Someone walks in.
I don’t look right away. Because I’m busy typing like my life depends on it, which, I guess, is technically true now. But I see the reaction ripple out across the room.
Janice straightens. Stephanie tugs her blouse down. Even that one loan officer with the neck tattoo and permanent gym odor sits up like he suddenly believes in deodorant.
And then I look.
And I freeze.
Because for asplit second—just one—I think it’shim.
Anton.
My stomach flips. My spine does that thing where it tries to stand straighter out of fear or arousal or both.
But no.
It’s not him.
It’s theotherone.
All black. Aviators indoors. Smirking like he just read my internet search history and is going to use it in court.
Lev.
Of course it’s Lev.
He walks in like a Bond villain on Casual Friday. Hands in his coat pockets, chewing gum, nodding at the security camera like it owes him money.
He stops at the counter.
Smiles.
“Hi. I’m here to open a checking account,” he says. Deadpan. Not even blinking. “Or ruin someone’s day. Dealer’s choice.”
Janice actually giggles.
Giggles.
This is a hostage situation. Emotionally.
I stare at him. He stares back.
“Lev,” I whisper.
“Sweetheart,” he replies, like we’re in a romcom and not a federal crime.
“Why are you here?”
He shrugs, casual as hell. “I needed to see their faces. Get a visual on the charming assholes who make your workdays a waking nightmare.”
Then he leans in, low and warm and way too close. “And if you need someone to rearrange their teeth, just blink twice. I’m very affordable. First hit’s on the house.”
I blink once. Hard.
He grins.
Stephanie peeks over her monitor. I canfeelher trying to eavesdrop without being obvious, which she is failing at.
