shifted in his chair, turning his body to face her, wineglass dangling between his strong hands. Watching them in the candlelight, Mia could see hints of the scars and burns she supposed were inevitable in his profession.
‘But never mind about my absurd day,’ he said, and Mia shifted her attention from his hands to his chocolate brown eyes. ‘What about this letter from your dad?’
Mia looked away. She hadn’t forgotten about the letter – she could almost feel it pulsing away in the bottom of her bag. But she’d tried to push it aside, out of her mind. It was a lot easier to concentrate on the evil of Becky Thrower than the disappointment of her father.
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