Page 108 of Threaded Lies

On first listen, I could take complete offense to Chad’s comment. But it’s Chad and I know him, and he’s the one willing to do this for my endgame, so I shrug off the comment and chuckle when I don’t feel like it.

“True. Very true.” Especially when the window to wed is closing with my thirtieth birthday coming up. Once that happens, per Gran’s letter, that lump sum opportunity will be gone forever. Am I willing to risk that?

Christ, between what Sloane said and now this, is it even a question why I needed the music today? Is it a wonder why I’m sitting somewhere in the middle of Fairmont trying to prove to myself that Holden really is the man he says he is?

As if seeing his plan laid out would help me with that?

“I know it’s not the best-case scenario with Henry, Row, but we’ll make the best of it, right?”

Something in my periphery catches my eye. Not something—someone. And when I turn to look, my heart begins to race.

“Chad, I—uh, I have to go.” I hang up before he responds and am climbing out of the car.

What the …

Pencil Skirt is on the opposite side of the street, striding in her Gucci flats toward a Mercedes.

I go to cross the street but the horn blast of a city transit bus has me jumping back on the curb. And by the time it passes, she’s in her car and driving out of the other side of the lot.

“Fuck,” I grit out as the panicked feeling takes hold.

With my head on a swivel, I look around to see where she possibly could have come from. The most logical place would be the convenience store but when I go in there and ask if there was a woman just in there matching her description, they look at me like I’m crazy.

It’s not until the third door I enter that I find purchase.

It’s a small office building. The paint is peeling but the sign on the door is bright and the woman behind the front desk is more than kind.

“Hi. Can I help you?” she asks.

“Yes. There was a woman who was just in here. Tall. Gorgeous. Expensive shoes.”

“Those shoes were to die for,” the receptionist says and fans herself.

“Right?” Lie your ass off, Row. “Do you happen to know who she was? She stopped in my place a little farther down the block but I missed her.”

“Your place?”

“Yes.” I smile brightly. You are actually so unhinged right now. Look at you, chasing after a woman out of jealousy.

I must win over the woman’s favor because she slides a business card across the desk. “This her?”

I look down at the business card. At the image of her smiling on its right and then see the title and her name across the top. JULES TURNER, EXECUTIVE REAL ESTATE AGENT, BASED OUT OF ATLANTA, GEORGIA.

Jesus. Seriously? All that worry, that doubting, that assuming, and that not trusting because of a real estate agent?

“You okay?” the receptionist asks.

“Fine. Perfect, really.”

“She said her client is looking to buy some property here. I’m supposed to give it to my landlord.”

I don’t know what I say to her. She must think I’m unhinged, but I mutter something and thank her and all but walk out of the office shaking my head.

She’s not an escort.

She’s a real estate agent.

Pencil Skirt is Jules Turner.