The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(35)

And like magic, two minutes later I was fast asleep.



THE NEXT day, while lounging on my bed, I decided it was a good time to call back my new friend from the gym.

"Hello, Clayton?" I said into the phone.

"Yes."

"Hi, I'm just returning your call from last night. We met at the gym the other day. My name is..."

"Yes, hi! How are you?"

I smiled. "Fine. A bit stressed with work, but good."

"Yeah, tell me about it. What is it you do again?"

I cleared my throat and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. If anyone bothered to study me carefully, it wouldn't take them long to realize that this was my "tell," the unquestionable sign that what I was about to say was a bluff...a lie. But fortunately for me, no one ever had any reason to suspect that I might lie. "Investment banking," I replied.

"Oh, right."

I rolled onto my side and propped my head up with my hand. "So, how have you been? How's the gaming world?"

He sighed. "Busy. Although, I did pitch your idea for an Oregon Trail revival to my bosses."

I laughed. "And? Did they go for it?"

"Unfortunately, no. I was brutally rejected."

I snapped my fingers. "Aw, that's too bad. But I suppose I'll live."

Clayton laughed. "Good. In that case, do you have plans for Wednesday night?"

As it turned out, I didn't have plans. And I had a strong feeling that getting out of the house would be a good idea.



BY WEDNESDAY night, Sophie and I still hadn't spoken. Which I was still convinced was her fault for not picking up the phone to speak to me. Of course, I could just call her, but I wasn't quite ready to admit defeat yet. So instead I busied myself with finding the perfect outfit for my first date with Clayton that night.

After spending nearly a half hour in my closet, sifting through hangers and cursing the architect who had had the nerve to design a closet this large, and therefore capable of holding far too many outfit selections for the human mind to possibly choose from, I finally decided to go with a pair of New Religion jeans that, according to my niece Hannah, were totally in style right now, and an off-the-shoulder brown sweater. My hair was pulled into a low ponytail that sat slightly to the left side of my neck. According to Cosmopolitan magazine, this updo was supposed to make your hair look somewhat messy and thrown together in a hurry. Which, after spending too much time in my closet, wasn't far from the truth.

"I must admit," Clayton said sheepishly, as we sat in a quiet Italian café in Santa Monica. "It's been a long time since I've asked a girl out...I was very relieved when you said yes."

I took a sip of my Chianti. "Well, then, I have to admit, I almost didn't."

He smirked. "Why's that?"

I placed my wineglass down and nervously picked at the edge of my cocktail napkin. "I don't really date a lot."

"I guess, neither do I," he said awkwardly, looking down at his lap.

"My friends are always giving me a hard time about it. So this time I thought, What the hell?"

He lifted his wineglass in the air. "Well, then here's to taking your friends' advice."

We clinked glasses and I silently remarked on just how good Clayton looked in the soft candlelight.

He wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a red button-up shirt that complemented his beach-blond hair perfectly. I immediately speculated that he was from the Midwest. Los Angeles is inundated with Midwestern transplants, filling our streets with their pretty-boy faces and strong, corn-fed bodies. Although most of them are actors, all hoping to become the next Chris Klein or Ashton Kutcher.

Zo? liked to call them "FOPTs" (fresh off the potato truck). But given their irresistible appearance, even she couldn't complain about them. Because there was absolutely nothing to complain about. They were, in a sense, flawless. They had charming good looks, sweet dispositions, and extremely good manners. That is, until the superficial values and egotistical claws of Hollywood had had their time to sink in.

Clayton, however, with his knack for designing futuristic worlds and simulated cities, was thankfully not one of the aspiring actors, and therefore could probably be counted on to keep both his good looks and his charming personality.

The night carried on as we shared childhood memories, high school horror stories, favorite TV shows, favorite movies, Quiznos versus Subway, tea versus coffee, Diet Coke versus regular. All the essential get-to-know-each-other topics.

I was very pleased to learn that I had correctly identified his FOPT-ness when he told me that he had grown up in Iowa. And he was very pleased to learn that we both shared a love of karaoke.

"I guess we know where this date is going next, don't we?"

I grinned. "There's a bar across the street that does karaoke until two A.M."

"The poor neighbors."

We laughed and stood up from our table. Clayton threw a few bills down on the check presenter and then reached down and took my hand as we walked out of the restaurant and ran like giddy schoolchildren across the street toward a dark bar with one fluorescent red light illuminating the entrance.

The bar was a complete dive. I had been there once before with Sophie and Zo? when we, on a whim, felt the need to sing the hits of Britney Spears in front of complete strangers. A whim that, thankfully for the complete strangers, hadn't resurfaced since.