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duck my head under
    the covers, slowly traveling downward to make it up to him.
    In his most favorite way.
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Chapter 3
    Two days later, we’re having breakfast at the kitchen table. Drew
    likes to exercise in the evening after work, to decompress and
    release the stress of the day. I, however, am one of those highly
    annoying people who love to go for a five a.m. run. Breakfast is
    where we meet in the middle. After which, Drew goes to the office
    and I shower.
    “You know what I love about Cookie Crisp cereal?” he’s star-
    ing at his spoon.
    I’ve never seen one person ingest so much cereal. I swear, if I
    didn’t cook, it’s all he would eat.
    I swallow a mouthful of yogurt—Dannon Light & Fit. The
    commercials don’t lie; it’s really delicious. Strawberry banana is the best.
    “What’s that?”
    “It’s shaped like cookies. So, not only is it awesome, but I feel
    like I’m getting revenge on my parents for making me eat frigging
    oatmeal the first half of my life.”
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    42
    E m m a c h a s E
    A poet and a philosopher, Drew is truly a Renaissance man.
    I open my mouth to tease him, but I snap it shut as a wave of
    nausea strikes like a lightning bolt. I clear my throat and bring the back of my hand to my lips.
    “Kate? You okay?”
    As I try to answer, my stomach does a somersault that would
    make Nadia Com?neci jealous.
    I’m going to throw up.
    I hate throwing up.
    It makes me feel claustrophobic. Suffocated.
    To this day, when I have a stomach virus, I sit on the phone
    with my mommy while she talks me through the heaves.
    I’m not going to make it to the bathroom, so I lunge for the
    kitchen sink. As I splatter my breakfast into it, Drew holds back
    the strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail.
    I want to tell him to go away, but another round of retching
    commences. Some women have no problem going to the bath-
    room, passing gas, or throwing up in front of their boyfriends.
    I’m not one of them.
    Maybe it’s stupid, but if I were to die suddenly, I don’t want the last image Drew has of me to be one where I’m sitting on the toilet.
    Or in this case, barfing in the sink.
    his voice is kind. Soothing. “Okay . . . easy. You’re okay.”
    When it seems like the worst is over, Drew hands me a wet
    paper towel. Then he glances toward the drain. “Well, that’s
    colorful.”
    I croak, “Ugh—I knew I was getting the flu.”
    “Seems like it.”
    I shake my head. “I don’t have time be sick. I have the Rob-
    inson meeting today.” Anne Robinson is a client I’ve been court-
    ing for months. Old money—and I stress the word old. She’s like,
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    t w i s t E d
    43
    ninety-five. If I don’t sign her today, it might literally be too late to sign her at all.
    “You’re sick, baby. And I don’t think Mrs. Robinson will be
    impressed if you yak all over her antique brooch. Lucky for you,
    you have a genius boyfriend who performs exceedingly well in
    clutch situations. Give me the folder—I’ll run the meeting. Annie’s as good as yours.”
    he scoops me up in his arms.
    “Drew, no—”
    he cuts me off. “Nope. No bitching. Don’t want to hear it. I’m
    putting you to bed.”
    I smile weakly.
    Drew tucks me in and leaves a glass of ginger ale on the night-
    stand.
    I think he kisses my forehead, but I can’t be sure. Because I’m
    already drifting off to sleep.
    Three hours later, I walk out of the elevator onto the 40th floor of our office building.
    My stomach’s empty, but after a good nap, I woke up feeling
    better. Refreshed. Ready to take on the world and Anne Robinson.
    I walk to the small conference room and peer in through the glass.
    Can you see Drew? Sitting next to the little gray-haired lady
    in the wheelchair? While he’s speaking to the legal representation seated around the table, Mrs. Robinson’s hands disappear under it.
    And a second later Drew