The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(18)

It actually belonged to a friend of mine who really was a flight attendant for Continental Airlines. I had explained to her that I was going to a fantasy-themed party where you were supposed to come dressed as a popular sexual fantasy. I told her that I wanted to dress up as an active member of the "mile-high club" and hoped that the flight attendant garb would properly communicate that.

She giggled at the idea and readily agreed to let me borrow it.

I zipped up the navy-colored skirt around my waist and pulled the matching jacket over my shoulders, adjusting the gold wings that were pinned to the lapel. I then slipped my Birkin into the suitcase and replaced it with a simpler black shoulder bag. Much more representative of a flight attendant's salary.

I fixed my hair and touched up my makeup in the bathroom mirror and then took a deep breath before opening the door.

Andrew Thompson was believed to be at the hotel bar, watching the college football game. Because, according to his wife, "he never misses it."

USC versus Michigan. Andrew's alma mater, and, coincidentally, tonight... Ashlyn's as well.

I didn't have the luxury of being able to scope out the bar and locate the subject before entering. I had to make a grand entrance. It was all part of tonight's charade. And therefore I had to trust that Emily Thompson's knowledge of her husband's evening, after-work activities would be accurate. Otherwise, my charade would be wasted on a bunch of semidrunk, overweight college-football fans.

As I approached the lobby I could see the entrance of the hotel bar about one hundred feet in front of me. I picked up the pace, jogging frantically through the relatively busy lobby, pulling my suitcase behind me and attempting to dodge other hotel patrons as I desperately made my way toward the faint sounds of cheering.

I burst into the bar breathlessly, slowing my pace and wiping my brow with the back side of my hand. "What'd I miss? What's the score?" I took a deep, much-needed breath.

There were five guys sitting around the bar, staring up at the TV screen. All five of them turned to look at me. The grand entrance was a success.

I spotted Andrew Thompson at the far end with, thankfully, an empty bar stool next to him. I immediately made my way over, careful to keep my eyes attentively glued to the screen. I casually slid in next to Andrew, resting my suitcase off to the side and my purse on top of the bar.

I stared obliviously straight ahead as Andrew subtly gave me a once-over. I turned briefly to him and smiled. "Hi," I said aloofly, and then returned my attention to the game.

It took him a minute to come out of his trance, and then he finally replied, "Thirteen-nothing, USC."

"Damn it!" I cursed, shaking my head in disapproval. "Smith's been underestimating his injury. I knew they should have played Wilde."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Andrew momentarily ignore the game completely and look at me in utter astonishment, trying to digest the words coming out of my mouth. Because he knew as well I did that they made perfect sense.

God bless the Internet.

He slowly turned his attention back to the TV screen, the look of bewilderment never leaving his face. It was as if he couldn't even believe women like this actually exist, let alone sit next to him in a bar. Only in his wildest fantasies.

I continued to concentrate solely on the game, managing to successfully order a beer from the bartender without ever altering the direction of my eye line.

The timer on my cell phone went off at 7:15 P.M. Exactly when I had scheduled it. And to anyone else, namely Andrew Thompson, the tone I had programmed as the alarm would sound exactly like a phone ring. Without turning my head away from the TV, I fumbled in my purse, pulled it out, and brought it to my ear. "Yeah, I saw it," I said informally, as if I didn't even have to look at the caller ID to know exactly who was calling me at this moment in time.

This is what happens when there's a Michigan football game on. I watch it, and whoever this person is calls to commentate.

I listened to the silent earpiece. "I f*cking told you Grady was incapable of making plays like that." I paused to listen again, keeping my eyes straight ahead. "No, no, no," I argued with the phantom caller. "He's a f*cking freshman. What did you expect? Four hundred sixty-six yards in one season is nothing to brag about."

I heard a small chuckle come from Andrew's direction. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and flashed a knowing smile, as if we were sharing a mutual annoyance with anyone who has faith in a player like Grady (whoever the hell he was).

He smiled back, and I knew that my research was paying off.

"Look, I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" I waited for a response and then quickly added, "Yeah, whatever, bye." And hung up the phone.

I let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the phone onto the bar. "Fucking loser," I mumbled under my breath.

A commercial break came on, and I suddenly noticed the beer sitting in front of me. I picked it up gratefully and took a long, refreshing gulp. "God, what a day."

"So you had to have gone to Michigan," Andrew said, watching me intently.

I turned and grinned. "Hell, yeah!"

"Class of '85," he said proudly.

"'Ninety-nine," I shot back competitively.

"Ouch! Do I feel old?"

I looked him up and down in a mock assessment and then shrugged. "You don't look it," I said matter-of-factly.