He staggered back fifteen minutes later, avoiding eye contact with the mutinous huddle of pissed-off clients in the waiting room. “Sorry,” he said to Helen. “I had to play nice with that creepyreceptionist.”
“Uh-huh.” Helen passed him the appointment schedule. “Your ten fifteen is in room five. Remember to keep it to twenty minutes for your initial assessment. We’re overrun rightnow.”
Dylan didn’t need reminding. He was the only full-time debt advisor at Stratford Citizens Advice Bureau, and his workload was so biblical that he hadn’t had time to even glance at the notes from his next client’s telephone consultation.Brilliant.If there was one thing worse than having too many clients, it was walking in blind to anappointment.
He grabbed a new notebook from his desk and made his way to his waiting client, trying not to smirk as he recalled the last time he’d entered a room with a big fat number five on the door. It had been a week since his trip to Lovato’s had reset his sexual energy, and despite missing Sam and Eddie, the burn of whoever had turned him inside out remained hot andstrong.
So strong, in fact, that he’d gone to bed every night since and jacked off imagining the man with the strong hands and smooth voice. Picturing how he’d lifted Dylan from the bed and flipped him over. Remembering how he’d growled as Dylan had come so hard his eyes had watered for hours after. Lovato’s had always been a healthy escape, but whoever had railed Dylan that night had come through in more ways than one. It was the first time Dylan had ever regretted playing with a blindfold on too.I wonderif?—
Get a grip,dickhead.
Dylan clutched his paperwork close to his chest, and with another considerable effort, pushed all thoughts of his basement encounter aside. He opened the door and swept into the consultation room, moving straight to the battered desk to power up the ancient PC. As the advice database loaded, he finally faced his client. “Hi, I’mDylan?—?”
Jesus fuckingChrist.
Dylan’s words died on his lips as he met the liquid gaze of the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. Slim and dark, the man had neat hair and sculpted cheekbones, warm olive skin, and both ears pierced. Black jeans clung to his perfect legs, and a white T-shirt revealed slender forearms that made Dylan drool until he was drawn back to the man’seyes.
“Uh, yeah... anyway.” Dylan fumbled for the notebook he’d dropped on the table. “I’m one of the debt advisors here. I haven’t got all your details to hand right now, but if you give me aminute?—?”
“What did you say your namewas?”
“Pardon?”
The man leaned forward. “Your name. What isit?”
“Dylan.”
Silence. The man stared hard enough for Dylan to squirm in his seat. He dropped his gaze to the files in front of him, flipping through the pages until he found the client’s information.Angelo Giordano.The name was familiar, though Dylan couldn’t say why. He scanned the notes the telephone advisor had made, listing personal and business debts and a recent family bereavement. The advisor had suggested a DRO or an IVA or possibly bankruptcy, and it was Dylan’s job to figure out which option was best for the client. Forhim, the gorgeous man who was still scowling at Dylan. “I’m sorry about yourfather.”
“What?”
“Your father,” Dylan repeated. “It says here that he diedrecently?”
The man blinked, and the intensity in his glare faded a touch. “We buried him a week ago. That’s why I’mhere.”
“To run his business? The deli at GallowsCorner?”
“You knowit?”
“I do. Romford’s myhometown.”
“Ibet.”
“Excuseme?”
The man blinked again and seemed to shake himself slightly. “I mean, it’s mine too. That’s why I came to this office, so I wouldn’t see anyone Iknow.”
“Makes sense. It’s why I work in Stratford.” Dylan speed-read the man’s information again. “But I’m not sure how much I’m going to be able to help you today. We don’t offer commercial business advice here, so anything related to the deli will need to be setaside.”
“It’s all related to thedeli.”
Scepticism warred with Dylan’s massively unprofessional preoccupation with Mr. Giordano’s legs. Some of the personal debts listed were years old, and from what he could tell, Mr. Giordano’s salary as a dancer?—oh God, kill me now?—had largely disappeared into paying enormous interest charges on unsecured loans and late payment fees when he’d fallen behind. Mr. Giordano had been in financial trouble long before his father died, and taking over the family deli had pretty much reduced his income tozero.
Ten minutes later, Dylan read through the notes he’d made. “As the business is in your mother’s name, it counts as neither an asset nor a responsibility. Which is good and bad. You’re not liable for its debts, but you can’t borrow against it to consolidate your personal loanseither.”
“Iknow.”
Dylan glanced up. It was the first words Mr. Giordano?—Angelo?—had uttered for a while; he’d apparently drifted off as Dylan had filled in financial statements from the paperwork spread out between them and had stopped responding to Dylan’s observations. “Your wages from the deli are a hundred pounds aweek?”
