The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(68)

I massaged the throbbing spot with my hand as I looked around for the source of the voice.

And that's when I saw him.

And he was the furthest person from the Range Rover service guy who I ever expected to see, let alone call my name while I was playing crouching tiger, hidden dragon in the backseat of my SUV.

"Hi," I said awkwardly, smoothing out the hair that I had most certainly mangled into oblivion while attempting to soothe my growing, tumor-size bump.

Jamie Richards stepped out of the blinding sunlight and into the comforting shadow of the service department overhang. "Is your head okay? That looked pretty bad."

"What? No, fine. It was nothing. Happens all the time."

It happens all the time?

What the hell was he doing here? And why the hell was I saying stupid things like that?

"Jamie," he reminded me, touching his hand to his chest.

I attempted a giggle; it came out more like a gargle. "Yeah. No, I remember."

"Well, there goes my self-esteem," he said playfully. "See, I had convinced myself that you had forgotten my name and that my business card went through the washing machine and dryer – twice – and was left unreadable. It made me feel better about the fact that you didn't call."

I laughed. "Right. Sorry. That's actually exactly what happened. Except it was the wash cycle with extra bleach."

He nodded. "Thank you. I feel much better."

"I didn't know you drove a Range Rover."

"I don't." He pointed to the sign on the overhang. It read, "Range Rover/Jaguar Exclusive Dealership."

"A Jag, huh?"

"Guilty as charged. Twenty-five-thousand-mile checkup time."

"Now, do you actually pronounce it like the British girl in the commercial, 'Jag-yoo-ar'?" I asked with my best elitist-mocking accent.

He laughed. "No. I pronounce it the dumb-ass American way. 'Jag-wire.' And all the guys at work make fun of me and tell me I'm not allowed to own a car I can't pronounce."

"They're right. You should have gotten a BMW."

"Should we trade, then? You can drive my car home and I'll take yours. I can say 'Range Rover.'"

I shook my head. "Absolutely not. I love my car. And the seventy-five dollars it costs to fill it up every week."

"Seventy-five dollars!"

"I know," I said, shaking my head. "I should have just gone for the hybrid. I thought this car would make me look 'cool.' Until I realized that smog and pollution aren't really all that cool."

"Well, you don't know what you're missing. The Jag is pretty damn 'cool.'"

"You got me there," I admitted. "I've never been in one."

"That's why you're having dinner with me this week. Strictly for the sake of our negotiation. You have to actually sit in a Jag-yoo-ar to fully appreciate it."

And there it was again. That pang. That longing to say yes to him. This was my chance to prove to Sophie that she was wrong. That I wasn't afraid of anything. See, I can say yes to a date. I can let a guy take me out. I can even think he's cute. Really cute. There's nothing wrong with me.

"You can't turn down a perfectly good trade unless you have all the facts," Jamie continued. "As an investment banker, you of all people should know that."

And then, there that was again. The lie. The truth that I would have to keep hidden throughout the entire date. The stories I would have to regurgitate with enthusiasm. What kind of pillow talk consists of a fabricated existence? How was I supposed to bond with any man who didn't even know about the most important aspect of my life? It seemed so terribly impossible, not to mention... depressing.

"So what do you say? Dinner? Tomorrow?"

"Yes," I immediately blurted out. Before my heart could continue to pang and before my head could continue to rationalize. And as much as I hated to admit it, Zo?'s universal theory seemed to be right on. Here was the universe, putting the same guy in front of me, twice in one week. Repetition is usually the sign of some kind of insistence. And who am I to argue with an insistent universe?

At first Jamie looked almost surprised, but then he smiled and said, "Great. What time should I pick you up?"

I pulled my Treo out of my bag and skipped ahead one day to Thursday. "How about eight?"

"You're not actually consulting a Palm Pilot, are you?" he asked, appalled.

I smirked. "It's better than consulting a psychic, isn't it?"

"Good point. But I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm going to have to retract my invitation. I could never have dinner with a girl who keeps a Palm Pilot."

"Hey, I'm a busy girl. Do you want to have dinner or not?"

He paused and patted his shirt pocket. "Hold on, I think I might have to consult my Palm Pilot on the issue." He removed a similar phone/calendar device from his pocket and began histrionically tapping the keys, like a child who had just gotten ahold of his father's PDA and was playing "important businessman."

I laughed and playfully folded my arms across my chest.

"Okay," Jamie finally said. "My Palm Pilot and I have discussed the matter, and we have decided that we would enjoy the pleasure of your company Thursday evening for dinner."