign with them again and came to me. But I had no idea they were going to do that.”

He nods.

“Some of the people at Design Edge were upset about it,” I continue. “Especially Haven, who took over their account when I left. The thing is, Haven’s good at what she does. Mirabella just preferred working with me. But she doesn’t need to be jealous of me.”

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