“Neither. Well, not really.”

“So then why are you sitting across from me and not in some hurdy-turdy, fancy penthouse?”

“I got into a little accident.”

“Another one? What is that now? The third one in the last eighteen months? Your insurance must be a damn fortune.”

“Parallel parking is impossible. Though, this time I wasn’t even backing in. I just don’t get why they can’t make the spots bigger on the street so people can easily pull in.”

“Because real estate is almost two grand a square foot here, sweetheart.”

“I might have to start taking public transportation.”

“Been telling you that since the day you started here. No one drives. Learn the subway system already.”

I sighed.

Soren set his empty coffee mug on the desk and clasped his hands behind his head again, leaning back in his chair. “What the hell does your accident have to do with you not getting the job you wanted? Were you late or missed the appointment or something?”

“Oh. I had an accident parking down the block from where my interview was. Turns out the driver, who wouldn’t admit the accident was his fault, was actually the guy I was supposed to interview with.”

Soren threw his head back in a fit of laughter. He actually snorted from laughing so hard.

“I’m glad you find my disaster of a life so amusing.”

“You’re one hot mess who’s lucky she’s hot. You’re either hitting something, spilling something, or tearing apart some schlep’s life. Your brother would kick your ass for the shit you do. Hell, he’d kick both our asses for the shit I let you do. In fact, the only thing he’d approve of is that I overpay you.”

Soren was an ex-marine, ex-cop, and all around badass. He’d been my older brother’s sergeant in the corps. He also let me pick and choose the jobs I wanted, make my own schedule, and he actually did overpay me—three of my favorite qualities in a man.

After my last job with Larry the lawyer, I had hoped to be done working for Soren. Not that I didn’t appreciate him giving me a job when I’d quit the last one without a dime to my name and showed up at his office—because I did. But I needed to get a job on my own. Someone else had been helping me for the better part of twenty-five years. It was time, although apparently not today after all.

“So what’s on the agenda for this week?” I asked.

Soren put on a pair of reading glasses that sat at the tip of his nose. They detracted from his coolness negligibly. “Got another cheater job for you, if you’re up for it. Wife will be here at five, so I need you to stick around.”

“Me? Stick around?”

It was rare that I spoke to the wives. Women weren’t generally fond of me to begin with. And Soren felt that a woman already scorned didn’t need the woman about to seduce her husband shoved in her face.

“This one asked specifically for you. Said she was referred by a friend of a friend. Of course, she wouldn’t tell me who. Not that it matters as long as her check clears.”***I should have worn a less lacy bra today. Or skipped lunch.

My meatball parm hero had dripped sauce onto my white blouse. Soren had bellowed unexpectedly as I attempted to remove the stain by pouring a bit of seltzer on the spot, causing me to startle and spill the full bottle all over myself. Now I had a giant red stain, a soaked blouse, and one pert nipple visible through the sheer, damp fabric of my bra and shirt.

“Your five o’clock appointment is here,” Bambi announced through the intercom.

I sat in one of the guest chairs on the other side of Soren’s desk as he gave me the once-over. He shook his head and looked like he was about to tsk.

“What? It’s your fault I look like this.”

“My fault? In the two years you’ve worked here, you’ve never left this office after a meal without wearing it. It’s a good thing you have great tits. Most men will overlook a stain or two for a rack like yours.”

“So stop looking at me like that. Overlook the stain like all the other assholes will.”

Soren grumbled and pushed the intercom button. “Show Ms. Brady in, please.”

Soren’s divorce-assistance private investigation services, where we gathered evidence that serial cheaters were just that—cheaters, was one of the more popular services he offered. But the client seldom wanted to meet the woman seducing her husband, so I was curious to see what set this one apart from the others.

They all came to tell us about their lying, cheating, asshole husbands—yet they were always all done up for the occasion. The women with reasons to come here had bruised egos, cracked hearts, and fissures in their faith in the male gender, but they stood tall as they told their stories. Getting all dolled up was part of the untold story they wanted to tell us.