The Imposter Marin Montgomery (rom com books to read TXT) 📖

Confusion is on all three faces as each one peers at the others. The female bystander stares at all of them in morbid curiosity.

“You have my purse.” Deborah motions to his hands.

He’s taken aback, because indeed, he’s grasping her purse; the beefy man knows what this looks like to the couple. They exchange a smirk as his jaw hangs in bewildered silence. “I was just doing you a favor, trying to help you.”

“Would you please hand her back her purse,” the hero asks politely.

“This is a misunderstanding, is all,” the man blathers. “She fell. I was only offering her some assistance.”

Deborah shifts impatiently, waiting until he hands, no, shoves the handbag into her arms.

“Looks like you lost a few things.” The woman motions to the ground. “Let me get that.” The young lady leans over and picks up the mints and change, returning them to Deborah.

“Thank you.” Deborah smiles at the couple. “I appreciate your help.”

Avoiding the pointed stare of the incredulous stranger, she spins around and hurries toward her car. She can feel his eyes drilling into her back as she puts distance between them, but she doesn’t dare glance over her shoulder to confirm this suspicion.

With a slam of the car door, she fumbles with the lock. Careful to check her mirrors to make sure he’s not in pursuit of her, she guns the engine too fast, and the vehicle shoots forward like a rocket.

Deborah’s eyes dart back and forth between her side mirror and the windshield as she exits the parking lot, her mind a disorganized mess, more chaotic with each passing mile. Focused on what’s behind her in the rearview mirror, she isn’t paying attention to the road and the bulky object bolting across the center strip. Swerving too late to avoid what she suspects is wildlife, she braces for impact. Her body jerks forward as she stomps on the brakes, and relieved she wore her seat belt, Deborah waits for the deafening sound of scraping metal and the thud of a carcass.

The car grinds to a screeching halt, the smell of burnt rubber causing her to cough. It takes her a second to realize it’s from the friction and heat of the tread on the road as she ground to a stop.

Dazed, she rubs her neck and peers out the window, expecting to see a wounded animal that’s now roadkill. But there’s no lifeless body splattered across the concrete.

She removes her seat belt and shakily steps out of the car, suspecting the animal ran into the fields. When she walks back toward what she assumes is the scene of the crime, there’s no telltale sign of blood or matted fur, only tire marks.

Swallowing hard, Deborah slowly turns in a full circle, carefully considering her surroundings and the absence of wild animals and traffic. A feeling of defeat is tugging at her consciousness.

“I know I saw something,” she mutters.

Even though she’s relieved her vehicle and the suspected animal went unharmed, Deborah is apprehensive as she repositions herself in the driver’s seat, telling herself she’s being paranoid because of the incident at the grocery store. She might not be able to trust others easily, but she can trust herself, right? She knows what she saw, and that’s all that matters. Her hands tremble on the wheel as she drives under the speed limit the rest of the way home, her eyes wildly squinting from side to side at the open road, sure another object is going to lurch across her path.

PART TWO

SIBLEY

CHAPTER 6

Sibley

It’s barely 6:00 a.m. on a Friday, but I’m already frazzled, juggling multiple items in my arms. Wishing I had an extra set of hands that could follow me around and hold a catcher’s mitt underneath my struggling grasp, I sigh.

The struggle is real as I focus on staying upright without spilling my iced coffee or tripping over my own feet.

Unfortunately, my twentysomething paralegal and right-hand woman, Leslie, isn’t due in for another hour.

My rigid grip on the plastic tumbler keeps my drink at arm’s length from my black-and-white pin-striped blouse, lest it dribble down the front and necessitate an outfit change before my first meeting of the day. Believe me when I say this has happened more than once; a change of clothes is now stowed in my office closet.

Some call me clumsy, others headstrong, depending on if they’re my friends or the opposing counsel.

In my other hand, I’m carrying a laptop case and a half-zipped gym bag, having just finished a workout in our office’s downstairs exercise facility. One tennis shoe rests on the carpet while I shove my foot into a stiletto heel.

I wince as my poor pinkie toe swipes the uncomfortable edge of the navy suede, another blister earned from taking the stairs up to the sixteenth floor instead of using the elevator. I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess, or maybe it’s an accurate reflection of my life, the constant maneuvering and balancing act I have to do to keep up a well-heeled and well-manicured facade as the only female divorce attorney in my office.

I fumble with the lock on my door, and using my weight, I jam my side into the wood, creating a broad enough passage to let the bulk of my body and bags in.

The refillable cup starts to tip, and muttering a curse word, I hurriedly cross the office to set it upright on my solid glass desk, just in time.

Then, after shoving a coaster that resembles a brass-plated white agate underneath the Colombian roast, I settle into my plush leather chair to finish the task of changing out of my other shoe. I don’t think a stiletto on the right and a running shoe on the left would be a convincing fashion statement, but maybe I can defer to Yeezy on that.

After gently tugging my hair out from the ponytail holder, I shake