Page 4 of An Eye For Illusion

She shrugs. “I don’t have time to follow him around, which is why I want to hire you. I’ll provide you with updated schedules as they’re available. We’ll talk soon.” She sums up the rest of our meeting in three short sentences.

“I’ll be in touch,” I respond before turning and walking toward her office door.

“Looking forward to it, Colin,” she says from her place behind her desk.

“That makes one of us, Jade,” I quip before stepping into the hallway, allowing the door to close behind me.

As I walk past the reception desk, the brunette keeps her head down without uttering so much as a “have a nice day.”

I stroll over to the elevators, a little proud of myself. I jab the down arrow and wait. It doesn’t take as long as I would’ve expected with being on the twenty-third floor. When the doors open, the elevator car is empty. I step inside, push L for lobby, and make my way to the back. I lean against the wall behind me as the doors close and the car descends to the ground floor.

I chuckle to myself, imagining Jade’s shocked expression at my joke. It was a joke…mostly. I enjoy my job, and she isn’t the first difficult client I’ve dealt with. However, she might just be the first who has ever given me both a pit in my stomach and a semi hard on simultaneously.

Jade Foster will be a pain in my ass. I’m already sure of it.

Chapter 2

Colin

I’ve watched Elliott Moore for over three weeks now. Aside from a small but significant detail, the schedule Jade Foster gave me is pretty accurate so far.

Little ol’ Elliott has made two undisclosed stops at a bar, and if it was just any old bar, it wouldn’t raise questions. A lot of men like to swing by and have a quick drink with work colleagues or friends before heading home. To the untrained eye, that’s exactly what it looks like Elliott Moore is doing.

But I have a feeling he’s up to something else entirely. This kind of bar isn’t up to par with the ‘caliber’ Jade Foster would approve of.

It’s a little seedy and on the sketchy side of town. It’s too far from his work to be convenient. I pull the ball cap down low on my head as I exit the discrete black sedan and follow Elliott into said bar.

I’m wearing worn blue jeans that are ripped at the knees from years of use, not for show, and a black t-shirt with my favorite pair of boots. I should have no problem blending in with the crowd. It’s the man just up ahead of me who will stick out like a sore thumb. He’s wearing a slim three-piece black suit with shiny dress shoes and a tie.

I snort. I’m pretty sure precious Jade Foster would have a conniption if she knew her precious fiancé was in this kind of joint.

He’s come here twice in the short time I’ve watched him. The first time, I stayed in the car and timed how long he was in there and scoped out the people coming and going from inside. Forty-five minutes almost exactly on the dot. Enough time for one drink, maybe two, but not enough time to get comfortable.

I watch as Moore goes to a back corner booth. His back is rigid, but that’s the only outward sign that he’s uncomfortable. He stops and speaks to a passing server before sliding down into the booth, his back facing me and hiding his gaze from my prying eyes.

I’m curious to see what has this man’s panties in a twist because, since I started watching him, all I’ve seen is a cocky son of a bitch. It only took me a few days to figure out how arrogant this man is. He has a natural sway that tells the world he’s in charge and how full of himself he is. He’s charming, handsome, and obviously has money, but as far as I can tell, there isn’t much below the plastic exterior.

Much like his fiancé.

I find an empty bar stool where I can keep eyes on the booth but also hide in shadows. I slip onto the seat, making sure my cap is still pulled down.

So far, Moore is by himself. I quickly order a beer from the bartender as I sit back and watch the man of the hour. The server comes and goes, dropping a drink at Moore’s table before leaving once again.

I look down at my watch. It’s been twenty minutes, and Moore hasn’t interacted with anyone but the waitress.

What the hell are we doing here, man?

He seems to get impatient, shifting in his seat and pulling out his phone every few seconds before aggressively placing it back down on the table. He only nurses his drink and hasn’t ordered any food.

Not that anyone—especially anyone like him—would come to a joint like this for the food.

The bartender leans over, speaking low to the girl serving Moore since he got here. The action draws my attention, and I casually change my position and lean in to hear them better. My gut tells me it’s about Moore. Years of experience and training allow me to pick up the barely audible conversation.

“Tell him his friend isn’t coming.”

Her eyes narrow, and she juts a thumb over her shoulder, pointing at the pouting, well-dressed man in the back corner. The bartender simply nods and walks over to take care of waiting customers.

The young server spins on her heels and heads directly over to Moore. When she reaches him, she leans down so he can hear her over the din in the establishment. Moore visibly has a hard time focusing on her moving lips because his eyes are glued to her chest. But judging by the way his eyes snap up to meet hers, she just delivered the bad news that whoever he’s waiting for isn’t coming.

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