by N.L. Wilson
Chapter 8
So, I blew off the pedicure and manicure and everything else I’d booked. Unfortunately, it wasn’t nearly so easy to brush off the memory of that massage. Dylan’s hands on me, firm and soft at the same time. Commanding yet gentle. Powerful yet...
Shit.
It had been awhile since I’d been touched that personally. That deeply. And I just hoped that young Mr. Foreman couldn’t see through me as easily as he seemed to see through most everyone else, considering how utterly aroused I’d been. Feelings had stirred that had not been stirred in a long, long time. And as every woman knows, there’s danger in that. And now it was driving me crazy. But I knew I had to put such thoughts aside. I had more important things on my plate, like saving my backside before Dickhead’s deadline expired.
I’d shot out of the Bombay spa, waving a goodbye to Ms. Pipps, calling out a wonderful recommendation of Elizabeth’s services over my shoulder.
“Say hello to Mr. Damon!” Ms. Pipps called after me. “Please be sure to put in a good word for the Bombay Spa.”
Right, good ol’ Matt. “Absolutely!”
And if I ever had the good fortune to meet Matt Damon, I surely would.
So according to my well-tipped source, Ned Weatherby wasn’t having an affair, but Jennifer Weatherby was. Or, maybe Elizabeth was lying to me in order to get the good tips? She could obviously tell I was a gossip hound. Maybe she lied to me. Or maybe Jennifer had lied to her?
Yet one thing seemed certain: Jennifer Weatherby had been at the Bombay Spa on Monday. Elizabeth backed up the information that Ned had given Dickhead, and which he’d been so delighted to give to me.
Double damn.
So who the hell had that been in my office that day? And why?
And that was just the beginning of the questions rolling through my mind.
Dylan and I agreed to meet at my apartment. Was I hiding out? Not yet. But I didn’t want any interruptions. Dylan volunteered to go by the office before we met at the house. He’d pick up all the notes, all the pictures and recordings, and we’d start from scratch. While I changed from Rich Chick to Dix, he would check on the mail and the messages, and bring along only what needed my immediate attention.
You’d never guess what immediately needed my attention.
