Page 3 of It's Not PMS, It's You

“I mean, unless we can both agree that there wasnoaccident, which there wasn’t.”

He blinked and could finally form words. “What accident? I just came over to tell you to have a great day. Good job in class today.” He returned to his bike in front of the class.

I felt a smidgen of guilt for scaring the instructor like that, but what else was I going to do?

The man was trying to kill us, plus I just needed to get out of there.

I turned to thank the man who helped me off the floor, but oddly he was nowhere in sight. It was better that way since I was already embarrassed enough. And luckily, I would never see him again since this wasn’t my regular gym and I wouldn’t be returning before the turn of the next century.

Two hours later, I had showered, eaten breakfast, popped eight hundred milligrams of Ibuprofen, iced my injury, and walked to the pharmacy on the corner to buy a compression sleeve for my wrist.

Just like that, I was busy at work in my home office in Del Mar, California, a gorgeous beach town known for horse races and former residents Desi Arnaz, Burt Bacharach, Angie Dickinson, and Jimmy Durante.

I glanced over at my vibrating cell phone on the desk.

It was a text from Dee, my administrative assistant and best friend.

Dee: We need to talk ASAP about the Amsterion deal. Video conference?

Ruth: Give me two minutes. I’m in desperate need of more coffee. Got up early today for a spinning class.

Dee: You + spinning class = disaster. I’m surprised you made it out alive.

Ruth: Barely.

Dee knew that I wasn’t a fan of high-intensity workouts. In fact, she knew everything there was to know about me in my personal and professional life.

That’s why she got paid the big bucks.

As a partner in my firm and a corporate takeover investment specialist, I couldn’t afford to have someone who wasn’t on top of things. I needed someone who had my back and was smart enough to think for me when I was too stressed out or operating on four hours of sleep, which was almost always.

Dee was that person.

I prepared another cup of coffee, sat back down at my desk, and then connected to the video conference on my laptop. “Good morning.” I adjusted the compression sleeve on my wrist since it felt a little too tight.

“Good morning.” Dee lost her smile and pointed. “What happened to your wrist?”

“Don’t ask.”

She nodded. “Does this have anything to do with the other thing I’m not supposed to ask about, the spinning class?”

“I thought you had something urgent regarding the Amsterion deal.”

Dee sighed. “Fine, but the conversation about your wrist is not over.”

I laughed. “Believe me, I know. Talk to me.”

“I just found out that Stewart Peters is going to try to make a play for Amsterion.”

I sat up in my chair. “You’re kidding me.”

Dee shook her head. “I wish I were.”

“How reliable is your source?”

“If he or she weren’t reliable, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Stewart Peters was the enemy and my biggest pain in the butt, always trying to steal my clients out from under me. I would be fine with it if he did it fair and square, but the guy was an unethical weasel.