“How old is your child?” Graeme asked the squirming woman seated in front of him. Her vivid blue eyes kept darting away from his face to the floor, a clear sign that she was nervous. He found it mildly amusing.
“He’s five years old.” She answered, looking up at him finally.
“You doubtlessly know how to take care of a child, from your personal experience.” He paused as he realized he had forgotten her name. “What is your name again?”
“Macy. Macy Sands.” Macy supplied.
Macy. He took her in for a moment. The name suited her. She really did look like a Macy, with her long black hair that she had pulled away from the face into a snug bun, her dark blue eyes that looked as deep as the ocean, her slender, average height frame that was frankly pleasant to look at. Miss Sands was classically
