Page 71 of Grumpy Billionaire Bad Boy

I gravitate toward her, ready to throw myself over her in case anything happens, but remind myself I'm being irrational. The attempted robbery had nothing to do with London, and more so to do with me. If anything, London is in danger because of my presence in her life. If I were smart I'd put distance between us to keep her safe, but at the end of the day, making her someone else's problem doesn't seem like the best option.

"What made you want to bake?" I ask her, the words slipping out of my mouth surprising me.

London draws in a breath and releases it, her head facing forward on our walk back. "I had this maid once. She was my favorite. She baked a lot. And anytime anything bad happened, she'd make me something. We never talked about it, she never pried, but she'd leave a plate of cookies or muffins or a pie, you know, whatever she came up with, and would leave it in my room. I always knew that if something happened, I'd at least have that to look forward to…until I didn't."

"What happened to her?" I ask, knowing damn well I'm going to regret the question.

"My dad killed her," London says so nonchalantly like it's nothing out of the ordinary, like it's as plain as telling someone the time. She doesn't flinch, she doesn't show emotion, shesimply keeps moving forward, one foot after the other, her head held high.

I find her confession both startling and comforting—the London I'm peeling the layers off of is nothing like the London I thought showed up on my doorstep two weeks ago.

Chapter 19

London

Archer shot and killed a man three days ago and all I can think about is how fucking itchy the casts on my arm and leg are. I shove a wooden spoon between the fabric and my skin and attempt to dig at the spot on my arm but it's no use. I need them off and I need it now.

I pull out my phone and google how to cut a cast off, quickly realizing I'm going to need something called blunt-tipped shears. They're sort of inexpensive, but I don't want to use Archer's credit card to order them and I'm not sure if there's a store nearby that sells them. I locate a hardware store a few blocks away and wonder if Archer would throw a fit if I left, the answer no doubt being yes.

He gets pissy over everything. You'd think he cared about me by the way he grows so protective, but I'm well aware it's because of his obsessive-compulsive disorder and has nothing to do with me. He'd act this way toward anyone living in his house—I'm no exception.

"I'm going to meet Grace," I lie as I gather my bag and walk past him at the computer.

He stops typing immediately. "You never meet her at this time."

I shrug. "So?"

He swivels in his chair toward me. "You're acting suspicious."

"You are."

Archer crosses his tattooed arms and looks up at me. "What aren't you telling me?"

"What aren'tyoutelling me?" I blurt out, the only thing I can think of in the moment.

"You're not leaving unless you tell me what you're doing." He glares. "The truth."

"I'm…uh, I'm going to look for a job."

Archer stares for a long moment and then laughs abruptly, the sound short and clipped and so fucking patronizing. "Right."

"What? You think I can't get a job?"

"With what skills?"

"I have skills."

"Do tell, the floor is all yours." He motions for me to continue.

"You're an asshole."

"That is my skill, not yours."

"Whatever," I huff. "I don't care if you don't believe in me, I do. I can get a job, watch." It's then that I realize I had no intention of going out and getting a job, but now that I've walked into the lie, I can't exactly deviate from my plan. And as much as it frustrates me to admit, Archer has a point—I don't have any useful skills. I refuse to tell him that, though.

"Okay," he says, his tone even and calculated. "Have fun with that."

"At least I don't sit around all day typing away on my computer. What kind of job is that?"

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