Breakfast in Stilettos by Liz Kingswood Read Free Book Online

Steiner. A quick look at her website showed she was a “kink-aware therapist” and AASECT certified. This, I learned from further reading, stood for American Association of Sex Educators, Counselors and Therapists. At least she was certified by something approaching academia. Images of sweet little old Dr. Ruth formed in my mind.
    I doubted she would be in her office yet so I avoided my initial impulse to give her a call. Instead, I outlined my questions and described my upcoming outing in an email, so she would be thoroughly briefed on what I wanted. I finished the note by asking if she had time for a short interview later today or tomorrow. As I clicked “Send,” I wondered whether she would be interested or put off by the idea of an interview. Some people love the press; others despise it.
    Satisfied that I had scratched one task off my list, I got up and made a pot of tea. Friday donuts would appear as soon as the assigned staffer arrived. I’d brought them last week. The bowl of cereal would tide me over until the chocolate glazed made their rounds.
    At just after 9:00 a.m., Kenner emailed back my finger-pulling data transfer article with some edits. The email said simply, “My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go.” And then there was a little smiley face.
    I wondered what Shakespeare would have made of emoticons. Or the Bible for that matter. Instead of “Jesus wept,” there would just be #:-( .
    It was almost lunchtime when I finished the edits to Kenner’s satisfaction. I sent the final draft and was just getting ready to pursue some food when an email arrived from the therapist. A quick click showed that she was press-friendly and very interested in meeting in the afternoon. Two o’clock sharp. She knew about the Slutterati Salon and attended performances from time to time as a guest of the owners, so she’d be willing to fill me in on preparatory details.
    The prospect of an interview with a sex therapist left me a little faint, and I had a hard time concentrating after lunch. What would a sex therapist think of me, anyway? Would she imagine me naked? Having sex? Would my suppressed sexuality be somehow written on my face or in the way I crossed my legs? I kept rereading my questions, feeling more and more self-conscious, until apparently I looked so flustered that Kenner stopped at my desk.
    His large form loomed over me, eclipsing the ceiling lights. From his initial silence, I knew he was trying to decide whether to approach me as a friend or as The Boss. He always worried about me, and perhaps with good reason, after all the ups and downs I’d been through with Frank.
    “You look a little on edge. Is everything all right? Are you nervous about this assignment or did you sign up for another date with he-who-must-not-be-named?”
    “I’m fine. Honest.” I gave him my best “happy” look, which elicited a grimace.
    “That never works, you know.” But he smiled.
    I waved him away. “Shoo. I’m working .”
    I tried to focus on reading my email, but I could feel him giving me the stink eye. “Emily, why don’t you go home? Or shopping. Or something.”
    I met his gaze. I could tell he was concerned, but I didn’t think he really wanted to know what was going on with me. We rarely talked about what we did outside the office. Well … except for all the conversations about Frank. And I certainly didn’t want to discuss the fact that I was speaking to him again. Nor did I want to tell him about my afternoon appointment with the sex shrink. But maybe he was right; maybe I should take off.
    I sighed. “ OK , you win. I’ve got a few more emails to answer and then I’ll go. Honest.”
    After giving me one more assessing glance, Kenner nodded. “Good. Just promise me you won’t be consorting with the devil over the weekend.”
    I laughed, trying to steer him away from further questioning. “I promise.” But an image of the Biblical serpent