Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“Tennis.”
I closed the folder, not needing to see any more perfection. Tennis. Ugh. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I beg your pardon?” The wiry man before me shifted in his seat. Adjusted his glasses.
“I don’t want her strengths. I want her weaknesses. Does she do drugs? Have a kid? Bang trailer trash on the weekends?”
Big dumb blinks behind wire-rimmed glass. I hired the best company in town and this is what I got. “Umm… my report was very comprehensive…”
“And left anything negative out.” I tossed the folder onto his desk. “Where’s the dirt?”
“I didn’t find anything like that…” He wet his lips. Nervously tapped his hands in some odd drumming pantomime on his legs. I stared at his hands until they stopped.
“Where does she work?”
His face relaxed slightly. “Olive Garden. The one in Stonestown.”
“Get me a copy of her schedule. What days this week she’s working.”
He nodded, short and nervously, the downward tilt of his head revealing the plugs that dot the landscape of his forehead. “Anything else?”
“No.” I tapped my fingers against my lips. “Not yet.”
I pulled out my desk drawer. Grabbed a checkbook and printed his name on the front. Completed it with a generous enough amount to properly incentivize the man. Then I ripped off the check and stood, holding it out.
“Call me when you know more.”
He grinned, revealing a row of stained teeth, their tips pointing in more directions than a pencil holder. “Yes, Ms. Fairmont.”
I gave him a polite smile and picked up my cell. Waited until I heard the door close behind him, then completed my call.
I’d never taken down a girl before. Didn’t have prep school archenemies, the bitchy girls of television who killed hopes and dreams while modeling couture. My high school friends were civilized, structured. Women at Stanford were more focused on grades and futures over petty rivalries, no spare effort available to be wasted.
So I was entering this game a virgin. But, in my own estimations, a well-equipped one. Financed. Intelligent. And… as a small point to my side… I had fucked her boyfriend… twice in three hours. I had some inkling of what he liked, wanted. Had enough confidence in his attraction to me, despite the fact that she was absolutely gorgeous and looked nothing like me. It was as if he had flipped open an encyclopedia, scrolled to the section of ‘Opposite of Layana’ and selected her photo. Go figure.
Also on my side: the element of surprise. I was a party of one. Alone in this battle, with no one aware of my scheming, no defenses raised. I would be attacking a sleeping kitten. An innocent, fragile kitten. Ripping her away from Lee and severing any chance of their reconnection.
I should have felt guilty, should have had compassion, but I didn’t. Love is war and Lee was, or would be, mine.
The text came while I was in the shower. I discovered it while toweling off, my damp finger dysfunctional on the phone’s screen, a few attempts needed before I could unlock the screen and view the alert.
1 NEW TEXT MESSAGE
I opened it. Short and sweet, from my ever-helpful private investigator.
HE’S WITH MOLLY JENKINS NOW. PANERA ON 43RD STREET
I texted back.
LET ME KNOW IF THEY LEAVE
Glanced at my watch. 11:12 AM. I was supposed to be having lunch with Brant at noon. I set down the phone and hurried to my dresser, yanking out a pair of dark jeans and tossing them on the bed.
I pulled into the shopping center lot at the same time that Lee’s jeep pulled out, my eyes catching the dark green body, two heads inside, as it careened out into traffic. My phone buzzed.
THEY’RE LEAVING. I’M FOLLOWING.
Thanks a lot. I called him, letting him know I was there, dismissing him for the day as soon as my car caught up to Lee’s. I shouldn’t be there. Shouldn’t be stalking a man who didn’t know enough to have any interest in me. My phone dinged again. This time, Jillian.
BRANT WON’T MAKE LUNCH. MY APOLOGIES.
Shocker. I shoved my phone in my purse, waved at the PI’s car and earned a passing nod in return. Two individuals, two different motivations, united with a common goal. I pressed on the accelerator, wove through traffic, and caught up to Lee’s jeep.
He drove like a maniac, his head turning often in her direction, her smile visible from my place behind them, every burst of her smile a knife in my heart. At one stoplight he reached over. Rested a hand on her headrest and leaned in, their mouths meeting for one heart-wrenching moment before my hand misbehaved and hit the horn. His head pulled off, looking toward the light, which changed at that moment. Then he looked into the rear view mirror, his eyes too far to read, but I’m certain there was irritation in them, his jeep jerking forward, our connection lost as he floored the gas. My mouth curved behind the tint of my windows. Sorry babe.