of Oreo cookies.
“Okay,” he said firmly, lifting her nose so she’d have to look him straight in the eyes. “You can come inside. But no funny business. Promise? Sit. Lie down. That’s it.”
She promptly sat and swept the snow with her bushy tail.
“Okay, then. Heel!”
She bounded to the end of her leash and eagerly pawed at the back door, nearly jerking him off his feet.
“You, my friend, are going to dog school,” he muttered as he unlocked the door. Walking past his dad’s office, he entered the smaller one he’d always used, fished a couple of dog treats from the pocket of his ski jacket and settled Sadie in the corner behind his desk.
Where, hopefully, she would stay quietly until he finished the meeting with his client.
Vance Young arrived a few minutes later, still wearing his gas station uniform and smelling of sweat, gasoline and motor oil. His scowl suggested that he was as volatile as the fuels staining his shirt.
Grant led him into the office and waved him toward one of the chairs by the desk, then he picked up the files he’d left by the phone. “I wasn’t sure why you wanted to come in today, so I pulled all of these.”
A muscle along the side of the man’s jaw jerked. “Those damn payments, that’s why.”
“Payments?”
“Warren said he’d take care of it. Straighten it out. The damn county is after me for back child support, and I sure as hell don’t plan to pay.”
“Aah.” Grant thumbed through the files until he found the correct one. “What’s the problem?”
“I said, I don’t plan to pay.” He spat out each word. “My ex-wife makes as much money as I do. She ain’t supporting another family like I am…and she’s living in sin with another man, right there with my kids. So what are you gonna do about this?”
“Those factors don’t negate your financial responsibility as a father, Vance. Do you pay her alimony?”
“Hell, no.”
“That probably could have been terminated, given the circumstances.” Grant was beginning to see why the woman had agreed to a divorce…she’d probably hit the ground running at the first opportunity and never looked back. He glanced at the latest court order in the file. “Says here you were to start paying three-hundred-fifty dollars a month almost three years ago. Exactly how far behind are you?”
“Eight grand.”
“Kids are expensive, Vance. That translates into a lot of ballet lessons, school fees and soccer equipment. Running shoes. Clothes. Food. A percentage of what keeps a roof over their heads.”
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