The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(57)

"Damn. Had to be the disease. What is it? Cholera? Ebola? The plague?"

I laughed and shook my head. "No. It's just kind of complicated."

"Well, that's good to hear. Because I love complication. Give me something simple and I'll just fall asleep."

I smiled. He was sweet. Almost too sweet. So much of me wanted to just accept the date. A real date. With no distrusting girlfriends waiting outside to break down the door. No scarlet letters. No page-long list of things to say, movies to like, karaoke songs to sing. But the other part of me screamed, No! Don't do it! Because I felt this overwhelming sensation that I knew where it would go. How it would turn out. Why read the book when you already know how it ends?

"I'm sorry," I said, stepping off the curb and making my way to the awaiting valet. "It was really nice meeting you, though."

And then suddenly a profound sadness fell over me. The kind of sadness that comes from already knowing how the book ends. From knowing that you'll never have that same rush of adventure and excitement and suspense that normal people feel when they pick up the latest bestselling, happy-ending, till-death-do-us-part novel and can't wait to start devouring its pages.

"Well, if you ever change your mind, or just feel the need to call someone up and confess the second letter of your last name..." Jamie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. "I think it's my last one. I've been saving it for you." He flipped it over and examined the back. "Look, it's even got some of my random scribbles on the back from when I ran out of scratch paper."

He extended the card to me and I took it. I placed it in the back pocket of my jeans as I removed a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the valet. "Thanks," I said to both of them.

"Well, I guess we'll always have Palm Springs," Jamie said in a pathetic Humphrey Bogart imitation.

I rolled my eyes and said, "Now I understand why you got a D in drama."

He laughed, and then with a sincere voice and a smile that nearly made my heart melt, he said, "It was nice meeting you, Jennifer H."

But I wasn't quite sure if my heart was melting from adoration...or from fear.

The fear that I may have just made a mistake.

As I got into my car and drove away, my everyday world re-engulfed me like an old familiar blanket. The steering wheel, the radio, the navigation system. And most of all, Roger Ireland's client file just barely visible from the inside of my bag. Tomorrow morning I would tell him what had happened during my fateful trip to Vegas, then he would tell his daughter, and yet another wedding would be called off. Another happy, make-believe ending thwarted by the harsh reality of the real world.

Maybe I just wasn't meant to read books.





13

Questionable Intentions


"MARTA!" I called from my bedroom. "Have you seen my off-white Dolce and Gabbana blouse?" I ventured into my closet for the third time on Monday morning and sifted, yet again, through the hanging shirts. As if by magic, in the time it had taken me to dump the entire contents of my hamper onto the floor, the missing article of clothing might have materialized out of thin air and hung itself up neatly in its proper place.

But it hadn't.

Marta, on the other hand, had managed to seemingly materialize out of thin air. She stood in the doorway of my bedroom, a clever smile painted across her lips and the freshly ironed shirt hanging daintily from her outstretched finger.

I let out a sigh of relief. "Oh! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You are the best!"

I took the shirt from her hand and pulled it on over my nude-color bra. I was running approximately ten minutes late for my ten o'clock follow-up meeting with Roger Ireland, and I had been very grateful when Marta showed up thirty minutes ago and started her normal cleaning routine. It always made me feel more at ease knowing she was there. And I still couldn't figure out if it was because of how clean I knew the place would look and feel when she was done, or if maybe it was just her.

"You're welcome, Miss Hunter. Muy bonita. Working today?"

I smiled and pulled my hair out from underneath the collar. "Always."

She smiled back and then quickly spun around to return to her work.

I checked my makeup in the bathroom mirror, did a quick touch-up on the loose waves in my hair, and emerged into the kitchen. Marta was busy scrubbing the inside of the oven. She was bent over at a ninety-degree angle with her entire upper body hidden inside of it. All I could see were her legs keeping her balanced on the wooden floor as her ample backside swayed back and forth in the air while she cleaned.

"I'm leaving your check here," I said to her as I ripped a page out of my checkbook and placed it on the counter. Then I proceeded to fill my Gucci tote with all the appropriate "tools" I would need for the day: wallet, two cell phones, breath mints, and sunglasses. I closed the bag, slung it over my shoulder, and snatched up my keys.

"Car people call while you in the shower!" Marta called from inside the oven.

I stopped and turned around. "What did they say?"

"They say you have recall."

I sighed. Just what I wanted right now. Another part of my life in need of repair. If only you could perform recalls on other aspects of your life. One quick trip to the mechanic and suddenly everything that seems to be malfunctioning in your life is magically repaired.