He’d just finished troubleshooting a chain of software problems for a minor celebrity who had decided two a.m. was the perfect time for recording his new album. His ears were still ringing from the client’s music--literally. The guy was some kind of character, piping his own tunes into every one of the eleven rooms in his downtown brownstone--and he stank of cigarette smoke. He wanted a shower and a long sleep. The timing for both couldn’t be better. His wife left for the gym and, when she had an assignment, work, at six a.m. Her routine left Mac with a quiet house and a warm bed, both empty of the woman he couldn’t face. He knew she’d lied about having too much to drink at Elizabeth’s birthday party. Elizabeth didn’t serve alcohol because the habits and practices of her social circle could quickly become reckless and dangerous if decision-making skills were impaired. No, wine wasn’t to blame for the severity of her reaction to being bound by a guest demonstrating knot techniques.
