Page 2 of Rut Bar

Once I’m safe in my office, I kick the door closed behind me until the club’s rehearsal music is a dull throb that matches my growing headache. I add the bag of receipts to my never ending stack of paperwork and drain half my drink, then get to work. The music stops and starts twice as the dancers practice their new routine. I’m working on payroll for Friday’s checks when someone knocks on the door.

“Come in,” I snarl. I’m equal parts pissed that someone interrupted my train of thought while doing payroll and glad for the interruption. My eyeballs ache from the computer’s light.

My stomach growls and I’m reminded I skipped lunch to run errands at the bank before work. I’m expecting Anthony because he likes to bring me a plate since he knows I often forget to make myself eat. But it’s not my bartender who opens the door. It’s a tall, broad-shouldered alpha in a neat gray suit. His skin is light brown, and his dark hair is cropped in short curls that are shaved down to his skin on the sides in a fade.

He looks at me with rich brown eyes framed in lashes that are too long and pretty for an alpha. A hint of a five o’clock shadow with streaks of gray along his chin is already forming and a few gray hairs spot his temples.

“Can I help you?” I ask, my brow furrowing as I completely stop what I’m doing and wonder why this stranger’s here and who the fuck let him up here.

“Are you Ms. Taylor?” He shuts the door behind him and sets a brown leather briefcase down on the floor.

“Yes.”

“I’m Agent Hall. I’m a revenue agent for the IRS. I’ve come to do your audit. You’ve received our correspondence in the mail?”

He pulls his jacket away from his body to take a business card from the inside pocket and reaches out to hand it to me. The scent of freshly baked bread wafts in the air and makes my mouth water. As I take it, I stifle a soft whimper and my eyes flick down to the blue and white photo ID card I didn’t notice hanging around his neck.

Brendan Hall, IRS Revenue Agent. It’s all very official.

I slide my nail along the edge of his card and plaster a smile on my face, hoping that my hair doesn’t look too crazy. I have a bad habit of running my hands through it when I’m stressed. My naturally wavy hair gets bigger and bigger as the night progresses.

“Agent Hall, of course. Please excuse the mess. I was expecting you tomorrow.”

He straightens his suit jacket, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle. “I finished another case earlier than expected. Did you not get my message? I called and left a voicemail.”

A glance at my office phone and its blinking red light confirms his story is probably true. “Nobody’s ever here before noon. It’s a late night sort of place, you know. We close at two in the morning.”

I eye the clutter and stacks of dirty cups. Embarrassment heats my cheeks. This is a horrible first impression to make. “Please excuse the mess. Things always get chaotic when we’re rehearsing for a new act. I was going to tidy up tonight.”

His smile is measured and professional, and it doesn’t meet his warm brown eyes. Instead of studying my mess of a desk, he glances out the large glass windows that let me watch the floor from my office. “It’s fine. Where should I set up? I only need a desk or table and an outlet.”

“Set up?” Standing, I cock my head and wait for him to pull his gaze away from the pack of dancers working on their hip thrusts.

“Yes. I’ll be conducting the audit here—unless your headquarters is in an office building downtown. I find it faster to work at the place of business rather than lugging heavy boxes of files back and forth across town. The traffic, you know.”

“Yeah, the traffic’s a killer. Nope. No downtown office for us,” I wheeze, my chest tight as I make a sweeping gesture with my hand. “You’re looking at it.”

His expression holds no judgment or disgust as he glances over at Nate’s tidy mid-century modern desk across from mine. At least the IRS didn’t send me a prude. Not everybody likes what we do here at Rut even though we’re providing a valuable service people pay a lot to receive.

“Is it okay if I use that desk?” he asks.

There’s no way I can refuse. Besides, it’s not like Nate really uses his desk all that much. Ninety percent of his job is done on the stage floor or on his cell phone.

“Yup,” I squeak and shove my wheeled chair back out of the way, harder than necessary. It rolls until it hits the window. “That would be fine.”Nate is going to kill me.

His head dips in a nod, and he picks his briefcase up and sets it down on Nate’s desk. He clicks it open, unpacking a silver laptop and charger, a pad of yellow legal paper and pens, and his own coffee mug. For a moment I expect it to say something like World’s Best Dad or #1 Husband, but all it has on it is the IRS logo.

That’s kind of sad.

Coffee mug… Coffee. He probably wants some.

“I don’t drink coffee, but some of the dancers do,” I say. “There’s a pot in the… the dressing room.” My brain catches up halfway through my sentence.Fuck!Now I need to make sure there’s nothing bad in plain sight in the dressing room.

“Thank you.” This time his smile reaches his eyes and I teeter totter on my heels. “Will your accountant be joining us?” he asks.

“He’s, uh, out on a medical leave, but I pulled the files he said to gather. I started getting everything together when I got the first letter. Those boxes stacked over there should have everything you need.”

“Great. Thank you. I’ll get started, then. Pretend I’m not here. If I have questions, I’ll find you.”

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