“Joey Lynch.” John Kavanagh looked up from the table he was sitting at and smiled. “We meet again.” The fuck? “What are you doing here?” I asked, sinking down on the chair opposite him. “You’re not my solicitor.” “I am today,” he mused, combing through a stack of paperwork that I assumed contained my file. Shit, knowing my luck, the whole damn stack was dedicated to me. “If you’ll have me.” “I’m broke,” I decided to throw out there. “And no offense, but it’s pretty clear from the mansion you live in and the designer suit you’re wearing that you don’t work for free.” “And I’m actually a
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