Page 89 of Bidding War

“Of course, baby.”

So, I stay until I’m certain he’s out, and then I take his keys from the bowl by the door and fly out of the place. All those months of running have paid off because I am not even winded by the time I get to my apartment. I gather everything I think I’ll need while I call for a ride share—I’m not carrying all of this on foot. Once that’s done, I scramble downstairs and jet back to his place. When I’m inside, I check that he’s breathing before I unpack.

He is breathing. Now, it’s my turn to do the same.

I have never lived with a man before, so moving in—even temporarily—feels strange. His place screams masculine. Everything is in charcoals and blues, or when applicable, big pieces of wood. It’s dark and, in a strange way, kind of soothing. His cologne is faint in the air.

The total opposite of my grandma chic apartment, but I’m not mad at it.

I shoot Andre an email, explaining I’ll need a few personal days, and within seconds, I get one saying that is not a problem. Then I take a trip through the kitchen. Sure enough, there are soup supplies in the kitchen, along with cases of protein shakes and protein bars—those will have to wait for a while. Protein powder, too. No wonder Anderson eats fries every chance he gets. He eats nothing like that at home.

I order grocery delivery for anything that’s missing and to suit my tastes. No sense in me being on a liquid diet, too. I’ll just eat my chewing food when Anderson is asleep so he doesn’t feel like he’s missing out. I’m sure he’d think that was ridiculous, but I don’t care. He was shot. I can be a little ridiculous while I take care of him.

46

JUNE

Afew days of taking care of Anderson, and I know some things for certain. My boyfriend is trying to hide his pain from me, so I don’t worry, and he’s so hilariously bad at it. He thinks I’m not watching him out of the corner of my eye, but I see every wince and every cringe. I see it every time he reaches for the remote. Every time he coughs. All of it.

But I also know Anderson is a trooper. He listens when the home nurse comes by, and he does the exercises she prescribes. He’s cooperating about his liquid diet, even though he’s lost a few pounds. The home nurse says he’s making excellent progress, and I couldn’t be prouder of him.

In other news, Edgar Jones is so fucking lucky that he’s already dead. When Anderson sleeps, I’m either working, working out, or fantasizing about how I would have destroyed him if he weren’t already dead. I have never torn a man apart limb from limb, but I could learn how. I’m sure Moss would show me if I asked.

I am so glad that scary big guy is on our side.

Moss has come by a couple of times and made good on his soup threat, which was, in fact, delicious. But I try to save most of it for Anderson since he’s the one who is healing. I’m still not comfortable around Moss—I can’t see him without thinking of Neil, but it’s getting better. Especially because I know he’s the one who saved Anderson. He thinks he owes Anderson, but the truth is, we owe him so much.

Speaking of owing, Andre has been great about me taking time away, but I do check in on work and get done what I can. I don’t want to live off his good graces for too long. Partially because I’m just not that kind of employee but also because I don’t want him to think that I owe him in any way that is not professional. I still cannot pin that guy down when it comes to his intentions with me.

In fact, since last night was rough, I’ve been up checking emails since around four this morning, and I got a lot done already. It hits me that I haven’t made coffee yet. I had gone from playing nursemaid in the middle of the night straight to emails without a thought in between. I’ve gotten so used to things that this has become my routine. Strange how fast you can adjust to traumatic situations.

When someone knocks on the door, I check the time. It’s not time for the home nurse, and Moss always texts before he shows up, so I’m cautious. If it’s Elliot West, this could end up as a fight, and I do not want to wake Anderson for the world right now. He had such a hard time sleeping last night. Hell, I’m still in my robe and slippers since I wasn’t expecting company.

I check the doorbell cam. An older woman I recognize—oh shit. His mom. Throwing open the door, I smile, completely at a loss for what to say.

She stands there, the perfect picture of Massachusetts poise. Prim and proper and overly educated to wind up the wife of a lunatic gangster media tycoon. Her hair sits with every strand in its place in a style that was popular twenty years ago but still somehow suits her. Elegant makeup to go with her fashionable attire. Nothing too showy, yet easy to notice how effortless it looks. Everything about her screams money, but in a classy way.

“Kitty, come in, come in,” I say, opening the door wide. “Is everything alright?” I ask, closing it.

She gives me a wan smile. “I believe that is my question for you, June.”

“He’s doing better. The home nurse says he’s improving every day.”

At that, her shoulders relax. I hadn’t noticed just how stiff they were before. “That is good to hear, thank you.”

I nod, wondering just how much trouble we are in now that she knows I’m here. With Elliot’s stupid rule about us being together, I’m sure she will rat us out. If the home nurse hasn’t yet. I almost want to ask about it, but I’m not that brave before coffee.

Kitty steps close, taking my hands in hers. “Thank you for being here for him, June. It means a lot to me that you’re taking care of my boy.”

Oh. Well. Wasn’t expecting that. “Of course. Can I get you some coffee? I’d wake him up for you, but he slept terribly last night?—"

“Actually, I was hoping to speak with you before him, if that’s alright. So, coffee sounds lovely.”

An impromptu conversation with the woman who, under any other circumstances, probably hates me just as much as Elliot does? That’s exactly how I like to start my day. Woo hoo.

But I pad to the overpriced and confusing coffeemaker in Anderson’s kitchen anyway. It’s plumbed into his waterline, so no trips back and forth to the sink. I teased him the other day about how it must save him so much time and effort, and he declared that it made better coffee that way.

Somehow.

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