Page 23 of Wanted

So what if there are scuff marks on the floors and a few chew marks on the furniture? The memories of the lovable companions I’ve shared my home with over the years fulfill me more than her thoughts on the matter ever could.

As I lead her up the stairs, I use the time to lower my defenses just a bit. It’s not like she asked to be in this situation.

The staircase opens to a wide hall with four doors, two on each side. The carpet is clean since Ashe is the only dog allowed up this far.

I grip the cool brass handle of the first door on the right. “My room is the last door on the left. The bathroom is next to it. You’ll probably be most comfortable here.”

She steps around me into the sparsely decorated space and sits immediately on the bed. “Thank you. This is great.”

My palm tenses on the knob. “Need anything else?”

“I think I’m just going to take a nap.”

“When’s the last time you ate something?”

Her dainty shoulder shifts into a shrug. My jacket slips onto the bed behind her. “Yesterday.”

“Be right back.”

I jog determinedly down the steps and around the corner into the open kitchen. Living alone affords me the ability to keep the place decently stocked. The only people I have to share with are my hungry brothers, who take no prisoners when they forage my pantry for snacks. But they don’t know where I keep the good shit.

I slap together a sandwich. It isn’t pretty, but it’ll get the job done. Two slices of sourdough, baked by Mom, leftover bacon from breakfast, ham, tomato, lettuce, and mayo. At the last minute, I add a pickle to the side of the plate.

I push aside the fake potted plant Mom insists I keep on top of my fridge to liven up the place and open the snack stash. Three single-serving bags of chips, Pop-Tarts, and a fudge snack cake join the sandwich.

Water or pop?

I grab a bottle of each by the cap in my left hand, the plate in my right, and take the stairs two at a time back to the guest room.

“Here.” I deposit the haul on the bare nightstand beside the bed and step back, brushing my hands against my pants. “Eat.”

Frankie looks at me with wide eyes. “That’s an absurd amount of food.”

“Didn’t know what you’d like.”

Without waiting for a response, I stalk back out into the hall and to my own bedroom. I yank open the first drawer and select a pair of sweats and a soft tee.

“You can wear this. More comfortable than that dress.”

I drop the pile on the bed near her hip.

Frankie splits her attention between the food and the clothes. “Thank you. I think this will be enough for a while.”

I search her face for anything beneath the surface. Is it, though? Food, clothing, a bed. I mentally check them off a list of basic necessities. How is that enough? How can she be content with the absolute bare minimum?

“You know where the bathroom is. If you want a shower, help yourself. Towels and shit are in there.”

“Okay.”

“I won’t be far. Downstairs or outside walking the dogs. Won’t be gone for long if I’m outside. Twenty tops.”

Fuck. Why are my palms sweating?

“Sounds good. I’ll just take a nap.”

“Is your concussion okay?” I blurt loudly.

She gently touches the side of her head. “It’s fine. I’ll probably feel better after a nap.”

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