APRIL, 2015
I was sweating like a pig. Literally.
During dinner, Johanna’s father did not stop watching me with those dark eyes, which could well be black, blue, or green beneath that mass of brown and severe eyebrows. Patrick Grant was a burly man, close to sixty. He was bald on the crown, but hid it very well by using a buzz cut and did not need glasses. He had the hoarse voice of a smoker, although the smell of the house was clean, vaguely floral. He had not been military, although he had the strict air and a certain physical condition, and several times he had mentioned what he knew about weapons.
He seemed absent at moments, but he was measuring me.
I was a head taller than he was, and even so the “alpha” in me felt overwhelmed. The hierarchical ladder moved not only in ranks but
