Page 87 of The Pucking Wrong Man

Walker: Sleeping maybe?

Ari: I just laughed. That was a funny joke, Disney.

Linc: Logan was posing.

There was a picture after that...of Logan standing next to Harold’s statues, flexing in a pair of tiny shorts. They must have taken that before he knew they were there.

I was howling.

Logan: You owe me for the rest of your fucking lives. Indefinitely. For infinity.

Ari: At least your dick wasn’t almost bit off by an enormous poodle.

Logan: It was almost bitten off by something much, much worse, Lancaster.

Walker: ...

Ari: ...

Linc: ...

I texted out “...” for good measure, even though I was replying hours later.

My phone almost hit the floor when I finally heard her door open. Glancing at the food, I made sure I wasn’t missing anything.

Six-thirty a.m.

Three and a half hours of sleep wasn’t ideal, but I wouldn’t put it past her to try and sneak out this morning, so I’d woken up at five a.m. to make sure that didn’t happen.

“Good morning,” I said as I watched her try and sneak toward the front door, her small bag clenched in her hand. She jumped and froze before turning slowly to stare at me in surprise.

“Good morning,” she squeaked adorably.

Considering she hadn’t gotten much sleep, she looked much better this morning. And I wondered if she’d even slept any of those nights at the shelter.

“I made breakfast,” I offered, deciding I was just going to ignore the fact that she’d try to leave without telling me goodbye.

I knew my girl. The fact that she was here would be riding her hard this morning. She’d never had anyone to help her out in her life. She didn’t know what to think about it.

That was alright. Soon enough, all of this would be as familiar to her as breathing.

“Oh, okay,” she said, sounding a little dazed and confused as she walked slowly into the kitchen and stared at it.

I tried to see it from her point of view. I’d grown up with this type of wealth, courtesy of my lawyer stepdad. His money and the stability it provided had been the reason she’d gone back to him.

It was...a lot. Especially for one person.

But I’d obviously had great foresight because now it wasn’t just one person staying here, and Anastasia deserved the very best.

“You made all this?” she whispered, gesturing at the food.

I had gone overboard. I could admit that. But I hadn’t known what she would like. So, I made pancakes and waffles...and french toast. Bacon and sausage were stacked high on a platter, and I’d even had Mrs. Bentley, Lincoln's housekeeper, send over some of her breakfast burritos. We all liked them so much, it was basically a full-time job for her to keep us stocked up.

I probably could have just stuck with those, but the overwhelming urge to take care of her was riding me hard.

A flashback hit me. Suffocating and quick.

“Why isn’t fucking dinner ready, Leslie? What the fuck has your lazy ass been doing all day? You’re such a fucking disgrace. I work so hard, and this is the thanks I get?”

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