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I don’t like to stereotype, but I can’t imagine not trusting the owner with a child. I mean, they probably have enough money to take care of half of my caseload without breaking a sweat.
Even with the rough start, today might turn out to be a much-needed easy day, after all.
The butler stops and pulls open a door. “Mr. Viktorov, Ms. Quinn is here to see you.”
“Finally,” a deep voice grumbles from inside the room.
It’s not a warm welcome, but I can’t blame the man. I’m ridiculously late.
I put on my friendliest smile and step through the door. “Hello, Mr. Viktorov. I’m so sorry I’m late. You must be—”
My words dry up as I look past the intimidating desk in the center of the room to the man just beyond it.
His eyes are as blue as they were in my dream.
As blue as they were in the alley last night.
For a few seconds, all I can do is stare. This can’t be real. I’m still asleep. Then the blue-eyed beast stands up and fixes me with a frown.
Definitely not a dream, then.
While my body struggles to keep up with my brain, a single word rasps out of me.
“You.”
5
PIPER
“Hello to you, too,” drawls the man—Mr. Viktorov, apparently. “I see CPS sent their best and brightest today.”
Somehow, he looks even more wild sitting behind a desk than he did in that alley. The wide expanse of his shoulders wasn’t meant to be contained to an office chair. The tattoos I know cover his arms are hidden by a dark blue suit jacket, but I swear I can still see the outline of them through the sleeves.
“Not their most talkative, though.”
His arrogant tone is what gets me to finally lift my jaw off the floor. I close my mouth and take mental inventory of this situation.
This man saved my life last night.
Then proceeded to haunt my dreams.
Now, he’s in front of me.
I try to thread these points into something resembling logic, but I come up empty. Instead, I flip open the folder and check the address again.
“You can stop double checking,” he advises before I can ask. “You’re in the right place.” He settles back in his chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.
“How do you know?” I ask. “How did you—do you know me? Do we know each other?”
“We met last night, actually.” I don’t miss the note of amusement in his voice.
God, he’s a douche.I blow out a frustrated breath. “I’m aware of that. But you don’t find that a little odd? That we met last night and now, I’m your caseworker?”
Something tickles at the back of my brain. A suspicion I can’t fully wrap my head around yet.
“What I find odd is that you seem this surprised to see me,” Mr. Viktorov answers. “Have you not read your case file?”
I take a lot of pride in my job. I have to—they sure as hell don’t pay me enough to be in it for the money. So I want to argue thatof course I read the file. I’m always prepared.But as it is… I can’t.
