For a client, though—yes, for a client, he was that desperate. Things had been bad. North and Shaw had been licking their wounds. But now they were ready to work again, so please God, let it be a client.

He paused in the front office. The boy—he looked barely eighteen—stood in the doorway, his hand still on the knob, his gaze moving over Pari’s desk, the empty chair, the row of filing cabinets with a terracotta pot and ivy trailing down almost to the floor. Something about the way the boy looked at everything made North aware of the dust, aware of Pari’s dirty plate sticking out of one desk drawer, aware of the chewing gum some dickwad had thumbed onto the outside jamb of the front door.

“I’m looking for Kingsley.”

North studied him a minute longer. Pretty. Beautiful. The unruly wave of blond hair tumbling into eyes that would have given Liz Taylor envy. The faintest blush in smooth, white cheeks. Soot—or was it dirt—on his jaw, in the dark shadow under one eye, and on his surprisingly boyish hands gave him a truant look. A choirboy that had just finished wrestling on the playground. Shaw was probably going to fall out of his fucking Lululemons for this guy; North hated him on sight. He eyed the street and wondered, if he timed things right, if he could toss their client out there and get him hit by a passing garbage truck before Shaw made it out of the kitchen.

But they needed work. So. “Can I help you?”

“Are you—are you Mr. Aldrich? Kingsley Aldrich?”

From the galley kitchen came an enormous clatter, like a mountain of dishes avalanching. North squeezed his eyes shut. They had like three plates total, but that had sounded like a dinner service for twenty.

“Aldrich.” Shaw came panting out of the kitchen. “Did somebody—North, did you—”

“Shaw, he’s looking for you.”

“Oh. Hi.” He was wiping his hands on those outrageously expensive yoga pants—North wasn’t sure when Shaw had purchased them; clothes came and went pretty easily for Shaw—and then he jogged forward, shooting out for a handshake. “Shaw Aldrich.”

“Kingsley?”

The back of Shaw’s head was to North, but he didn’t need to see Shaw’s face to know the look that was there. It had been there since their first year together at Chouteau College.

“Just Shaw will be all right.”

“I’m Matty. Matthew. Fennmore.” He pumped Shaw’s hand without managing to look at him.

North of the building, on Gravois, the sound of traffic washed in and out steadily. Matty shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his feet. Shaw smelled like pine sap for some reason, and he kept looking at North and then looking back at Fennmore as though waiting for North to do something.

North crossed his arms and watched.

“Can I—” Shaw began. Then, “Do you want some coffee? Mr. Fennmore, do you—”

“I really need to talk to you. I—I want to hire you.”