Page 76 of Filthy Rich Daddies
A knock.
I freeze. Nobody knocks out here.
Hell, nobody comes out here. There’s a fence, a camera feed I never bothered connecting to the cloud, and enough false reports of raccoon infestations to keep nosy realtors away. You don’t find this place by accident.
So, whoever’s out there, they’re looking for me.
I slide the crate aside, grab the pry bar I keep behind the door (not a weapon, just…well, okay maybe a little), and peer through the peephole. And my heart flips upside down in my chest.
Thalassa.
I open the door.
She’s standing there in a hoodie two sizes too big—probably mine—and leggings, arms crossed tight over her chest, hair pulled back into a messy knot. Her eyes are sharp. Wild.
I forget about the embarrassment. I forget about everything.
“Hi,” she says, breathless. “I followed you.”
I blink. “You what?”
“I followed your car. From the hospital.”
“Bold move. Nicely done too. I didn’t even spot you.”
She doesn’t smile. “You left without saying goodbye.”
“I assumed your nap was going to take a few more hours.”
She doesn’t laugh.
Shit. “Okay,” I say, stepping aside. “Come in.”
She does.
And just like that, my hidden lair feels a little less like exile and a little more like a storm shelter with someone else inside.
She steps inside and pauses, her gaze sweeping across the room. The glow from the server racks casts a soft blue hue on her skin. She’s quiet, but not passive—there’s tension in her shoulders, like she’s still deciding whether to punch me or thank me.
Honestly? Fair. She’s been kinda spiky since this happened, and I have it coming. Sort of.
“Nice place,” she says at last. “Very…you.”
I raise a brow. “Is that a compliment?”
“Undecided.”
I close the door behind her. The lock clicks softly into place. “Want a drink?” I offer, moving to the mini-fridge in the back. “I have water, more water, and also water.”
“No Red Bull?” she deadpans.
“Not for you. Caffeine isn’t good for the fetuses.” I gesture to the cot. “And probably not for me right now. Pretty sure if I have another one, I’ll spontaneously combust.”
She moves slowly around the space, trailing her fingers along the back of the couch, the edge of a desk, the side of a server rack. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks again. “You’re okay?”
I stop moving. The question’s soft, but there’s steel underneath it. She’s not asking about my vitals. She’s asking if I’ve actually come back from the edge. If I’m going to scare her like that again.
I lean back against the table and nod, toning it down for her benefit. “I’m fine. Little bruised ego, maybe. But alive. Kinda tired of seeing my face on social media, though. You’d think passing out was the most scandalous thing I’ve ever done.”
