Going to Get Him Back
Aspen
Cell phone pressed to one ear, I slipped the high heel on, hopping a little to keep my balance. “I’m sorry, Mr. McGillis, I’m already working a case right now and I’m really busy.”
“That’s too bad.” The older man blew out a breath that echoed down the line. “My baby girl’s man is cheating on her, and I want her free of the asshole. He’s put her through hell. Warned her not to marry him.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that.” I scanned my closet floor for the other shoe. Where the hell was it? I stared longingly at my favorite pair of Nikes.
“When I asked around the neighborhood for a PI to help us, your name came up so many times. They said ‘you need to talk to Aspen Chandler. Girl’s a hard worker and gets the job done.’ That’s what everyone told me.”
A little kernel of warmth bloomed in my chest. “I’m so happy to hear that, and I really am sorry I don’t have time to help you right now.” No, I officially had zero spare time. I was working a tough case, and had my best friend’s husband to save. I blew out a breath. Right now, I felt like I was juggling a hundred balls in the air and at any second, they could all tumble down on my head. “Look, I know a few other private investigators I can recommend. Any of them would do a great job and help your daughter.”
“That would be great, Aspen.” Relief drenched the man’s voice. “I appreciate it.”
“Sure thing.” I spied the other black heel. “I’ll send you a message with the names. Good luck, Mr. McGillis.”
“Thanks, Aspen.”
Ending the call, I snagged the shoe and slipped it on. I could barely walk in these heels, but each day I worked this case, I was getting a little better at it. I just prayed I wouldn’t break an ankle. The Manolo Blahniks were sexy as hell—I’d snagged them for a song on sale—they just weren’t my usual footwear.
As a private investigator, I was usually conducting surveillance or tracking down missing persons. Hard to run or climb a fence in heels. Unfortunately, I had to run more than I liked.
I straightened and took a second to absorb the peace and harmony of my bedroom. It was my own little sanctuary, away from the chaos of the outside world.
When my father’s parents had died, they’d left their apartment, in an old pre-war building in Kips Bay, to me. I’d been touched and humbled. I’d tried to see them both as much as I could, but it never felt like enough.
So, I’d gotten an apartment, and taken over the mortgage they’d taken out to cover their medical bills, but it was still a great deal. There was no way I could have afforded a place in Manhattan, otherwise.
I’d slowly renovated it room by room. I’d painted the apartment in crisp white, with touches of wood and green. I’d sanded and refinished the hardwood floors myself, and I’d filled the place with plants. I couldn’t cook, but I was pretty proud of my green thumb.
A fiddle leaf fig sat in one corner of my bedroom, its large leaves a waxy, deep green. A bushy fern was perched under the window, and I had a row of smaller plants in pots resting on a shelf on the wall opposite the bed.
My bed had a padded, gray headboard, and was covered in comfy, luxurious bedding. Since I spent a lot of time following cheating spouses, or doing surveillance on insurance cheats, I liked my apartment—or at least my bedroom—to be an oasis of calm.
“Juno, you drank the last of the juice!” The screech came from the kitchen.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did!”
Ah, yes, I had so much peace and serenity when I had my younger sisters living with me.
I headed out to the kitchen to attempt to stop the fight before it devolved into name calling, hair pulling, or worse.
The design of the apartment meant that my room was on one side of the living area, while the twins shared the other room on the other side. It gave us a modicum of privacy. Unfortunately, we had to share a bathroom, which wasn’t ideal.
“You’re such a douchnozzle,” Briar snapped.
“And you’re a dickladle.”
Too late. The twins loved combining words to come up with weird curses.
“Hey, keep it down,” I called out. I followed the scent of coffee straight to the coffeepot. “Just put juice on the shopping list on the fridge.”
The twins swiveled to face me. Briar and Juniper were identical—five foot eight, athletic figures, blonde hair. It was obvious we were sisters, since I was blonde as well, but I was a couple of inches shorter and a little curvier. They’d both played volleyball at high school, and Briar still played at college.
The twins were nineteen going on thirty-five, and both attending college. Juniper was studying business at Columbia, and Briar was pre-med at NYU.
Juniper, who went by Juno, looked me up and down, then put her fingers in her mouth and wolf whistled.
I rolled my eyes. I was wearing a fitted, long, black skirt, a white shirt with a ruffle at the neckline, and a camel-colored, three-quarter-length coat. It wasn’t my usual work attire, but for this case, I was undercover.
“You look hot, especially in those come-fuck-me shoes.” Briar waggled her eyebrows, then hitched herself up on the small kitchen island. “I’d bang you.”
“Thank you…I think.” I poured a coffee, inhaling the smell of my strong, earthy Robusta. Then I popped a piece of bread into the toaster. “I need to get going, or I’ll be late for my undercover job.” I also needed to meet my client, who happened to be my high school best friend, before I got to the office.
At the thought of Erica, my chest constricted.
“I like this particular job of yours, since you get to dress up.” Juno waggled her eyebrows in the exact same way her twin had. “It’s a huge improvement on your collection of jeans, jeans, and jeans.”
Briar stole my coffee and took a sip. “And T-shirts, T-shirts, T-shirts.”
“And Nikes, Nikes, Nikes.”
I needed to stop them before they got on a roll. “I don’t need to dress like a fashion plate for my usual jobs.”
“So, where are you working?” Briar asked.
“That’s classified.” I stole my coffee back. “Don’t you two have classes?”
“Later,” Juno said.
“You work too hard,” Briar said quietly.
My head whipped up and I met her gaze. “What?”
“You work too hard. Take too many cases.”
Juno nodded. “I know some of them can’t always pay.”
I cleared my throat. “I like helping people—”
“Our father was a dickweasel,” Briar said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to make up for his crimes.”
I straightened. “That’s not what I’m doing. I like my work. I have a mortgage to pay, and two annoying sisters to support.”
They both rolled their eyes, but thankfully dropped the subject. My toast popped up, and I quickly slathered it with peanut butter and jelly. I glanced at my watch and winced.
Dammit. I had ten minutes to meet Erica at a coffee shop around the corner. “I have to run.”
I gulped more coffee and took a bite of my toast. I raced around shoving my things in my bag. After I’d wolfed down the rest of my toast, I brushed my teeth, and swiped some gloss on my lips.