Her plan worked. Only she was more tired than she realized.
She didn’t hear North come home. Nor did she hear her alarm go off. Probably because she forgot to set it. She fell asleep with the TV on. She opened her eyes to the sounds of a morning talk show and sunlight streaming through her blinds. Her heart lurched to her throat. She’d overslept. She bounded from bed with a yelp, her plate flying to the carpet with a thud.
She dressed quickly, wildly shoving a blouse into a skirt. She cast a quick glance down to make sure her top half matched her bottom half at least moderately well. Satisfied, she raced downstairs, skipping applying even the minimal makeup she used for work. She could put it on at stoplights.
She forwent breakfast and flew out the front door, hopping as she stuck first one foot inside a heel and then the other. She wasn’t looking where she was going. Head down, hunkered halfway over, she caught herself just seconds before colliding into North.
“Faith Walters,” he greeted with exaggeration. North looked rested and shower-fresh. Yes, that was annoying. Especially considering she looked like a train wreck. His dark damp hair brushed the collar of a shirt that bore the logo for Sammy’s Garage in the corner and his jaw was clean-shaven. “Late night? Looks like you went on a bender.”
“Charming as usual,” she grumbled, straightening her spine and adjusting her briefcase bag over her shoulder.
His gaze flicked over her. “Your shirt isn’t tucked.”
She glanced down with a huff of indignation. Half her blouse dangled out. “It’s called a blouse. You’re wearing a shirt.”
“Ah.” He rolled his eyes. As though to clarify, he pointed at his chest. “Shirt.” He pointed to her. “Blouse. I’ll be sure not to make that mistake again.”
She stalked past him.
“What? Good girls don’t go on benders?” he called behind her back.
“Don’t confuse your behavior for mine,” she tossed over her shoulder, punching the unlock button on her keys.
She yanked open her car door and tossed her bags inside.
“Faith,” he called.
She stopped and looked back at him. “What?”
“I’ve missed you.” His tone was mocking, the glint in his dark eyes taunting. Even if he was teasing, just hearing those words out of his mouth made something flutter inside her.
Just like that, some of her bluster faded. He grinned, his flashing smile transforming his face, softening his usually severe features.
“Say what you will. I’m still not crossing that line in the sand.”
“Not yet,” he countered. Without another word, he moved down his driveway and climbed into his truck.
Shaking her head, she sank down behind her steering wheel. He backed out and turned down the street. She stayed where she was, suddenly forgetting that she was late. Or not caring. I’ve missed you.
She wondered if he really meant it.
Her phone rang all day. From the moment she arrived (one hour late), it was nonstop. While it was a great way to keep her mind off North, it was not very conducive to keeping headaches at bay. Everyone wanted to complain about something . . . or wanted to make their jobs easier by inconveniencing her. Or they simply wanted her to perform a miracle.
She managed to escape for a brief lunch break. When she returned it was only to find her phone ringing—again. Sighing, she lifted it to her ear, ready to resume the marathon. “Faith Walters here, how can I help you?”
“Do you sleep well at night, Miss Walters?”
Faith stopped midaction as she was tearing a sticky note off the pad to remind herself to check on a case before leaving the office today. “I beg your pardon?”
“Stealing people’s children? You sleep well, you cunt?”
She jerked at the words. “Who is this?” Her voice came out a breathy demand, but at least she wasn’t stammering. She’d dealt with disgruntled parents before. She’d been called ugly things before. She didn’t take it personally. The rewards of her job made this occasional verbal attack worthwhile. In moments like this, she just had to remember that.
“What? You steal so many kids from their parents, you can’t guess who this is?” the voice demanded.
“If you would like to lodge a formal complaint—”
“I’m complaining to you, bitch. You’re the kidnapper who took my kids.” She thought back to the last child she had placed in foster care just yesterday. A little girl. Faith didn’t recall any men in the picture when she had searched Hannah Moriarty’s background for relatives to take her. The mother had been MIA for days. The little girl had gone to a neighbor when her mother had left her alone.
“You belong in jail,” he continued. “Or worse.”