Page 34 of My Totally Unfair Deal

I flip through more cards, noting how he’s written down proper ways to greet everyone from the bellman to a stranger on the subway.

He’s dedicated five postcards to “being nice to the postal man,” and I refuse to hang on to that knowledge when I return home unless he stops throwing our packages like a savage.

“Was this like a double major of yours in college?” I ask. “Is that how you know all this stuff about dealing with elite people?”

“I grew up with them for most of my life.” He looks at me, but there’s no smile.

I’ve struck a nerve.

I nod and return to flipping through the cards for the rest of the drive.

When we make it to the yoga studio, a man dressed entirely in pink sits cross-legged on a plush rug, his long ponytail trailing down his back as he hums softly.

“Come, come,” he says, patting the space beside him. “Sit with me. Let the rays of the sun warm your soul.”

I shoot Harrison a look that saysPlease. Don’t. Make. Me.

He just smiles, infuriatingly handsome and utterly unfazed.

“I’ll be back to retrieve you in an hour,” he says.

“Wait, what?” I shake my head. “You’re not doing this with me?”

“Nope. I have more ‘assholery’ to commit.”

The gleam in his eye says he definitely overheard everything I said to Janey.

“Enjoy,” he says. “And get used to doing this every morning.”

Before I can talk my way out of it, the yoga guy pulls me down beside him.

Within minutes, my spine is aching, my thighs are trembling, and every breath I take reminds me just how tightly I’m wound.

It also makes me wonder if Harrison’sinappropriatemethod would’ve been easier…

FIFTEEN (B)

HARRISON

Several yoga sessions, failed heel-walks, and icy cold showers later…

Harrison

Now that your walking style has advanced from a drunken pigeon to a regular pigeon, let’s have dinner outside my penthouse.

I have a client to follow up with, but I should be done by the time you wake up from your nap & see this…

Tell the driver to take you to my favorite Wall Street bar around 9.

SIXTEEN

ELIZA

The bar—Château Verre—is empty except for the two of us. All dark wood, candlelight, and towering shelves of imported liquor, it’s the kind of place you whisper in without knowing why. Harrison’s rented the whole place out, transforming it into a private lesson disguised as a wine tasting. Bottles of champagne and rare wines surround us in glass buckets and crystal decanters, each one more intimidating than the last.

I’m slightly tipsy. Not enough to be drunk, but enough to let my Southern drawl slip out a little stronger than usual.

Which he notices.

---