Page 107 of Slumming It

"Sure, when we close a deal, you might smile a bit. But you don't smile likethat."

Like what, exactly?

I put Slade on speaker and looked once again at the screen. When I hit the link, it took me to a long blog post about me and Emily hanging at Solitaire's.

The post included several photos. I counted six total. In five of them, I was smiling like I was actually a happy guy. In the sixth, I was kissing Emily like I couldn't get enough.

I wasn't a fan of public demonstrations, especially like that. And yet, out there on the dance floor, I hadn't been able to control myself. Or maybe I hadn't tried. Either way, the media intrusion pissed me off.

Those fuckers.

I'd left Emily hours ago, and I'd spent most of the day holed up in my hotel suite getting some work done by remote – reviewing deals and potential properties mostly. But I'd been doing a sorry job of it because my mind had been filled with thoughts ofher.

To Slade, I said, "I've been reviewing the Miami deal. I found a few issues we need to look at."

He only laughed. "Nice try, asshole. So tell me, does she really live in a trailer?"

It was a good question. Before giving her that nondisclosure, I'd gotten our usual research firm to provide me with the basics.

Full name – Emily Ann Quinn.

Age – Twenty-three.

Occupation – bank teller.

Address – some apartment on Elm.

Parents – Paul and Cathy Quinn on Willowbrook Road.

If Slade's information was correct, the service hadn't done its job. This meant it was time to replace it – and to discover what else I'd been missing.

This time, I decided, I would go straight to the source – Emily herself.

I had to see her.

Maybe I'd catch her right after work.It wasn't that I missed her.I wasn't that kind of guy. I was just curious, that's all. And besides, I knew exactly when and where to find her.

But when I got there, I saw nothing to smile about.

Chapter 40

Emily

At the pancake house, I was clearing the last of the dirty dishes from my final table when I glanced out the nearest window and spotted a familiar Ferrari idling in the parking lot.

I wasn't the only one who noticed it. At the double booth near the far window, a half-dozen construction workers were staring outside, ogling the exotic sportscar like it was a naked woman greased up and ready to go.

It was almost six o'clock in the morning, and sunrise was still more than an hour away. Even so, the pancake house was bustling with activity like it almost always was on a Monday morning.

Of course, it had been Sunday night when I'd first arrived. Now, hours later, I felt tired and grimy – and beyond exhausted. It wasn't even because of the work. It was because I'd been getting far too much attention – and not all of it positive.

The first few hours of my shift had been a total fiasco filled with gawkers and photographers tracking my every step. Some were no doubt professionals, but the vast majority had been just regular people looking to score some likes on Instagram – or wherever they were posting all of those photos and videos of me struggling to do my job.

Throughout my shift, I'd been trying to be a good sport about it, but this had become increasingly difficult with every passing hour. At first, I'd found the attention almost flattering. But then, as the night wore on and some of that attention turned ugly, I'd started getting desperate for some time alone to think.

Supposedly, I was only pretending to be Reese Murdock's girlfriend.

But wehadslept together.