Page 37 of Inked Adonis

“That’s the rub: the kind of people who associate with Katerina Alekseeva are rarely innocent.”

“For God’s sake!” The words explode out of me. “How many more times do I have to say it? Katerina is a business client. And my ‘business’ is walking fucking dogs! Our clientele are rich, snobby, and probably shady as hell. But as long as they aren’t smuggling cocaine balloons up their dogs’ buttholes, it’s none of my business. They pay me to walk dogs. End of story.”

The man cocks his head to the side. “You’re very convincing.”

“It’s easy to be convincing when you tell the truth.”

“Then you won’t mind if we do a little background check on you?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to squeeze away the headache I feel coming on. I’m half-tempted to click my heels together and start murmuringThere’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

Myles is silent for a few seconds, studying me carefully. Then he smiles sympathetically. “Being in the wrong place at the wrong time… it wouldn’t be the first time.”

I look up at him and blink, not sure I’m hearing him correctly. “Are you… agreeing with me? Are you saying you’ll let me go?”

“Assuming your background check is clean, I’d have no reason to keep you here.”

My heart leaps into my throat. “Fine! Great. Go ahead. I have nothing to hide.”

“Wonderful.” He slaps his palms against his knees as he rises to his feet. “Let me show you to your room.”

“I don’t need a room. I can just wait here while you run your background check.”

He winces apologetically, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me he’s enjoying this. “I’m afraid our process is going to take longer than a few hours.”

I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve sensed it.

The catch.

Sooner or later, it always comes.

“How much longer?”

I brace myself. Twelve hours? Twenty-four? Maybe forty-eight, if it’s over a weekend?

“Two weeks, at least.”

I clutch the arm of the sofa, my nails sinking deep enough to leave permanent scars in the luxe fabric. “‘Two weeks?!’”

“At least.”

“You’re going to keep me prisoner here fortwo freaking weeks?”

“At least.”

“Stop that,” I cry. “Stop repeating yourself! Say something useful, like why the hell it takes so long for a background check!”

“Because even if the background checks, surveillance footage, phone data, and online footprints come back clean, our team of lawyers will have to write up a whole metric fuck-ton of NDAs for you to sign before you can resume your normal life.”

I’m in real danger of hyperventilating.

Or throwing up.

Or passing out.

Maybe all three. We call that “bingo” in the panic attack game.

For some reason, “online footprints” is the part that’s really sticking with me. All of those pictures of Samuil shirtless… the hours I spent scrolling…

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