I tried not to think about it as I weaved through my section at Alma’s, the Upper East Side diner I’d been at since leaving my job at the elementary school. It was a mindless gig and busy enough to keep me distracted. All I really had to do was smile, refill coffee and listen to anecdotes about sassy grandkids. Our clientele was largely older and easy to get along with if you didn’t keep them hungry. Conversation often got repetitive but this week, I needed those stories I’d heard a thousand times about the post office or Emma’s tap recital. They were the best ways to remind myself that this – this was my world. Not Abram. Not that breathtaking building he lived in. All that needed to be quickly forgotten. After leaving his penthouse three days ago, I’d still been reeling. I was still thinking about him. It was impossible not to. He’d given me the clothes off his muscled back and called for a black Range Rover to drive me to work. The handler who took me into the elevator gave me five hundred dollars to replace my dress. I’d then gone down fifty floors in dazed shock before even realizing where I was.
