Month of Sundays Read Online Free PDF Page B

degrees. Resisting the temptation to burrow under the covers and catch another forty winks, she tossed the comforter aside, put on workout clothes, and went for a five-mile run. Bitterly cold air pricked her lungs with each step. Snowplow drivers were out in force, their thick layers of clothing a far cry from the swimsuit-sporting beachcombers she was used to.
    You’re a long way from Newport Beach, baby.
    She finished her run in front of her favorite grocery store, a hidden gem a few blocks from her apartment that sold the best fresh produce outside of the commercial markets.
    “Good morning, Mr. Li.”
    Li Fong, the store’s owner, broke into a broad grin. Laugh lines creased his weathered face. His impish grin and slight stature made him look like a teenager trapped in an eighty-year-old’s body. “Good morning, Griffin. How are you today?”
    “Hungry.”
    Like Old Mother Hubbard, her cupboard was bare. She filled a basket with enough fresh fruit and vegetables to replenish her supply and placed the carrier on the counter.
    Mr. Li began to scan her purchases. “Did you enjoy yourself at dim sum yesterday?”
    “Yes, I did. Thank you for inviting me.” She patted her stomach. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so much in my life.”
    Everything had tasted so good she hadn’t been able to stop at one serving.
    “Dim sum is about being together. That makes tea more important than the food. Tea, unlike a meal, cannot be rushed.”
    “I’ll remember that. Thanks, Mr. Li.” She paid for her purchases and walked home as the morning commuters began to make their way to the subway.
    In her kitchen, she poured granola into a bowl, then added sliced peaches and two heaping tablespoons of vanilla yogurt. Her P.A. let himself in as she was shoveling the last spoonful into her mouth. He had two steaming cups from a nearby coffee shop in his hands. He offered her the one in his left.
    She wrapped her hands around the warm paper cup and inhaled the cardamom-infused aroma of the chai tea inside. “If you were a woman, I’d kiss you.”
    “If you were a man, I’d let you.” Tucker Croft set his latte on the counter and pulled a Day Planner from the depths of his messenger bag. “Give me your CrackBerry.”
    She dutifully turned over her smartphone. “What do we have on tap this week?” she asked as he updated her schedule and programmed electronic reminders.
    He referred to the Day Planner. “This morning, you’re doing a segment on the third hour of Today .”
    “On what? Remind me.”
    “Healthy, budget-conscious alternatives to traditional calorie-laden holiday meals. Tomorrow, you’re taping a segment on New Year’s Eve cocktails for Good Morning, America . Thursday, you’re being interviewed for a profile in Gourmet Magazine ’s Chefs and Restaurants section. Friday, some accounting firm has booked its holiday party at Match, which means you’ll be cooking for fifty bean counters in pocket protectors and cheap suits.”
    Griffin grinned. “Not cheap. Budget-conscious.”
    “If a suit costs less than four figures, that spells cheap in my book.”
    “Not everyone shops at the Prada store, you fashion whore.” Tucker’s dark blue designer sweater and matching corduroy pants were paired with blue-and-cream colored leather saddle shoes. “Speaking of which, I think I’m paying you too much.”
    “For the amount of work I do, you’re not paying me enough.”
    She placed her dirty dishes in the washer. “Do I have anything fun planned for this week, or will I be working nonstop?”
    “You’re invited to a holiday party Saturday night, but unless you can reschedule, you’re going to be pulling a twelve-hour shift that day.”
    “Who’s throwing the party?”
    “Jane and Colleen are having a potluck at their apartment. You’re familiar with potlucks, aren’t you? They’re what people like me who can’t afford people like you to cater their events refer to as dinner parties.”
    “You’re