The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(3)

"So, where are you from?" he asked, sipping his drink.

"L.A.," I stated matter-of-factly, playfully running my fingers up and down the sides of my glass. "And you?"

It was here in the process that I chose to reach down and adjust the strap on my Manolos... while he was digesting my question. Not that it was a difficult question, but at this point there's less and less blood flowing to the brain. So the questions become more difficult. Even the simple ones like these.

But the shoe-strap adjustment is never just an adjustment. It's a leisurely slide down the leg, making sure to touch upon all erogenous zones, and a deliberate diversion of my attention. The diversion is always long enough for them, if they so choose, to remove the wedding ring.

And he did.

When I came back up and casually glanced at his left hand out of the corner of my eye, it was gone.

"Orange County," he said, not missing a beat. "Looks like we're neighbors. I have a house in Newport." His casual response said nothing about the fact that he was now minus one very important piece of jewelry. As if the removal of his wedding ring didn't faze him at all. Just as someone would take off their watch at the end of the day, this man evidently takes off his wedding ring when he meets girls in bars.

I smiled delightfully. "Oh, I love it down there! The beaches are amazing. My best friend lives right next door, in Huntington."

"Well then, you'll have to come south for a visit," he offered suggestively. "I have a great pool overlooking the ocean."

I released a perfectly timed nervous giggle. The kind that lets someone know they're making you uncomfortable, but at the same time implies you don't really mind all that much.

"Maybe I will," I replied softly.

Nevertheless, the one thing we both knew was that no matter what happened in the next few hours, I wouldn't be making any trips down to Newport Beach in the near future. However, my understanding of that unspoken agreement was just a bit more informed than his.



"IT'S CALLED a fidelity inspection," I had gently explained to the woman sitting across from me with tears in the corners of her eyes. "And how it works is: You and I will decide on a location where your husband will be in the near future. Preferably somewhere out of town. My research has shown that most infidelity in men happens away from home. I will then travel to that predetermined location and present myself as an 'opportunity.'"

She nodded slowly, taking it all in. One painful detail at a time.

"I will not instigate anything. I will only follow your husband's lead."

"And then what?" she asked, desperately wanting me to come with all the answers neatly wrapped up in a pretty little package. A marriage repair kit in a box. Unfortunately, it didn't quite work that way. With infidelity, there is never a quick fix. But there is a solution. And that's why I was there.

"Mrs. Jacobs," I began kindly, "I only offer information. What you choose to do with it afterward is entirely up to you."

She nodded and tried to smile.

The piece of paper in my hand was the first clue. There's always a clue. The question is what you choose to do with it. Will you ignore it and continue living your life, always doubting, always wondering? Or will you do something about it?

This particular clue came in the form of a name and a series of numbers. "Alexis" was spelled out on the page in unmistakably female handwriting, and then underneath was a phone number, followed by the text, "Bathing suit optional!"

Although I didn't want to admit it to the woman sitting across from me, it looked exactly like what I suspected it to be. My friends give out their numbers to guys all the time. And that's what they write. A name and a number. And then sometimes a funny private joke. Something to remind him of the conversation they had had earlier in the evening.

"And you're positive your husband doesn't know anyone by the name of Alexis?" I asked earnestly.

She shook her head. "Not that I know of. Our friends' daughter's name is Alexis, but she's only ten. I doubt she would have written that."

I nodded in agreement and offered a heartwarming smile. "Yes, I doubt it, too." She fidgeted nervously in her seat. She had hoped it wouldn't come to this. She looked down at her lap. Her hands were locked tightly together, and she began to knead them like a loaf of bread.

We sat in silence for a moment, until she finally lifted her head and looked me straight in the eyes. "If you were me, what would you do?" she asked softly.

I looked at her with compassion, ready and willing to help in any way I could. "I would want peace of mind," I said in all honesty.



"WHAT'S YOUR name, by the way?" the man in the bar asked me.

"Ashlyn," I answered as I turned toward him and extended my hand.

Of course, it's a code name. I never use my real name. "Ashlyn" doesn't actually exist. She's a hologram. A character in a play. A play I've performed hundreds of times, in a hundred different hotel bars. And yet, they all seem strangely familiar. The same show, over and over again for the past two years.

"What a beautiful name," he remarked, becoming visibly more comfortable in the booth.

I thanked him kindly. It wasn't the first time I'd heard it. Yes, it was a beautiful name. That's, after all, why I chose it. Because if you're going to fight for a cause, you need a good alias to fight under.