Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“I might have been. My Uber driver, who was a very nice older gentleman from Uganda, was very concerned that I was walking around without a husband.” She laughs. “I told him I was meeting him now.”
“Good. Drop your phone in two minutes.”
“What?”
“Drop it and make it look like an accident. Two minutes.”
“Uh, okay.” She tips her head and I turn, looking back down at the city as I count, moving a few paces down right two minutes goes by. She drops her phone and I bend over to pick it up.
“Thank you,” she says, taking the phone and the earpiece at the same time. “I’m so clumsy.”
“Luckily, it didn’t break.”
“Yeah.” She puts her phone in her purse and then reaches up, pretending to mess with her hair. She does a good job acting nonchalant. It’s impressive for someone without training, really. People think they can watch a few spy movies and know how to move without drawing attention to themselves, but it’s not that easy.
A group of young twenty-something year old girls pushes forward, giving me a good excuse to move back next to Mira.
“Black Honda Civic,” I say. “Michigan plates. Starts with E and ends with number eight.”
“E-eight,” she repeats and nods. “Got it.”
“Nervous?”
She inhales, considering her words and I look at her just in time to watch her breasts rise and fall. My dick jumps and I blink, getting a mental vision of her standing with her back to me as I unzip her dress. God, Harris, keep it together.
“Kinda since I know the truth, but also no. I’m trying to tell myself this is just any other job I’ve been hired to do.”
“You know PIs need to have licenses, right?”
“I don’t call myself a PI.”
“You just go all Jessica Jones for fun? You do realize how dangerous that can be.”
“I’m a girls’ girl.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Come again?”
“A girls’ girl. You don’t need to have a license or go to school to learn how to stick up for other women. Sometimes just sitting next to a guy at a bar and asking if he has a girlfriend is all you need to do to catch a cheater.”
“So you don’t ever follow people, do a deep dive on social media, or wear a wig so you’re not noticed?”
“None of that is illegal,” she retorts.
“Sounds a little stalkers.”
“I would argue social media deep dives aren’t even stalking. It’s important to do your due diligence before you go out with someone.”
“Right. You could think you’re going out with a regular ol’ therapist only to discover you have a surprising amount of followers on TikTok.”
“Hah. And interesting you looked me up. Now who’s the stalker?”
I shrug. “Social media deep dives aren’t stalking. And it’s my job to look into things and people.” The group of girls taking selfies crowds around the window and Mira moves closer, close enough for me to feel her body heat coming off in waves. “You’ve never been recognized while pulling one of your little stunts?”
“Little stunts?” Her brows go up. “What I do might not be a high-stakes, undercover mission, but I’m helping people.”
“Yeah. I suppose.”
She inhales, pursing her lips together for a moment. “And no. While I have a bunch of men following me on social media, the majority of my followers are women. My podcast demographic is ninety-two percent female. Though if someone did know who I was, they’d just know I’m a therapist with a podcast. I don’t particularly advertise my, uh, other services.”
I nod, wanting to ask her more questions. It’s definitely interesting, and picking people apart to get to the why comes naturally to me. Though with just the little bit of background info I was able to get on Mira, I have a pretty good idea.
“Ugh,” she groans, looking at her phone after getting it back out of her purse.
“Something wrong?”
“No.” She rolls her eyes at whatever message she just read and drops her phone back in her bag. “My ex husband won’t leave me alone.”
“Even though you’re divorced?”
“Yep. The guy’s a narcissist. A real one,” she presses. “I know everyone calls anyone they don’t get along with a narcissist, but he got the diagnosis of a sociopathic narcissist when we were trying to salvage a sinking ship in couple’s therapy.”
Ahh, so that’s where her whole why put people through therapy outlook came from. “And he’s probably fighting with his girlfriend, if he has one?”
“Yep. It’s like you have a degree in behavioral studies or something.” She playfully elbows me. “Which you do. From Purdue University.”
“You looked me up.”
“You’re on LinkedIn. It wasn’t hard.”
Inhaling, I glance at my watch. She should leave soon and I need to meet Diego at the restaurant. He’s bringing his wife and her sister, so it’ll look like we’re on a normal double date. They’re already there and I’ll come in after Mira, once Enzo is distracted by her beauty—because how can he not be?