The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(97)

I suddenly wished I had chosen Zo? to vent to instead of John. "Are you insane? Of course you can't come. Why would you even want to?"

"Because I've been dying to watch one of these things ever since I saw your face on that Web site."

"Ugh," I said, taking a bite out of a piece of naan. "Don't remind me. Yesterday the link was forwarded to me in an e-mail from someone I went to high school with, asking if this was really me. I was mortified. I've literally become afraid of e-mail now. And trust me, this is not the day and age to be afraid of e-mail. Every time my Treo beeps with an incoming message, I instantly start to panic. I'm convinced that this is the one, the one that's going to break me. From my mom, or Jamie...or my fifth-grade teacher maybe."

"Gotta love viral marketing."

I shook my head. "Well, I guess that answers my question of whether or not I'm going to go to my ten-year high-school reunion."

John laughed. "Jennifer Hunter, voted most likely to sleep with married men for a living."

"For the last time, John, I don't sleep with them!"

"C'mon. Just let me come. I want to learn the biz."

"What do you think this is, Take Your Gay Friend to Work Day?"

"I'm serious!" he whined. "I love going down to the docks."

"You just like saying 'the docks.'" I licked the last of the chicken tikka masala sauce from my fork and stood up to bring the plate into the kitchen.

"Pleeeeeease." He pulled himself onto his knees in front of me and pleaded with his eyes.

I rolled my eyes at him. "Fine."

"Yes!" John jumped up and celebrated with an over-the-top victory dance in the middle of my living room.

"But you have to be inconspicuous. I can't have my cover blown. Especially since this will already seem suspicious enough... bumping into him for the second time."

He rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Oh, don't you worry, little missy. My disguise will be so good, even you won't recognize me."

I shot him a warning look. "John, do not go overboard."

He gazed at me innocently. "What? When do I ever go overboard?"



THE CLOCK hadn't moved in what felt like two hours. But that didn't stop me from staring at it.

9:13 P.M.

I silently willed it to fast-forward to midnight, like a Cinderella hopeful in reverse, knowing full well that at midnight it would all be over: the coach would turn back into a pumpkin, the dress would disintegrate into rags, and I would be once again alone, in my bedroom.

Unlike me, Cinderella actually wanted to go to the ball. She wanted it so badly that a fairy godmother magically materialized to grant her wish with the wave of a wand.

And if I knew there would be a Prince Charming waiting for me at my destination this evening, I would have wanted to go, too.

But tonight wasn't about Prince Charmings. Not for me, anyway. For me it was about charming somebody else's prince.

Somebody I cared dearly for and would have done anything in the world to keep her safe and happy – even this, apparently.

The clock flipped to 9:14.

Exactly fourteen minutes ago Eric Fornell, the love of Sophie's life, should have entered a local bar merely minutes from my house with a group of friends he hadn't seen since college.

In exactly forty-six minutes, Ashlyn would be, coincidentally, entering the same bar. Or at least that was the plan. Leave the house at 9:45 P.M. so I could arrive at the bar at ten o'clock, which would give me ample time to determine whether or not Eric was the cheating type and then get the hell out of there. After that I would call Sophie at midnight with the long-awaited results.

Until then she would be waiting by the phone.

Nine-fifteen P.M.

I sighed loudly and pulled my eyes away from the digital clock on my nightstand. I stood up and walked into my bathroom to start on my makeup.

"Nothing too dramatic," Sophie had instructed me yesterday. "Eric likes girls with natural beauty. But be sure to show cleavage. He's a textbook boob man. Although he'd never admit that to me, but a girl can just sense these kinds of things."

I stared at myself in the mirror and adjusted my cleavage-maximizing bra until my breasts pressed against each other to form a perfect crease down the middle of my chest. I opened my makeup drawer and fished around for my earth-toned shades.

"And don't play dumb with him," she continued earnestly. "Eric likes well-read women who have something to contribute to the conversation, not just pretty faces."

Part of me wanted to do and say the exact opposite of whatever Sophie had instructed me: dramatic eye makeup, the flattest-chested shirt hanging in my closet, and a conversation filled with comments that made me look like a complete airhead. Such as, "If this is a German beer, why is the label in English?"

But I knew that would be dishonest.

If I were really going to go through with this, I would do it right. No shortcuts, no skipping ahead in line, no cheating the potential cheaters. I would give Sophie the same dedicated focus and work ethic that I offered to every other client.

9:34 P.M.

God, I hate that clock.

I sat back down on my bed and refocused my eyes on it.

This is ridiculous, I thought to myself. Just get up and walk out the door. It's very simple. You open the door, you walk through it, you close it behind you. What's so freaking complicated about that?