Manfax (Winter Brothers #2) - Jacob Chance Page 0,26
spy on a cheating spouse or to find a long lost relative. The idea of people investigating someone’s background for shits is kind of fucked up.”
“I should probably explain that my company is for women and men who want to know more about the person they’re dating or about to date.”
My eyebrows jump. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious. My company is called Manfax. You know how you can get a Carfax report when you buy a used car?” I nod. “Well, we run them for people who want to know their prospective partner’s romantic history.” What? This is some seriously messed up shit.
Gathering my thoughts, I rub my chin. “That seems really intrusive. Shouldn’t sharing details from their past be up to each individual, and not come from some report?”
“That’s the era we’re living in. It’s a lucrative business,” she informs me. I understand it’s lucrative, but that doesn’t mean I agree with people who choose to go that route.
“I would hate someone knowing my private business before I even got to know them. If they’re not willing to trust me to share details of my past, then why the fuck would I want to be with them in the first place?”
“I’m sure you’re not the only one who feels this way. But you wouldn’t believe how many cases we have going at any given time. That’s why I employ private investigators. They leave no stone unturned. I make sure my clients get their money’s worth.”
“Do women represent the larger demographic of people who hire your company?”
“Absolutely. We have men who hire us too, though.”
“I must be living under a rock. I didn’t know businesses like yours existed.”
“You don’t strike me as the type to hire my company.”
“No offense, but I’m not.”
She smiles. “None taken. Manfax isn’t for everyone.”
“Have you had any bad experiences with clients who were displeased?”
“One or two, but no matter how disappointing or painful the report may be, most people are pleased they learned the facts before they became too invested.”
“Jesus, if anyone ran one of those reports on me, they’d never want to date me.”
11
Roxanne
A nervous giggle pops from my mouth. Holy crap. I should probably tell him how we’ve run four reports on him in the past few months—shouldn’t I?
Ethically, I can’t, because our service is guaranteed to be private. Our clients sign paperwork where we promise confidentiality, and legally I can’t go back on that. I won’t break that clause simply because I’m feeling conflicted about Adam’s own reports.
The repercussions from sharing such information could come back to bite me in the ass. I’m not willing to lose the business I’ve worked so hard to make successful over a momentary bout with my guilty conscience.
Besides, it’s not like I read all the sordid details. I didn’t go beyond his picture and basic dating information.
“You think that’s funny?” he asks, reminding me of his comment.
Thank God, he thinks I was laughing at what he said.
I tip my head, studying his handsome visage. “Are you sure about that? I don't really know you well, but you give off an overpowering manwhore vibe.”
He chuckles. “Manwhore? Nice word. Did you make that word up to go with Manfax? Do you have a list of ‘man terms’ you coined to fit your business?”
I laugh. “No, I didn’t make it up, and there’s no list, but that’s not a bad idea. And manwhore is how they refer to guys who sleep around in the books I’ve read.”
“FYI, I prefer debauched. It sounds better, much less insulting. But scratch all that. I want to know what kind of books you read.” His eyes gleam mischievously.
“I read mostly romance.”
“With lots of screwing?” He looks hopeful.
“I never said that.”
“You mentioned sleeping around. Do they describe the sex?”
I nod. “Most of the time.”
“How detailed do they get?”
“It depends on the author. Some get explicit, and others can be more vague.”
“Which one do you prefer?”
Should I answer this question? If I do, he’ll probably label me as some sex fiend and flirt with me even more. But what does it matter? It’s not like I’ll see him again any time soon.
“Give me all the hot sex scenes.”
“I knew you were going to say that,” he boasts.
“You mean you were hoping I would. You manwhores are all the same,” I retort.
“I think you mean men. Us men are all the same. There’s no getting around it, no matter how much authors and women try to romanticize us. We think about sex more than you can imagine.”
“I think