I’m supposed to be professional and composed. But all my training apparently flew out the window the second he opened the door, because the only coherent thought in my head is,I’m God's favorite today.
His gaze drags lazily from my face, down the length of my buttoned-up blazer, pausing briefly at the ridiculous heels I immediately regret wearing. Then, just as slowly, his stormy-gray eyes travel back up, a rough, deliberate inspection that leaves my skin tingling and my brain scrambling for words.
Speak, Georgia. Say something. Anything.
“Hi.” My voice squeaks, and my thoughts flatline. I clear my throat, attempting to recover. “I mean, I’m Walker. Georgia Walker.”
Holy shit. Was that a Bond reference?
My eyes widen as I rush out, “From the county. Not the state. Or the government, technically. Just…”
Just what, Georgia?
“Official business,” I answer myself because I’ve truly lost the fucking plot now.
His thick brows lift, and I can tell he’s trying to not laugh. Humiliation burns through me, hot and fast, making my hackles rise.
“Official, huh?”
I nod once, internally berating myself for suddenly becoming a pile of useless goo on this man's doorstep.
Okay, so, he’s hot as hell in that way no one ever truly expects to see in real life. The kind of muscular and rugged that only exists in books. But I have a master’s degree, for fuck’s sake. I’ve been on my own my entire life.
I refuse to be bested by a silver-flecked beard and gray sweatpants.
Shoving my shoulders back, I smooth my blazer and pretend he’s not exactly the type of man who I’d let ruin me in any other situation.
I’m angry that he has this effect on me just by simply existing, and I force myself to hold onto the irritation.
“Like I said,” I state, keeping my tone flat, effectively blocking out the last two minutes. They never happened. “My name is—”
“Walker. Georgia Walker,” he quips, and I briefly consider throwing myself over the balcony railing. His gaze flicks over my face before sliding back to my shoes. “Whatever she’s paying you, it’s not enough.”
“I…what?” My brows furrow.
He scoffs, voice deep and rumbling. “Look, I know Agnes well enough to know she’s cheap as hell. If she told you I’m footing the bill, she’s out of her damn mind.”
My mind races, trying to put together the puzzle I can’t quite make out. “Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m from Summit County Social Services, not—” I wave a handthrough the air, mentally cataloguing his words again, and gape when they finally register.
“Wait, do you think…” I swallow, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Do you think I’m some kind ofsex-gram?”
His head tilts. “Sex-gram? Never heard it called that before, but sure. We’ll go with that.”
It's then that I notice the glazed look in his squinting eyes, the bags beneath them. He looks like he just woke up from a three-day bender. I inhale discreetly, and sure enough, beneath the woodsy, masculine scent I assume is his cologne or body wash, is the tang of liquor.
Maybe he’s still on said bender.
I glance behind his hulking form, taking in the messy apartment. My eyes land on an empty whiskey bottle next to the couch, surrounded by beer cans, confirming my suspicions.
Sighing, I make a note in the file. I hate dealing with drunks.
But hot ones who immediately assume I’m a stripper are a whole new bag of fun.
“What are you writing?” he barks, making me jump. “I told you; I don’t want whatever Agnes—”
“Agnes has nothing to do with this!” I hiss, irritated as hell. “I told you. I’m from Social Services. I’m here for a home inspection.”
His whole face scrunches, body stilling, before he glances over my shoulder where he stares for so long, I worry he’s fallen asleep standing up.
