Page 16 of Nanny for the Firefighters
My mark has pressed herself against a tall, wide-shouldered man's arm, but I can't see his face yet. Her breasts are smashed against his bicep, and she's blinking up at him with a coy expression.
I snap a few pictures and check them for quality. Definitely Tiffany Davis. And definitely not Mr. Davis, whose arm has slunk around her waist. She grabs his ass none too subtly. I snap more pictures, waiting for her paramour to turn so that I can capture his face and be done with this mess. I'll earn my few hundred dollars to buy groceries for the week and save a man from his failing marriage.
Others crowd in, and I lose my vantage point as they step further into the bar. The man infuriatingly keeps his back to me as they dance, and I have to choose another tactic.
I mean, sure, I can sit here and wait. Eventually, this guy has to turn around, but I'm doing this at a discount, and my time is valuable. So, I slink off the barstool before the bartender can demand I buy a drink, and I slip into the mass of patrons. They squeeze in and part with every few steps, overwhelming me with body spray and sugary drinks.
The booming bass from a new song vibrates the floor under my sneakers. Sweat from too many bodies in close proximity drips down the back of my neck. Keeping my hair down might have been a mistake, but it is the easiest way to hide my face in a pinch. I don't need anyone finding out about my moonlighting as a P.I.
I only take on special cases, anyhow.
An arm slinks around my soft waist and beer breath hits my nostrils. My hand meets a chest and pushes the offender away. "Excuse you. How about asking permission before putting your hands on someone next time?"
Salt and pepper hair flashes under the shifting lights, and a smarmy grin overtakes his face at the challenge. "How about you just be glad someone's willing to get handsy with you?"
This man picked the wrong woman to mess with tonight. I am not in the mood for this kind of shit. When both of his hands grip my hips with bruising pressure, I go to my classic first defense. I knee him in the balls.
His grunt of pain is satisfying, and his hands drops immediately to cup himself. "Bitch," he grits out through clenched teeth.
"Asshole," I retort, already stepping around him. If I had the time or the wherewithal to teach this guy a much-needed, in-depth lesson, I would, but I just want my money shot so I can go home and finish packing up my lowly apartment to finalize the move into my new suite at Marcus's manor.
Resisting the urge to check him over, I weave my way through the outer edge of the dance floor when a newly familiar laugh reaches me. It sounds so familiar that I nearly do a double-take.
Wait—no.
Tiffany's paramour has finally turned enough to show me his face.
Shit. That boyish grin and the small scar cutting through his eyebrow have my heart sinking in my chest. Theo.
The one who sweetly bragged about cooking for his girlfriend most nights, even after his twenty-four-hour shifts at the station. The sweet guy with the mischievous glint in his eyes when he regaled me with his adventures of snowboarding down the side of Mt. Bachelor, of deep sea fishing and being chased by a tiger shark, of hang gliding around the top of an active volcano.
He doesn't deserve this.
Taking a deep breath, I do as I must, snapping his picture as he leans down to kiss his girlfriend, Tiffany Davis. That lying, two-timing little hussy is cheating on my new friend, and I won't have it.
Once I have what I need, I weave my way out of the bar to the sidewalk of Main Street and walk back to my apartment. I have a few things left to pack up and haul over, and it's the perfect time to think about how to handle what I've just uncovered.
Theo's girlfriend is Mr. Davis's wife. God, he's going to be crushed.
Gathering my hair away from my face in a thick band, I let the night air cool my skin. I wipe away the sweat from the back of my neck and wish I could wipe away what happened tonight.
I tap my phone open and review the pictures again. Do I have to send the ones with Theo's face to him, or can I get away with the grab ass picture? It's obvious Theo isn't Mr. Davis, especially with the timestamps on each picture and my advice to my client that he take a short work trip to prompt her into action.
It worked because of course it did. Cheaters will jump at the opportunity to hook up when their partners are out of town.
And I really didn't want to drag Theo into this drama. He's innocent even though he is already in the middle of it. One of the worst parts of this job is breaking two sets of hearts because of one selfish bastard.
I will have to do it, though, break both of their hearts. Mr. Davis already suspects, obviously, because he hired me to find definitive proof, but Theo doesn't suspect a thing. He would never willingly agree to being someone's side piece. He looked so smitten when he talked about Tiffany, even through all of the ribbing and jokes.
He looks happy in the pictures I just took of him for my client.
This sucks.
Once back at my old apartment, I upload them to my laptop while I pack my few remaining odds and ends—some old books from college that I can't seem to let go of, the collection of artwork from former nannying jobs, and the shoebox of sentimental items I didn't have the heart to burn when I had my Ben bonfire. Rolling my eyes, I realize I really need to rip the rest of that Band-Aid off.
Settling the last of my things by the front door, I put my hands on my hips and check for any lingering things, but the single bedroom, single bathroom, galley kitchen and small living room are empty, swept and vacuumed and devoid of everything that made this place mine for the brief time I occupied it.
Waving the sentimentality away, I sit in front of my laptop again and look more closely at the pictures, separating the ones to send on to my client. I try not to look at Theo's face as he smiles down at Tiffany, as he sweeps her hair from her shoulder, as he drops a kiss on her even though his grin gets in the way, as he holds her close with an intimate and searing passion.