inside. He didn’t look around with pity, though his sharp eyes took in the flickering overhead bulb, the bare kitchen counter, and the stack of red-stamped eviction notices on the table. He set the bags down. “Where’s her bottle?”
“The sink,” Clara choked out, momentarily paralyzed.
Ethan didn’t wait. He shed his tailored cashmere coat, tossing it onto a mismatched chair, rolled up his sleeves, and went straight to the small sink. He washed his hands, found the clean plastic bottle, and opened the first can of sensitive-stomach formula. He
