John said from the other side of the entryway, his voice filled with seeming deference, even though he was craning his head to see over Whitesman’s shoulder into the brightly lit interior. Whitesman grunted, stepping back to let John in. He was not pleased to be opening his sanctuary to anything work related. With each one of the heavy titles that weighed on his shoulder came an exponential amount of responsibility, and an exponential amount of hours behind his desk that weighed on his frame. His townhouse was the one place he relaxed. Rarely did he bring work home and never did he invite any co-workers within. Unless it was for one of those extravagant get-togethers that his wife, Bridget, loved to throw. Not only had John disturbed his refuge, but interrupted his evening routine as well. John stepped across the threshold, his gaze slowly traveling through the interior and to the back of the open floor plan. Brown eyes gleamed with the same something that lighted an investor’s when the market spiked.
