Page 43 of Wanted

But if she insists on catering to my dog’s preferences, she’ll swiftly learn we are sticklers for our routine. When you have to feed fifteen dogs, things can get a little noisy if you’re late to serving breakfast.

This past week was an exception. One I don’t want Ashe, or any of the pups, getting used to.

I file away the topic. Frankie and I can revisit my expectations when I bring her some breakfast once the sun is up.

I change from my sleep clothes into a pair of well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved black Henley before donning a pair of thick, warm socks. It’s not unusual for my morning to be spent outside, and it’s still cold as fuck in Minnesota.

I stumble into the en suite to complete my morning tasks. After my hair is combed, both on my head and my beard, my teeth are brushed. A spritz of cologne finishes the routine, and I make my way into the dark hall.

The smell of something cooking drags me down the stairs.

I pause on the landing.

One. Two. Three—fuck it.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

I cross into the brightly lit kitchen with a scowl twisting my face.

“Holy crap!” Frankie jumps, dropping a greasy spatula from her hand. The utensil clatters at her feet. She hastily bends to pick it up and rises with a scowl to match mine. “You didn’t have to sneak up on me like that.”

Her words bounce right off me. I’m too busy studying her appearance to reply. The messily twisted knot of hair on top her head looks both wild and stylish. As does the oversized tee, my tee, she wears hanging off one shoulder. The pair of blue jeans she wears hugs her tightly in all the right places.

The only thing out of place is the purple plaster cast on her right arm.

I lick my lips. I suppose I should be grateful her outfit is one appropriate for the work we do around here.

“What are you doing?” I ask again, eyeing the pans sizzling on my stovetop.

“What does it look like? I’m making breakfast.”

“It’s six o’clock.”

“And?”

“And? It’s fucking early.”

“I like to be on time for my first day of work.”

“When I said you were working for me, I didn’t mean you had to start first thing in the morning.”

Frankie turns her back on me to fiddle around with the stove. When she turns back, she holds out a steaming mug of coffee.

And it’s in my favorite cup.

She extends the beverage to me. “Why not? You start first thing in the morning, don’t you?”

I take the peace offering with a grunt.

“I make you breakfast,” I grumble around the rim, not giving that first shit when the liquid burns my tongue.

“Exactly.” Plates clank loudly together as Frankie sets them beside the stove. Apparently, she’s already been up long enough to investigate my kitchen cabinets.

I wonder if she found the secret snack stash.

“You cooked for me every day last week. It’s only right if I pull my fair share.”

“No.”

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