Blackmailing Mr. Bossman (Billionaire Heists #2) - Anna Hackett

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