Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“Sure.” She nods happily, seeming much relieved. “I think that might be better.”
No making the rich clients feel uncomfortable in the clinic, Fee.
Or in the swanky 5th Avenue apartment building. Poor Mr Martinez. My request made him feel uncomfortable, even if he did stick a couple of dollars in the slot.
“Wotcha, love!” Bethany, one of the junior psychologists, calls from across the office as I bustle in, her greeting more Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins than anything remotely authentic.
“Morning, Bethany.”
“How was that?” she asks eagerly, pushing her dark bob behind her ears. “Am I going to pass for a real Londoner next summer?”
“Sure, you’ll blend.” Marta, my favourite dietician on staff, sniggers. “Talk like that, and the locals will warm to you in no time. That or maybe throw you into the Thames.”
“I ain’t bovvered.” Beth sniffs, which only reinforces her impersonation of the movie chimney sweep, then gives an affected shrug.
“Where on earth are you getting all this from?” I throw the question over my shoulder as I make my way over to the desk I’ve been designated, plonk down in it then slide my purse into the drawer.
“I went down an internet rabbit hole last night.”
“You’re supposed to be studying for your doctorate.” Marta sends her a disapproving look over the top of her laptop.
“I’ll get there,” Beth replies with an airy wave. In the short while I’ve worked here, I’ve learned that despite being both in their late twenties, Marta has worked her butt off to get where she is while Bethany comes from money and has a pretty blasé attitude about work. But despite the office banter, they’re both passionate about helping people lead happier, healthier lives. Except for Bethany’s (recent) ex-husband, who can “suck donkey dick” before either of them would lift a finger to benefit him.
This is the kind of place that should have one of those signs that reads: you don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps!
I find I fit right in.
“At least you’re not the last one in this morning.” Beth turns her attention back to me, her finger waggling side to side in the air between us. “No trip to the ’bucks for you as punishment.”
And this is why I’ll never be late, not if I can help it. I don’t have the money to waste on chai lattes, skinny muffins, and fruit salads for the whole office, or even the three of us, from Starbucks. Besides, we all know that position falls to Ethan every day. That is, whenever he finally deigns to join us. As owner—part owner?—of the clinic, as well as also being a sports psychologist by discipline, he can well afford it.
“I thought we were supporting the little café on the corner now, not the mega conglomerate?” Marta quirks a brow as she sits back in her chair.
“Ah, but that was before Fee saw rats on the sidewalk.” Beth sounds as though she wants to laugh, but it’s true—I thought they were terriers at first.
“This is New York.” Marta pulls a pen from her flame-red messy bun, pointing it in my direction. “Of course you saw rats. Quit kvetching.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur primly. “Just because I don’t fancy sharing my bagel with the cast of Ratatouille. But by all means”—I press my hand to my forehead then begin to shake—“you enjoy your leptospirosis latte.” I’m in the middle of miming a lepto-induced seizure when the boss walks in.
“I think we should all have what Fee is having,” Ethan announces with a grin. “Though dropping acid at work is usually frowned upon.”
“It was supposed to be leptospirosis,” I say in a small voice that goes unheard at Beth’s dramatic announcement.
“Oh, my God. I think I love you.” She prises her and Marta’s coffees from the cardboard coffee carrier in his hand. “This is just what the doctor ordered.”
“Maybe it will be if you ever get your doctorate.” Marta gives a tiny yet disapproving shake of her head as she accepts her coffee.
“For you.” Ethan places the carrier on my desk, passing over my usual matcha latte with a flourish. “What’s in one of those, anyway?” He leans nonchalantly against my desk, his broad thigh pressed against the edge.
“Japanese green tea leaf,” I answer without much conviction.
“What’s this?” he asks, picking up Lulu’s tin.
“It’s for a fundraising drive my daughter’s school is running. It’s for the homeless.”
“Cool.” He places it down again . . . without putting any money in.
I really didn’t know how to take Ethan. I mean, he seems nice and is always laughing, though we have very little interaction professionally. Surely the fact that he buys us coffee every morning shows he’s generous. Doesn’t it?
“I brought it in for donations,” I say, giving the tin a shake.
“Good idea.” He turns away, deliberately obtuse or just a bit imperceptive, I don’t know.