I don’t dignify her joke with a response, because I’ve heard it from her before. And I have a bad feeling about the rest of this message.
Now I hate to be a PITA, but unfortunately the new dog-walker was actually worse than the one who let Rufus eat my leather suitcase. That security camera you found for me shows the dog-walker spending a lot of time snooping around my apartment. Here’s a sample of his activities.
“Whoa!” Jenny squeals. “Are we going to see his apartment?”
“Jen!” I yelp. “We sent a stalker to his place, and you’re curious about his bachelor pad?”
Any other day, I’d be dying to see it, though. In fact, I’ve tried to picture it many times. When he got divorced last summer, Sniper87 used Fetch to quickly purchase an apartment’s worth of furniture. Over the course of two months, I’d lovingly chosen each piece myself.
And here’s the coincidence that set my curiosity aflame: as I scoured Toronto for “a big-ass sofa with a footstool thing” (his words) and “a TV so large I’ll be able to see the nose hairs of the sports commentators for the games I’m watching,” the gossip blogs were busy clucking over the breakup of Toronto veteran player Matt Eriksson’s marriage.
That’s when I’d taken a closer look at Sniper87’s username. A “sniper” is what you call a skilled forward shooter in hockey. And my favorite player was born in 1987.
Still. It might be a coincidence.
One of the things that sets Fetch apart from our competitors is that we offer our clients the option to remain anonymous to the Fetchers who serve them. We had celebrities in mind when we offered that choice. Sniper87 has the privacy box ticked on his account. Hence the mystery. But every day my curiosity burns brighter.
My hand shakes on the mouse as I click the video link. The screen now shows a soundless, low-resolution video clip. In the background, someone moves through a spacious, open-plan apartment.
And there’s the sectional I’d chosen and the throw pillows! They’re centered in a beautiful, sweeping room.
“Omigod, he has a terrace!” Jenny gasps. “And that kitchen! Wow. He could put you right up on that island countertop and do you.”
“Jenny! Focus.” The guy on the screen is walking slowly around the room, like a police inspector on a case. The jerk slowly greets every object in his path, handling and studying each of Sniper’s possessions. And as he fondles a book, a photo frame, and a stack of envelopes he’s found on a table, a black dog trails behind him, leash in his mouth, looking forlorn.
“Aw!” I cry. “Poor doggy has his legs crossed, and this asswipe is reading our client’s mail.” My stomach clenches. “This is all my fault.”
And then it actually gets worse. I drop my head into my hands as the creep pulls out his phone and begins taking pictures of Sniper87’s apartment.
“This is not your fault,” Jenny argues, patting my back. “You found him a dog-walking service. It just wasn’t a good one. It happens. Now...” She takes my computer mouse and clicks back to an earlier frame in the video. “Watch this bit again. I think that’s a signed jersey hanging on the wall.”
I raise my head. “Really?” My heart spasms.
“Really.” She points. “There. The glare on the frame makes it a little hard to see. But that’s a sleeve right there. It’s...a Rangers jersey?”
If anyone could spot that detail—even in black and white—it’s Jenny. She has eyes like a hawk’s. “Wow. Yeah! But that doesn’t prove our theory about him. He might just be a hockey fan. And why would a player hang a signed jersey on his wall?”
“Players are fans, too. That’s probably a Gretzky jersey. Your man Eriksson would have been a kid when Gretzky was at the height of his fame.”
“You have an answer for everything,” I grumble.
Jenny sniffs. “It would be awfully easy to shut me up, you know. Open his freaking customer file and look already. You’re just torturing both of us.”
“All clients who check the privacy box are entitled to remain that way.”
She rolls her eyes. “Bet you’re sorry you thought of that privacy option when you started the company.”
“It has crossed my mind.”
“Look. It’s honorable that you don’t allow all three dozen Fetchers to know certain clients’ names. But you’re the owner, and he’s trusted you with his name, his address, his Amex black card and his underwear size. The terms of service state that you and Jackson have access to this information. So put yourself out of your misery and look at his file.”
“Another day, maybe,” I say to change the subject. “Right now I need to fix this problem.”
Jenny actually lets out a little growl. “I swear sometimes that you’ve been snatched by aliens. The Hailey I know isn’t a skitternatter.”
“A what?”
“A coward.” I flinch, but she keeps talking. “The Hailey I met a few years ago is a fearless entrepreneur and a go-getter. What happened, honey?”
My divorce, that’s what.
She’s not finished with me, either. “You could meet the man of your dreams, you know. Just call him up and thank him for being such a great client. Introduce yourself and make sure he knows how much you value his big”—she winks—“business.”
“I’m not doing that,” I sputter.
“Why not? You need to get out there again and start meeting men. Techie Tad wants to date you, too. But do you give him the time of day? No.”
“No, he doesn’t.” That’s a ridiculous idea.
Jenny gives me a giant eye roll. “I just watched him invite you out for coffee.
You blew him off.”
“He didn’t mean it like that.”
She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hailey, he did.”
“No way,” I insist.
“He wears a Toronto cap every time he knows he’ll see you, and I know for a fact he's not a Toronto fan! I heard him tell Dion that he was a Bruins fan.”
“Oh.”
“Now she gets it.”
“I’m kind of slow sometimes.” Techie Tad is a Bruins fan? Even if I were interested in him, it would never work, not with our split loyalties. When it comes to my team, I'm ride or die.
“But you’re only slow about a few things,” she says. “Though I can’t harass you about it anymore right now because I’m off to buy batteries for a man obsessed with his penis. Later.”
“TTFN.”
She leaves, and I turn back to Sniper87’s message. From my terminal, a few keystrokes would reveal his identity. And I’m tempted. But there are two problems with learning the truth.
In the first place, if Sniper87 really isn’t Matthew Eriksson, the hottest, most rugged forward on Toronto’s well-endowed team, I’ll be crushed. The fact that I spend part of each day assisting someone who might be my long-time celebrity crush is easily the most romantic thing in my life right now.