“They’re professionals. They deal with things like this all the time. You won’t even know they are in the building,” Richard continues.
“How does it work?”
“They usually come in undercover, act as one of the workers while they watch and trace.”
I roll my eyes in disgust. “How ridiculous. This isn’t a fucking MacGyver episode.”
I stare at my brothers, and I know I’ve been forced into a corner. There is no other way around this, and I know I must concede. “Fine.”
Emily
An hour earlier
I power walk up the street among the crowd. I’ll never get used to these busy New York sidewalks no matter how long I live here. I’m exhausted. I was up half the night having sex, and I haven’t been back to sleep since I left Jameson’s at four o’clock. God, what a nightmare this whole situation is. And who the fuck is Chloe?
I order my iced coffee, and as I wait, I buy the Gazette at the newsstand. I’ll read it at lunch. I wonder if they have any jobs available. I’m probably going to need one soon. With a heavy heart, my mind goes to Jameson. Damn it, why does something always have to go wrong with the men I like? If only he were just a normal guy—with a normal shitty apartment and a shitty car and no women texting him—he would be perfect. In every way.
I get a vision of us last night as we made love and kissed for hours, and sadness sweeps over me.
I hate that we connect so deeply on a physical level.
It’s just sex, you idiot. Bone-shattering, awesome, toe-curling sex.
I imagine Jameson Miles would have that with every woman he’s with. He’s that kind of guy with that kind of a dick.
Ugh. I take my coffee and make the depressing walk to the office. I’m not thinking about him today, and I’m most definitely not telling him that I know about Chloe.
Whoever Chloe is.
All I know is that if she’s texting him with where-are-you messages in the middle of the night, something’s going on, and he’s all hers. She can have him.
I may be a lot of things, but a man stealer I’m not.
Douchebag. How dare he use me for sex? The bitter taste of betrayal lines my mouth; I can act brave all I want, but the truth is I’m upset. Last night was perfect—more than perfect—and then he had to go and wreck it.
I thought I spent the night with Jim, but instead I got the sleazebag Jameson Miles version. How didn’t I see it?
I trudge into the building and up to my floor, and I fall into my seat in disgust. “Hi,” I say.
“Hey.” Aaron spins on his chair toward me. “How did it go?”
I glance up at the camera above. Is he watching? “Good,” I lie. “I’ll tell you about it tonight. We are drinking.”
“Drinking?”
“Everything we see.”
His face falls. “Oh . . . it went that kind of good.”
“Precisely,” I mutter flatly.
“What’s going on around here today?” Aaron whispers.
“What do you mean?” I look up from my computer.
“Tristan is buzzing around, and Jameson has been down to the floor already.”
“What time is it?” I glance at my watch. “It’s only eight forty-five. They are never down here at this hour, if at all.”