I open the door to a man pitching forward, close enough that I have no choice but to catch him.
First impression? Jackass.
So. Eavesdropping.
I wonder how much he heard.
He recovers fast, smoothing his jacket with a polished composure, like nearly eating carpet was a choice.
The man barely reaches my chin, wearing a condescending sneer over a fashion-thin frame. One look tells me he’s one bad decision away from being snapped like a twig.
But between the six-figure watch, immaculate manicure, and meticulously styled pretty-boy haircut, everything about him screams I buy influence.
And friends.
Which explains why no one bothered to tell him that a velvet tux makes him look like a magician.
Still, a warning flare ignites in my head.
Tread lightly.
The last thing my kids or I need is unwanted attention.
He sizes me up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“A woman ran in here,” he says, straightening his tie like he’s about to negotiate a hostile takeover. “I’m here to reclaim her.”
I blink. Once.
“Reclaim her?” I tilt my head. “What is she, a lost handbag?”
His mouth tightens. “She’s mine.”
Ah. There it is.
I almost ask if he’s got the receipt. Or the deed. Or a notarized certificate of ownership over her ass. But I rein it in.
Instead, I smile.
“There’s no one else here,” I say calmly. “So I’m not sure what to tell you.”
His jaw flexes.
Mine doesn’t.
He points past me. “I saw her go in.” When I don’t budge, he adds, “I’m her fiancé.”
“Fiancé?”
My gaze flicks behind me.
She shakes her head with fury, mouthing, The fuck he is.
I like her so much.
My attention returns to dipshit. “Like I said. You’re mistaken.”
