I imagined hurling my body over the table and strangling her, then tying her to a chair while I slowly set that damn book with her and Jessie’s smiling faces on fire.
Hey, I was smiling again.
Isla gave me a warning look, which meant I was probably doing the creepy smile I did when I was ready to launch an all-out attack.
I cleared my throat. “So typically during the first meeting we go over our soft investigation, which we’ve already started in order to gather information. We then transition into discussing your fears and expectations. From the scene I walked in on, I’m assuming that you and Isla have already started the conversation.”
Vanessa looked down at her hands.
“So”—I leaned closer and grabbed my laptop to take notes—“let’s discuss your expectations.”
I knew what they were, but we needed the client to say them out loud—sometimes their desires and expectations changed after being able to talk to someone.
Vanessa took a deep breath. “Obviously I want reconciliation.”
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, my hands froze, like they didn’t want to type the word, like I was hoping she’d changed her mind as so many of our clients did. The ones who’d initially mentioned reconciliation as a possibility almost always backpedaled once they saw proof of cheating.
I nodded and then slowly typed reconciliation.
“What else?”
“That’s it,” Vanessa said sharply. “I want him to want me again and he’s not going to want me if he’s getting it somewhere else. I know he’s pissed about—” She stopped herself. “The point is this. We’re perfect for each other and I love him. We belong together. If I catch him in the act, then I think the guilt will be enough for him to come back to me, to see that we really are better together.”
“Oh?” I just had to say it, didn’t I.
Isla’s eyes went wide in my direction while Vanessa seemed to grow taller in her seat.
“Yes.” She said it so factually I wanted to throw something.
“I can even give you examples,” she said with a beautiful flashy smile. “I mean other than the obvious.” Her hand did a little show of her outfit like that was an actual example. A pantsuit.
Alright then.
“Go ahead.”
“We have similar styles, Jessie’s entire lifestyle fits with mine, and before you start judging me for listing that as a reason, I have a very serious OCD problem, and Jessie always understood that. When I moved in with the man, he didn’t even need to make any changes to his house. White walls, white counters, everything has its place. He rarely eats at home and likes to be seen, or used to.” She shrugged. “We’re a power couple. People want to be us. They want our lives. And with that comes power and influence, we’re able to be leaders in society, and deep down I know that’s what he really wants. He loves doing charitable work, and what do you think would happen if people saw him in a negative light? Or us as a couple in a negative light? People want us to fail almost as much as they want us to succeed. I want to be the couple that people admire and respect. Besides, he gets me. He gets this.” She lifted her hands into the air, giving them a semiflick as if pointing at herself. “And most people don’t, they’re too normal”—she hung on the word, staring me down—“to understand my needs. And I truthfully think most women wouldn’t understand his.”
“Your needs.” I licked my lips. “Right, and what about his?”
“Oh, I meet those, believe me.” She winked. “And not just in a physical sense. Did you know that after he retired he became depressed? Who do you think pulled him out of that? Me!” She pointed at herself. “I made sacrifices so that he would start doing something with his life, I’m half the reason he even started getting more involved with charities. I make him stronger, I just wish he would actually stick his head far enough out of whoever’s ass he’s in to see it!” Her chest heaved.
I nodded my head, digesting the information. She truly believed that she made him who he was—she felt like she was a helper, not a hinderer, but from what I’d heard in the pantry, the opposite was true.
Too confused to process, I kept asking questions.
“And if we don’t find out he’s cheating—what if we find nothing? What if it’s a simple relationship problem and not cheating?”
“He’s cheating,” she said quickly. “Last week I found a woman’s number in his cell that I’ve never seen—a friend took a picture of him at one of his events dancing with a pudgy girl.” I had a sneaking suspicion I was the pudgy girl. Fantastic. “And he never once said something was wrong. One day he started pulling away and turning into this man I didn’t recognize.” This time she swallowed and looked at her manicured hands. “We were having sex multiple times a day a few months ago.” Ah, must be nice. “And then suddenly he kicks me out? Asks me to leave? Says he needs space? I don’t think so. You don’t just fall out of love in a few months.”
“And he wasn’t acting weird before that?” I asked hopefully.
“Before we separated, I had asked him if he wanted to renew our vows, and he said he’d think about it. He didn’t turn me down, so no, he wasn’t acting weird. Who are you again?”
My phone buzzed twice.
“You know what?” I stood. “I have to take this, why don’t you two finish up?”
“Wait—” Isla stood as well. “Did you want to explain what you found in Jessie’s house today?”
Vanessa’s expression went from angry to hopeful. “You found evidence at the house? But it’s so clean!”
I swear my eye twitched.
“Tell me about it,” I finally grumbled before sitting back down and explaining. “I did find a telephone number by his bedside, I’ll be calling it later to see where it leads, but that’s it.” Meaning, I’d be calling it later to check my voice mail, but she didn’t need to know that. As far as I was concerned, the guy was clean. “The only other thing I found was a spare key on the kitchen counter that I’m assuming was left for a reason.”
“That’s my key,” she said. “I’ve been living in the guesthouse.”
“Oh.” My stomach sank. “What was that? You still . . . live on the property?”
“Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “We are still married, after all.” My dejected soul crumpled a bit.
“That’s . . .” I stopped and regained my composure. “Um—”
“He’s my husband.” She snapped the word my. I flinched.
I’d danced with her husband.
I’d lusted after her husband.
I’d justified doing this because I’d had him first.
But did I really?
She was married to Jessie.
Still married.
Separated, but not separate if he was still living with her.
I was suddenly the other woman—sure, I didn’t physically cheat with him, but emotionally? I wasn’t being truthful with myself or with the woman sitting in front of me.
And yet something still felt off, there was a piece missing. Something wasn’t right.
I just didn’t know what it was.
“Alright,” I said softly, trying to sound caring. “I’ll keep searching. I’ll let Isla finish up with you.”
I excused myself and bolted into the office.
Abby gave me a questioning look and then answered the phone.
Penny purred, stepping between my feet, letting her body sashay between my jeans-clad legs.
Vanessa was living with him.
Living. With. Him.
And he was flirting with me. With his wife still under his roof.
My phone buzzed again.
Seriously?
I grabbed it and checked my messages.
Colin: Hurry.
I let out a sigh of relief. For some reason I’d been nervous when I thought Jessie was texting, but now that it was his best friend I was actually happy.
Colin: They only have one bottle of vodka left.
Colin: Since
we’re friends I saved it for you.
Colin: Just kidding you’re ignoring me, I drank it all.
Colin: This just in, I’m not longer sober enough to drive.
Colin: You don’t mind picking me up from jail right?
Colin: Fact, last time I was in prison . . . stop rolling your eyes, but last time, they let me order pizza.
I covered my mouth as a laugh escaped, the guy was insane!
I quickly texted back.
Me: You went to prison and you think that makes me want to go out with you even more?
Colin: Hey you’re alive!
Me: Are you sober or in prison? Where am I driving your car?
Colin: Oh I’m actually waiting outside, have been for thirty minutes, I ubered over here, my driver told me they’d accept a dick shot instead of a payment—told ya, the snake tattoo does it every time.
I sighed.
Me: Grabbing my purse.
Colin: You won’t need it, but I know how women are with their shit.
Me: I’m attached to my shit.
Colin: Right, plus I can search through it later and find all your weird habits and secrets—almost like a PI only I won’t get stuck in the pantry, or your purse.
Me: Stop texting. Talking. Communicating. Give me two minutes.
Colin: Tick tock.
I tucked my phone away and leaned against the wall. Why did it suddenly feel like I was caught in a bad TV sitcom? Chasing after an ex I’m still attracted to despite the wrongness of it, pretending that everything’s okay in front of his wife, who’s living with him.
And now I owe his best friend a date.
No, a favor. Same thing.
It was turning out to be the longest week of my life.
And it wasn’t even close to being over.
I smiled to myself again.
Then stopped and gave myself a mental pinch. Going out with Colin only helped further this investigation, right? If he knew anything, he’d tell me.
It wasn’t a real date.
I just owed him. That’s all.
That’s. All.
Chapter Nineteen
COLIN
She said two minutes.
She took one.
And by the look on her face, she was either pissed at me or whatever had just gone down in her office.
“Rough day?” I grabbed her hand and forced her to walk with me.
She stared at our joined hands, then tried to pull away, I didn’t let her, just kept tugging her closer until she gave up.
Which she did a few seconds later as we stopped at the crosswalk.
“I thought we were driving.”
“I’m a safe driver,” I said.
“O-kay.”
“Let me finish.” I winked as the signal changed to Walk. “I wanted to hold your hand, since the favor was a date—and I like to keep both of my hands on the wheel, just in case.” I squeezed her hand tighter. “This way, you get my amazing bartender conversationalist charms, and I get to hold your hand. Cars are too distracting anyways, so many buttons, music, windows—”
“What the hell do you have against windows?”
“Easy.” I smirked. “People can look in, and what if I don’t want them watching us?”
“Presumptuous, aren’t you?” She rolled her eyes even though I could see a bit of blush stain her cheeks.
“Confident,” I said. “Besides, I like to keep my business private, though the idea of getting watched or caught does have merit”—I pretended to think about it while her jaw dropped—“but I’d like to keep you all to myself for now. If that’s okay.”
“I’m curious.” She cleared her throat. “How did we go from you rescuing me from the pantry to a date and then shenanigans in the car?”
“Oh, that.” I nodded. “We held hands.”
“So now we’re getting married?”
I stopped walking. “Are you proposing?”
Her eyes widened in horror.
“Everyone!” I announced loudly to the three people walking by and the man smoking outside the restaurant. “She just proposed, and I said yes!” I bit down on my lower lip to keep myself from bursting into uncontrollable laughter as her mouth opened, closed, opened again. “What? Is the spy speechless?” I teased.
“Are you always this impossible to be around?” She ducked against me and covered her face with her hands. “Can’t you just quietly take me to dinner, buy me soup—”
“Tomato soup,” I clarified.
“That is my favorite.” She seemed to be upset about it, or maybe just uncomfortable that we had something in common. “Look.” She shrugged away from me. “There’s a Subway another block down—”
“Nope.” I steered her toward the restaurant and into the bar area, with its high-top tables.
I’d always hated restaurants that didn’t understand the necessity for a separate bar area that appealed to a different crowd. The space was just a bit darker, classier, grown-up.
And Mulligans was just the sort of place that got it.
Then again, I owned it, but still. She didn’t know that.
“Well, look at that.” I shoved a menu toward her and leaned over the table. “Tomato soup, and you even get some fancy bread to dip in it.”
“Okay.” Blaire pressed her lips together and then jutted a finger out at me. “Just to be clear, this was a favor for a favor, after this, the slate’s wiped clean. Got it?”
“Completely fair,” I agreed. “But, be honest, is souping with me so bad?”
“Souping’s not a word.”
“Sure it is,” I argued. “Now, try not to get overwhelmed when you look at the cocktail menu, and if you see any big words, sound ’em out.”
Blaire rolled her brown eyes. “You’re like a bad cold.”
“Is that your way of saying I’m annoying?”
“Yes. It is.” She smiled sweetly. “But you did rescue me from the worst meeting I’ve ever had, so cheers.” She lifted her water glass.
I clinked mine with hers. “Wanna talk about it?”
Blaire shifted in her seat, then leaned back. “Are you playing the part of Jessie’s best friend or bartender therapist?”
“Bartender therapist is an easier cross to bear,” I said honestly. “So let’s go with that one.”
“You guys are friends, right?”
I nodded. “Next question.”
With an exhale she leaned forward until it felt intimate, like a date, like I hadn’t just hijacked the one woman who was distracting my best friend from the Vanessa situation. And like a complete bastard I didn’t even care. I reminded myself again: He was married. I wasn’t.
Sure, I had women.
As many as I wanted.
But. I just wanted one.
It was refreshing to sit across from one woman and not wonder what she wanted from me—or if she was thinking about my bank account, my reputation in bed.
Nope, Blaire was most likely dwelling on my snake tattoo and man bun, which seemed to be a thing with her, especially since she kept looking at my muscled forearm then back up at my face. Also, I got the feeling she was questioning the universe as to how someone like me was able to adult on a daily basis.
“Okay, at the risk of losing my job.”
I eyed her then put a hand over my heart. “Bartender Therapist, my lips are sealed.”
She exhaled like she was thankful she had someone to talk to. “The meeting with Vanessa was . . .” She looked like she was searching for the right word.
I held up my hand. “Hold that thought.”
I walked to the bar, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses, and walked back to the table.
Blaire was covering her face with her hands, peeking at me like I was an embarrassment to society. “You can’t just do that at random bars, you don’t work here!”
“Of course not, but I do own this place, so basically I do whatever the hell I want.” I grinned.
She dropped her hands. “Do y
ou own everything?”
“Ah, a question for another time.”
“Universal Studios?”
I scowled.
“Starbucks?”
“So.” I poured her a shot of our finest. “You had a run-in with Satan’s mistress and are trying to figure out what Jessie sees and or saw in her because she makes you believe in sterilization?” I winced at my own harsh words. The hate I had toward her went deeper the more I allowed it to boil—the more Jessie and I refused to talk about it, the worse it got between the three of us.
Blaire choked on her shot then slammed it down. “YES!”
How much to tell her.
The situation was so damn complicated, and even though I was involved, it wasn’t my story to tell, not really. What are the odds that the one girl in the past decade to catch my attention is the same one my best friend’s still pursuing? And she had dated him. Fuck.
“Jessie didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in his mouth,” I said slowly. “He had this idea of what he wanted when he finally made it—and he took it.”
Blaire leaned in. “I guess he never told me any of that.” She looked lost in thought and seemed disappointed.
“He wanted perfection.”
Blaire’s face fell. Hell, I needed to watch what I said, since they’d dated.
“I mean perfection in all things. He was all about appearance, what to eat, wear, say. He was so worried that everything would get taken away that he didn’t want to take chances on something that wouldn’t pan out or help him. He was poor growing up, and we became best friends in junior high when I loaned him a pair of Jordans so he could play basketball. I brought him lunches because the guy’s mom rarely had enough money to pack him anything except Top Ramen. He became an insanely good athlete, but his love for football was as much about the money and fame as his fear of never being poor again. He’d be able to prove he made it, and did it on his own.” I paused and leaned back against my chair. “Vanessa wasn’t always so bad,” I admitted lamely, thinking back to when I actually tolerated her, when she actually smiled and laughed authentically and had human emotions.
Before it all came crashing down on the three of us.
Before all of us lost a bit of ourselves by way of Vanessa’s actions.
“What happened?”