When Colin was only six, he’d selected that chair for his dad, saving the one with a semi-wobbly leg for the day he’d show up. Since then, there was an unspoken rule that only his father would be allowed to sit in it.

And although I thought Colin gave up hope he’d ever be in his life, he didn’t give up the chair.

The last thing I needed was for Colin to come into the kitchen and see this man sitting in it, filling it out like it was the perfect fit, even if it was too small for him.

I blinked a few times, trying to keep my composure as the man put his palms on the underside of the seat, shifting around as if realizing it was slightly off-balance.

Doing my best to hush my thoughts and resolve this, I ripped my gaze away from him and swung open the freezer door. I welcomed the blast of cold air on my face.

“Why is this the second time you’re seeking mercy on your son’s behalf today?”

His words had me nearly sticking my whole head into the freezer. Someone wake me up from this nightmare.

“He was in a fight at school. Suspended.” My words were no doubt muffled by the door, which blocked me from his view. I finally snatched the ice pack, closed up, and faced him.

His eyes journeyed from my Nikes to my scrubs, to the messy bun crowning my head, then back to my face. “Have we met before?” His tone had an edge of roughness, like he was trying to draw up a memory and was frustrated by his failure to do so.

Well, that’s how I was feeling, at least. I was probably projecting. “I don’t think so. Um, but maybe?” I finally approached him, offering the ice pack. “I’m Juliette. With a T and E at the end. French spelling. But, seeing how you tracked down my son, you probably already know my name.” Did I really just say all that? Geez. “Your name?”

He looked me up and down again, then leaned back in the seat, and I couldn’t help but notice the lift of his hips as he adjusted his position.

Stop staring at his crotch. I went over to my usual chair and parked myself in it before I broke out into a blush all over my body. I was three-quarters Scottish, and my fair skin had a habit of betraying my emotions by very noticeably pinking it.

“Constantine Costa,” he finally answered.

“Um.” The nervous lip biting didn’t do wonders for concealing my feelings, either. “Is that with a C or a K? Er, um, both names?” When I dared to look at the man, the handsome grin on his face had me stirring in my seat. “I’m sorry.” He was likely smiling at my question in a ha-ha what’s-wrong-with-this-chick way and nothing more. “I work mostly with kids who are missing their two front teeth,” I explained. “Sometimes, I forget who I’m talking to.”