Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
I choke on my coffee, and she flashes a momentary grin, proud of herself.
“Why don’t we stick with the truth? Cleaner that way. I’m a consultant—that’s my usual cover story because it can mean anything—and you’re a nurse. We met over dinners that were supposed to be solo, but instead, we got to know each other.” I pause to see if she’s in agreement, and when she nods, I continue. “What have you told your family or any of the people at the wedding about yourself, your relationship, and dipshit? I don’t want to get anything wrong if it can be helped.”
She starts to speak but then goes silent. Her brows furrow, and she looks down at her plate. “Uhm, actually . . . not much. Just that I’m dating someone and he works a lot.” She lifts her face to meet my gaze. “That’s sad, huh? I talk to my parents regularly, but I never shared much about Henry . . . I mean, dipshit. Probably a sign I should’ve noticed.”
Her correction to calling her ex by my nickname for him is progress. Small, but significant.
“It’s a good thing now,” I reassure her. “What about your family? I researched you, so I’ve got the basics. But I need to know about them, what you would’ve shared with a boyfriend.”
“Well, you already know Paisley’s awful, and . . . wait, what’d you say? You’ve researched me?” she says, sounding offended.
I shrug noncommittally. “Of course. If it helps, your online presence is remarkably pristine compared to most peoples’. Probably the only ones better are mine and Louisa’s.”
“Who’s Louisa?” she asks. I notice a hint of pink rising in her cheeks.
“Jealous?” I flash a quick, predatory grin. “It’s okay if you are. I don’t mind if my girlfriends, fake or otherwise, are a little fiery. In fact, maybe I prefer it.” I’m hoping to trigger her into it. Not for my sake, but for her own. She’s going to need everything she’s got to get through this, even with me at her side. She doesn’t need to be Kayla-like, able to eviscerate someone in three words or less, but she needs to be her best Janey.
“Humph.” She pouts, which for some reason is kinda adorable.
I let her stew in the jealousy for a quick second before explaining her worry away. “Louisa is my assistant, and our relationship is strictly professional. She’s also in her fifties, prefers to spend time with her husband and their two Boston Terriers, and is a research machine.”
“Good, because I care if my boyfriends, fake or otherwise, are seeing other women.” She says it with all the backbone of a strong woman, but I know the cost it’s come with. I heard it in her voice last night. That she can fake it a bit bodes well for us.
“Fair is fair. I researched you and should be willing to share myself with you to the same degree. I’m an investigator, own my own bespoke business with top-secret, private clientele. There’s no business page listing or 1-800 number to call. I already told you that I have four brothers and a twin sister. Cameron, Carter, Chance, Kayla, and Kyle. What else do you want to know?” I finish.
“Uhm, everything,” she answers with her chin in her hands and eager eyes.
“I don’t think there’s much more to tell. I’m boring and my life is monotonous. Sure, the cases are different, but the job’s the same. This stakeout is the most interesting thing I’ve done in ages, both because of the location outside the city and my cabinmate.” I give her a sly grin that she ducks away from, but I see the soft smile she’s trying to hide. Confident I’ve made my case about what she’s bringing to the table, I offer, “Fire away. Hit me with whatever questions you want. I’m an open book.”
I’ve never uttered those words in my life, but I find that for Janey, they’re true.
I want her to know me. And I want to know her too.
But only so we can pull off this fake boyfriend thing, of course.
CHAPTER 7
JANEY
With permission to ask anything I want, my brain short-circuits and I ask everything at once, the words tumbling over one another in a rush for freedom.
“How did you become an investigator? What’s been your wildest case and why? Do you and your twin have that twin-telepathy thing? If so, is it weird because like, how do you turn it off when you’re doing private stuff? Or oh, God, what if you couldn’t? That’d be awful. If you could be any animal, what would it be? That one’s not as strange as it sounds. It’s a proven psychology trick that speaks to what you value most. Have you ever had a nickname, and if so, how’d you get it? Do you have pet peeves or things that make you angry? I promise if you’ll tell me what, I won’t do it. That way, you won’t get mad when you’re helping me. Have you ever been in love?” My eyes go wide and my mouth drops open into an O of horror. “Oh, my God, do you have a girlfriend? Or a wife? Or a husband? Basically, is there anyone who’s going to feel some sort of way about this little adventure you’ve agreed to go on with me?”