The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men (15 page)

"I'm sorry," I finally offered in a quiet, feeble voice.

Jamie wrinkled his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. "Urn. What was that?" The tone in his voice was searching for patience, but when it came up short, it seemed to settle for slightly annoyed.

But I just stood there, my body shivering slightly, despite the fact that I was far from cold. "I don't know."

Jamie fell onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. "You don't know," he repeated numbly.

I shook my head and awkwardly ran the tip of my toe across the hardwood floor. "I'm sorry. I guess I just freaked out a little."

"Apparently."

Once the shaking had subsided and the feeling returned to all of my limbs and extremities, my mind was nagging me to find an excuse. To make something up. I couldn't just leave it at that. I had to make it better. I had to fix it.

"I'm just stressed," I attempted, feeling less than confident about my cover-up.

Jamie rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. "Stressed?"

Clearly he wasn't confident about it, either.

But I couldn't back out now. I was committed to the lie. So I nodded. "Yes. With work and Shawna's arrest and Katie out on that nanny assignment and Sophie's wedding in two weeks, and you know she's been calling me every fifteen minutes with drama and . . ." I let my voice fade away as I inhaled a deep breath.

Jamie studied my face, seemingly deciding whether or not he was going to believe me. I struggled to maintain eye contact with him. Any waver or shift would surely give me away.

"And that's it?" he asked, his voice full of doubt. "It's
just
stress? It has nothing to do with anything else? Like, say, my stuff in the hallway?"

I swallowed hard and shook my head. "No, of course not. It's just stress. I promise."

Jamie considered this for a moment. And then finally he pulled himself off the bed and went over to me. Cautiously, he placed his hand on my waist and kissed me on the forehead, his lips lingering on my skin for a good five seconds. As if he were trying to suck the truth right out of my brain.

I closed my eyes and prayed for finality. That we would never again have to speak of this moment.

When I opened them again, Jamie was already in the kitchen making dinner.

By the time I got to work on Monday morning, the dark circles under my eyes were starting to resemble ominous caverns. I'd barely slept at all last night . . . again. And the Ambien I had taken around two in the morning did little to remedy the situation. Apparently, it's only effective if your conscience is completely clear. Something that I firmly believe should be indicated on the label.

So it was safe to say I was in no frame of mind to deal with the appointment I had in fifteen minutes.

"Ashlyn?" Hadley's voice came through my intercom after a startling buzz. "Darcie Connors is here to see you."

Make that right
now.

Damn it.
She was early. Not that fifteen minutes would have made any sort of difference.

"Okay, send her in," I replied into the speaker. Then I stood up and pulled my suit jacket taut around my shoulders, as if this simple act might help pull the rest of me together as well.

With my eyes glued to the door and my fingers gripping the edge of my desk, I waited for the moment I had been dreading since I'd walked out of Benjamin Connors's hotel room less than thirty-six hours ago.

Breaking bad news to a client is never easy. In fact, it's always been one of the hardest parts of this job. But today it felt worse than I'd ever remembered. I don't know if it was because of the guilt that I would forever associate with this assignment or because I knew that in just a few seconds, I would have to tell this woman that her dreams of having the child she's always wanted with the man she's always wanted to have it with were now officially shattered.

There was just no easy way to do that.

The door creaked open and Hadley announced my visitor. Then she stepped aside, allowing Darcie Connors to enter.

"Hello," I said, still maintaining a death grip on the edge of my desk. "Mrs. Connors," I sang. "Lovely to see you again." I could hear the obvious falseness in my words, and I quickly attempted to cover it up with an even falser smile.

After stabilizing myself on the desk, I slowly made my way to her and held out my hand, which I prayed wasn't as cold and clammy as it felt. She shook it.

"Would you like to sit down?" I gestured to the sofa.

Darcie Connors took a seat, staying perched on the very edge of the couch, almost as if she were afraid to get too comfortable. I didn't blame her. Clearly, I was now living proof that you should
never
get too comfortable. Because something is always waiting around the corner to turn your life upside down.

I struggled to keep my composure and appear relaxed. I'd broken a lot of bad news within the confines of this office, and today should have been no different. Just another choreographed routine of reassuring smiles, compassionate glances, and tender pats on the hand. That was what usually went down inside these four walls. At least five times a week.

But nothing about this moment felt routine.

The fact that I had personally been the one to prove the unfaithful tendencies of Benjamin Connors was irrelevant. It doesn't matter whose bare skin he touched, whose slightly glossed lips he kissed, whose short, provocative dress he tried to remove. What mattered was that he
did
all those things. With someone other than his wife.

This thought gave me a fleeting burst of strength, and I decided to seize the moment before it sizzled away and I was left once again with the total disaster that had stared back at me from the mirror this morning. I folded my hands in my lap and looked into the eyes of the woman sitting across from me, a serious yet empathetic expression etched into my face. "I'll be honest with you, Mrs. Connors, I don't like to draw out these meetings any longer than I have to."

For your sanity
and
mine.

"I know how difficult this is for you, so I'm just going to get right to it."

She nodded, her eyes wide with anticipation and fear. I could almost see the tears preparing for their call of duty. Lining up in the trenches of her eyelids like an army ready to go into battle, ready to deploy upon command.

"As we discussed, my
associate"
—I paused, shifting uneasily in my seat—"conducted a fidelity inspection on your husband, Benjamin Connors, on Saturday night at the Palazzo Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas."

Her lips were pressed hard together, soft pink pigment slowly giving way to a spreading sea of cold and lifeless white as she awaited my next words with eagerness.

"Your husband," I began slowly, "unfortunately did not pass the inspection."

Darcie drew in a sharp breath, held it for an unnaturally long time, and finally blew it out again. Even from across the coffee table, I could feel the soft gushes of warm air on my face.

"Oh God," she said, dropping her head in her hands. "Oh God."

That was all she managed to say before the sobs started.

Normally, I knew exactly how to respond in these situations. Normally, I'm a freaking database of supportive catchphrases and pep talks, complete with hand gestures, corresponding facial expressions, the works. But not now. Now I was just an empty mess. Nothing in my head was making sense. It was as if it were all written in a foreign language and I had lost my translation filter.

And for the life of me, I couldn't find a way to comfort Darcie Connors. All I could do was stare, dumbstruck, at her quivering body. After a few moments, my hands finally unfroze and my brain functioned long enough to grab the box of tissues from the table next to me and offer them to her.

Darcie lifted her head and plucked a tissue from the box. She blew her nose loudly and wiped under her eyes. "It's really happening, isn't it? My worst nightmare. It's happening."

I wasn't sure how to respond to this, either, so I just took a deep breath and reached out to touch her knee. She seemed to find comfort in the gesture, and strangely, so did I.

"I'm sorry I'm such a mess." She blew her nose again. "It's just that two weeks ago I had everything I ever wanted. A husband who loved me and the chance at a baby. I feel like I just lost my entire family in the course of five minutes." She let out a strange, nervous laugh. "It almost sounds funny when I say it aloud."

I nodded, feeling helpless. This had always been the dichotomy, trading the pain of the present moment for the hope of a happier future. But now I wasn't so sure. Was all this pain and agony really worth it? Not only hers, but my own as well?

"I'm just sorry it had to happen like this," I muttered, staring down at my hands.

And I was. I
was
sorry it happened like this. I'm sorry Ken Littrell's idiot best man felt the need to falsely accuse Shawna of prostitution. I'm sorry that I was able to get on that midnight flight to Vegas. And I'm sorry that I was the one who had to feel Benjamin Connors's lips on mine.

Darcie's hands were clasped so tightly around the straps of her handbag, the pink pigment of her knuckles was starting to give way to that same pale white color that had recently overtaken her lips. "Yes, well, what's done is done. And once you know, you can't really go back, can you? As much as you might want to."

All I could do was nod my head again. I couldn't verbally express my agreement because it felt like I was betraying Jamie all over again.

Apparently my nod was good enough, because Darcie was quickly out of her seat, standing tall and rigid in front of me. "I'm sure you'll excuse me for not staying any longer," she choked out, surprisingly pleasant. "But I have to make a call to our adoption lawyer." She grabbed a few extra tissues from the box and then walked right out my office door.

My body slumped against the back of my chair, and my arms fell dangling over the sides. I felt as though a train had been coming straight at me for the past ten minutes and all I could do was stand in the middle of the track and welcome it with open arms.

Her words lingered in my mind like an annoying song that refuses to be forgotten.

. . .
you can't really go back, can you? As much as you might want to.

But
did
I want to? And would I have done things differently if I
could?

I immediately realized the futility in my own question—or more important, the futility in spending any time agonizing over the answer. Obviously it was outside of the realm of possibility. I couldn't turn back time. I couldn't repeat the events of Saturday night.

But for some reason, I
had
to answer the question. I had to know just how much I really
regretted
my decision. Because in my mind, it held the key to my self-inflicted sentence. The answer would determine just how deep the guilt went and how long I would have to punish myself for it.

As I sat there contemplating, I suddenly realized I was not alone in the room. Darcie Connors was back, standing precariously in the doorway, staring back at me with a pensive look on her face. Startled, I jumped up and struggled to straighten my body in the chair.

"I just want you to know," she began, seemingly failing to notice my dramatic shift in posture, "that I'm grateful for what you did."

I cocked my head to the side and stared at her intently. The doubt in my eyes was apparent. And although I never asked the question aloud, she confirmed it with a nod. "Yes.
Eternally
grateful."

There was a brief silence between us, and she glanced down at her feet, struggling with her next words. "I . . . um . . . there's something I didn't tell you when I first came in here last week."

I continued to stare at her, my mouth slightly agape as I studied her timid body language and uneasy stance.

She took a deep breath. "My parents got divorced when I was fifteen. My mom cheated on my dad. It completely destroyed him. It destroyed all of us. Our entire family fell apart. And I promised myself that I would never put my children through that."

She paused and pressed her lips together before continuing. "I had every intention of keeping that vow. But it wasn't until two weeks ago that I realized I was only half of the equation. I could be as faithful as a Buddhist monk until the day I died, but I couldn't control what my husband did or would possibly do. And that's when I decided to come to you. It was the only way I knew how to keep my promise to my future children. So thank you." And then after a deep breath, "You and your . . . associate."

I could feel the tears start to well in my eyes. Normally, I would fight them off at any cost. Never show emotion in front of the client. Never get personally involved. But her words hit too close to home. Her plight felt all too familiar.

Any words that I might have thought to say were immediately caught in my throat. But I didn't really mind. I knew that they wouldn't do my feelings justice anyway.

When she left the second time, I didn't collapse back into my chair as I had before. Instead I stood up and walked to the window. There was a distinct electricity surging through my body. It made me feel vibrant, alive. More alive than I'd felt in a long time, actually.

I thought back to my original question. The one that promised to condense all of my feelings, all of my emotions, all of my regrets, into a simple yes or no response.

If given a second chance, would I have done things differently?

And staring out at the ocean, replaying Darcie's final words of gratitude in my mind, I knew that I had my answer.

By the time Friday arrived, I was physically and mentally exhausted. I had spent the entire week trying to undo the damage caused by Shawna's arrest. After a call to Gracie Katz, Ken Littrell's fiancée (or now ex-fiancée), I was able to ascertain that Shawna's cover had, in fact, been blown. Apparently, during her simultaneous bachelorette party, she got drunk and told all of her friends that she had hired the agency to test Ken. Well, one of the bridesmaids, who also happened to be married to Ken Littrell's best man, got on the phone and relayed the information to her husband, just in time for him to spot Shawna dancing with the groom.

When I repeated all of this to a lawyer in the Las Vegas area, he was pretty certain he'd be able to get the charges dropped. Especially when, after some more digging around, he discovered that Ken Littrell's best man is actually the son of a very prominent high roller who frequents the MGM Grand, which was the only reason his "suggestion" that Shawna was soliciting sex was taken seriously.

The whole ordeal was an outrage and impossibly frustrating. But by the end of the week, the situation was under control and settled. The charges were dropped and Shawna's record was cleared.

When I got the news, I decided to duck out of the office early and head home for some much needed R&R.

But just as I was pulling out of the parking garage, my cell phone started ringing. I checked the caller ID and saw that the incoming call was from Willa Cruz, wedding planner extraordinaire. I had been screening her calls for three days now, and they were getting increasingly more frequent with each day that I didn't pick up. So I figured I should probably just answer and get it over with if I wanted any hope of a relaxing weekend.

I pressed the Bluetooth button on my steering wheel and spoke into the empty car. "Hello?" I grumbled.

"Jennifer!" Willa's voice came loudly and bubbly over the speakers, and I immediately jabbed at the volume button with my thumb.

"Yes, hi, Willa," was my slightly less enthusiastic reply.

"You know, I've been unable to get a hold of you for the last few days. Is something wrong with your phone, perhaps?"

I cringed. "Yes, perhaps."

"Well, the reason I've been so persistent . . ." Willa began.

I almost laughed at her choice of words. Two calls is persistent. Ten in three days is just plain harassment.

". . . is that I have located the most perfect of all perfect venues for your summer wedding."

I found it hard to believe that Willa Cruz would be able to pick out the most perfect of all perfect places for our wedding when the wedding questionnaire that I was supposed to fill out and fax back to her was still tucked away in one of my purses.

"You have?"

She sighed orgasmically. "So many brides have
killed
for this location, but it's always booked up years in advance. But I just got a call from someone I know on the
inside
." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, as if this "insider" were in mortal danger for having made such a phone call. "Apparently, there was a cancellation. The groom ended up doing some
highly
inappropriate things on his last business trip, if you know what I mean."

Unfortunately, I knew
exactly
what she meant. "Yes, I think I get the picture."

"It was really quite scandalous," she continued in her hushed tone, which in all honesty was starting to grate on my nerves. "It turned out the bride actually hired some agency to test whether or not he would be faithful to her. And
he failed."

A lump formed in my throat as my grip on the steering wheel tightened. "You don't say," I croaked.

Willa, who was clearly a big fan of wedding-related gossip, was enjoying this immensely. "Yes. They sent some girl all the way to his sales conference in Minneapolis. Can you believe that?"

I was hardly even listening to her because I was too busy yanking my car off the road and rummaging through my briefcase until I found what I was looking for: the case file Lauren Ireland had turned in to me last week. I had brought it home this weekend in hopes of getting some data entry done.

I flipped it open, and the lump in my throat immediately doubled in size. I felt as though I might actually choke on my next attempted breath.

There it was, right at the top of the client bio page. Six rows down from the top and clear as day.

BASIC INFORMATION
Case Number: 2371
Subject Name: Nathan Charles
Occupation: Software Developer
Client Name: Amanda Savant
Relationship to Subject: Fiancée
Associate Assigned to case: Lauren Ireland
Inspection Location: Google Sales Conference in Minneapolis

I didn't have to ask what the groom's name was. There weren't that many fidelity inspection agencies in town. I only knew of one, and I had just left it. This was no coincidence.

I suddenly became aware of the fact that there was an expectant silence in the car, and I assumed Willa was waiting for me to react to whatever it was she had just told me. To be on the safe side, I went with something generic. "That's crazy!"

"Isn't it?" she replied in awe. "Well, the bottom line is that the wedding is now off, and the most perfect of all perfect venues is now open for the date of August fourth! Their loss,
your
gain, right?"

"No," I replied quickly, without even thinking. The word just sort of flew out of my mouth. Because truthfully, it was the only word that made sense right now.

There was a stunned pause on the other end, and then she asked, "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean, no, I don't want the venue. Or rather,
we
don't want the venue."

"But I haven't even told you what venue it is!" she exclaimed, the tone in her voice clearly indicating that she thought I was being unreasonable.

But I just wanted to get her off the phone. I didn't want to hear anything else about the most perfect of all perfect venues that was only available because of me. Or rather, because of my agency.

"Well, I don't want it. I think August fourth might be a bit too soon, anyway."

"But—"

"I'm actually really busy right now. Let's talk about this later."

"Okay, but I still haven't gotten your questionnaire yet—"

And then suddenly Willa's bubbly voice was cut off as I ended the call with the touch of a button, silencing her for good. Or at least for now.

I laid my head back against the headrest, trying to digest what had just happened. My wedding planner was trying to pitch me a venue that had just been abandoned by a couple that
my
agency broke up.

Honestly, what were the odds of that even happening?

Maybe it was a sign. Of what, though? That we shouldn't get married on August 4 in whatever perfect location Willa called to tell me about? Or that we shouldn't get married at all? Well, that was just ridiculous. Clearly it was the former.

There was really nothing more to read into it.

I refused to get married in a venue cursed by a failed fidelity inspection performed by my very own employee, and that was that. The whole thing was just twisted and wrong.

Not to mention incredibly bad karma.

Jamie arrived "home" (I still hadn't gotten used to him calling it that) around eight and brought with him my favorite vegetarian lettuce wraps and hot-and-sour soup from P. F. Chang's and a six-pack of Tsingtao beer. We spread out our take-out feast along the coffee table and ate dinner in front of the TV.

It was exactly what I needed.

A reminder of
why
I had given up the tumultuous, drama-laden life of a fidelity inspector in the first place. For the quiet and comfort of Chinese take-out with the man I loved.

We ate in silence, watching an episode of
Deal or No Deal
while we crunched on lettuce wraps and slurped on soup. Then, once we had finished, we pushed our plates to the end of the coffee table and leaned back on the couch, covering ourselves with the crocheted afghan that I keep in a basket under the end table. We tangled up in each other's arms like interlocking puzzle pieces, fitting together perfectly, as if his body were specifically made to intertwine with mine.

It wasn't difficult to picture the rest of my life like this. And I didn't feel as if I were forfeiting anything if this was what the rest of my life would look like. I felt safe with Jamie. Protected.

And although he hadn't yet unpacked all the boxes that had accumulated in my hallway over the past five days, I was still happy that they were there.

Jamie seemed to sense my contentment, because he squeezed his arms tighter around me as if to say, "Me too." Then he grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips to kiss. He likes doing that, kissing my hand. The way they do in period pieces where the women wear long, flowing gowns and tight tendrils frame their faces and the men are dressed in tailcoats and sweep into respectful bows whenever they enter the room. It started out as a joke. Ever since we rented
Pride and Prejudice
on DVD, he would say things like "But of course, my lady" in a really pathetic British accent and then bow and kiss my hand. But then it later became more than a joke. It became kind of like our thing.

I suppose the gesture was pretty archaic and probably sexist. Yet somehow when Jamie kissed my hand, it always managed to make me feel beautiful . . . and loved.

Like some kind of unspoken magic between us.

I waited for the familiar touch of his lips on my skin. But a few moments passed and there was nothing. And when I looked up at him, I realized that Jamie was no longer preparing to kiss my hand, he was just kind of holding it awkwardly in front of his face, as if he were checking my skin for suspicious aging spots.

"What's the matter?" I asked, tossing him a strange look while discreetly trying to pull my hand away.

But Jamie maintained his grip and continued to stare questioningly at my fingers. "Where's your engagement ring?" he finally said.

I didn't have to look into a mirror to know that my face had turned a ghostly shade of white. The force I had been using to try to pull my hand away from his tightly clenched fingers was instantly sucked out of me, and my entire arm fell limply against his leg.

My mind started racing back through the steps of my day.

I had taken it off before I pulled up to the valet station at work and placed it in the same inside pocket of my bag. My eyes darted toward the dining room and landed on my Louis Vuitton briefcase, which had been tossed onto one of the chairs during my exhausted return home earlier that evening.

Shit, shit, shit!

That phone call with Willa Cruz on the way home had completely thrown me off. I always put my ring back on after I parked in the garage. But I guess in the distress and horror that followed our conversation about the venue, I had simply forgotten.

"Um," I began shakily, pointing toward the next room. "It's in my briefcase." Then I pulled myself onto my knees and prepared to stand. "I'll get it!"

But Jamie's hand landed firmly on my upper arm, and I got the feeling that I was supposed to stay put. "Why is it in your briefcase and not on your finger?"

I scrambled to find the right way to say what I was about to say. But there really wasn't a right way to say it. "Because I took it off . . . at work."

A hush fell over the room. The only sound was Howie Mandel asking some overweight contestant if he wanted to make a deal or not. But after a round of applause and screaming from the studio audience, Jamie eventually picked up the remote and muted the TV.

Now the room was completely silent. Unnervingly so. And I was pretty sure I preferred Howie.

After a long pause, Jamie asked, "And why did you take it off at work?"

I swallowed hard, feeling my heart start to beat hard and heavy. I knew I had to come clean about the ring. I couldn't lie to him. Not again.

"Well," I began carefully, "I didn't think it would be appropriate to wear at work because of what I do. You know, with the fidelity inspections and everything. So I've been taking the ring off when I get to work and then putting it back on as soon as I get home."

"Obviously not as
soon
as you get home," he added somewhat coldly as he nodded toward my empty left hand.

"Yes," I admitted willingly. "Today I seem to have forgotten, but that's only because I had such a hellish day. I was working really hard to get the charges against Shawna dropped, and then I got this totally unnerving phone call on my way home about—"

"Yeah, Willa Cruz told me that you hung up on her."

What?
I could feel the disgust spreading across my face.

Willa Cruz told him that I hung up on her? Did she report back to him at the end of every day or something?

It took me a minute to gather my thoughts before I replied, "First of all, I didn't hang up on her, I just told her I didn't want the venue she had suggested, and then I told her I had to go. And second of all, why is she calling you after she talks to me, like you're my boss or something?"

Jamie shrugged but continued to face forward, his rigid body language clearly affirming his discontent. "She was just confused as to why on earth you would turn down such a
perfect
venue without even hearing what it was first."

There was that word again.
Perfect.
The perfect venue. The perfect wedding. She even had Jamie saying it now. There was
nothing
perfect about a venue that became available because of a fidelity inspection performed by
my
agency. And even though I couldn't very well explain this to Willa, I was just about to enlighten Jamie to the fact when he said, "She also told me you haven't faxed in your wedding questionnaire yet."

"It's ten pages long!" I shot back with frustration. "I have a business to run that's currently minus one full-time employee and another I've been trying to keep out of jail, so I don't exactly have the time to write a ten-page description of my ideal wedding."

"You didn't even fill out one question in her office," he pointed out rudely. "I saw your clipboard."