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“I know.”
“You did not plan for this.”
“Do I have to say it?” Myron asked.
“Ugh,” Terese said, doing her best Myron impression. “Please no.”
“Der Mensch Tracht, un Gott Lacht.”
She handled the translation. “Man plans, God laughs.”
“It’s not what I planned. It’s better. I love you, Terese. I want this. I want you. Okay?”
“Okay.” He wasn’t sure she believed him. “Myron?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t make love to Emily.”
“No interest.”
“Yeah, you do. That’s why you said something, and I didn’t. You still have feelings for her. It’s how you’re built. You give someone your heart, they always have a little piece of it.”
“And you don’t feel that way about Charles?”
“Not even a little bit.”
Myron considered that. “Can I still punch him in the face?”
“No,” she said. “But I’m glad you want to.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Myron slipped out of bed at five a.m.
He often lived out of the main guest bedroom in Win’s apartment, the one that overlooked Central Park near 72nd Street. There was an eight-foot-tall Chagall—yes, a real one—on the wall between two windows that faced the park. From the George III–era antique four-poster bed of Jamaican mahogany, Myron’s view (from left to right or right to left) was window overlooking Central Park, gorgeous Chagall, window overlooking Central Park.
There were worse places to stay.
Win was already awake, fully dressed, and reading a newspaper—a real-life actual newspaper made from paper—in the parlor. He drank his Earl Grey from a fine bone china teacup with the family crest on it. Myron took the burgundy leather chair next to him.
“How was your night?” Win asked.
“Pretty awesome. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Probably because your night was—how did you so skillfully describe it?—‘pretty awesome.’”
Win was a night owl. He took walks in the wee hours. He drank a bit too much and womanized, if that was still the term people used, to all hours, but somehow, he always woke up early looking fresh and ready. Or he used to. Not that it would be noticeable to anyone else, but Myron could feel the years starting to surface just a bit on his old friend. The eyes were slightly more lidded. The hand lifting that cup of tea wasn’t quite as steady. Maybe that was Myron’s imagination. Or maybe Myron was projecting—he wasn’t getting younger either—but he didn’t think so.
“Did you, uh, use your app last night?” Myron asked.
“I did,” Win said.
Win had a super-rich, super-exclusive, super-anonymous, super-luxurious sexual hookup app—Tinder for the uber-wealthy kinda thing. Myron didn’t know all the details—didn’t want to know all the details—but in sum, two mega-rich people match, meet in a clandestine gorgeous penthouse somewhere in midtown, and, well, do the sheet mambos.
“Don’t ask for details,” Win said.
“I won’t.”
