Page 42 of Wood You Rather?

“Ooh, I’ll convert you. Also, found some interesting info today.” I snagged my laptop from the corner of the island. After meeting the asshole formally known as Mitch Hebert at the bonfire, I did a little digging. Shockingly, his empire was vast and took up way more of my day than I had anticipated. That guy had more LLCs and corporate filings than I could keep track of, and a ton of random property ownership.

“Have you ever heard of Pattes Holdings?”

He shook his head.

“One of Mitch’s filings. Looks like a dog walking company or maybe pet sitting?”

He let out a huff of a laugh. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“No idea. Most of his other stuff seems legit. But this is really out there. It reports earnings in the six figures, but who’s walking the dogs? And how many families in Lovewell are in need of a professional walking service?”

“Not many. This isn’t really the type of place where people hire dog walkers.” He hovered over my shoulder, looking at the screen. “What’s the address?”

I pulled up the corporate filing information and plugged the address into Google.

“Looks like a trailer park.”

He slid next to me and commandeered the mouse. “That’s Mountain Meadows. Local trailer park.” He zoomed in on the map and nodded. “Yup. That’s a trailer.”

“I don’t get it. Mitch Hebert lives in a mansion, drives a fancy car, and can’t walk down the street without shoving his money in people’s faces. Why on earth does he have a random dog walking business running out of a trailer park?”

“No clue.” He stood and made his way over to the cabinet. “But it’s not because he loves animals.” Turning away from me, he filled a glass with water from the dispenser built into the front of the fridge.

“I’m gonna find out. Wanna help me dig up more dirt after dinner?”

He plopped down on one of the stools with his glass. “Nothing would make me happier than to unearth every dirty secret that awful family has.”

“Okay. Let me finish up here, and we can figure out what that jackass is up to.”

I dumped the diced onions into the pot. They were nowhere near close to uniform in size, but they would do. I moved on to the peppers, keeping an eye on the recipe I had open on my phone.

“Would it kill you to ease up on the mess-making?” he asked, surveying the countertop with his lip curled in disdain.

“I don’t see the issue.” I scanned the kitchen and shrugged. It wasn’t that bad. My laptop, some papers, my coffee mug from this morning, and a half-drunk can of seltzer. He was acting like I had smeared feces on the wall.

He threw his hands up. “My kitchen will never recover.”

“You know, you should pull the massive pine tree out of your ass. It would probably help this whole attitude problem you seem to have,” I said, gesturing at him with the knife.

“My ass is not your concern,” he gritted out. “And I don’t remember giving you permission to cook.”

“Permission? Oh please. I’m only trying to be a good roommate. And you’ll thank me when I’m finished.”

“Not likely. I’ll probably be chipping whatever you made off the ceiling, since you seem committed to the art of making a mess at all times.”

I paused, knife midair, and contemplated throwing it at him. Sadly, despite all my strength, martial arts training, and firearms skills, my aim wasn’t stellar. I blamed my asshole father.

So I’d probably maim him at best and damage the lovely house at worst, and that wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.

But while I assessed my lack of knife-throwing prowess, I couldn’t help but catch how tired Paz looked. His face, while still stupidly handsome, was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Those broad shoulders were slumped like he’d carried the weight of the world around all day.

That appraisal softened my anger. Though he was prickly on the outside, a chasm of vulnerability welled inside him. Not that he showed signs of it often.

A little loosening up would go a long way. If only it was in his nature. He carried so much with him at all times. His constant vigilance had to be exhausting after a while. And I would know. I had been a cop for a decade. But a person can only keep it up for so long. The thick walls, the endless preparation, and anxiety over every potential outcome. And it seemed to me he had been doing it since he was a kid.

So I resolved to cut him some slack, cook him an amazing dinner, and let him decompress.

When he sauntered up beside me, carefully rolling up the sleeves of another very expensive dress shirt, I softened some more. The sight of those forearms usually helped to soothe my simmering dislike of this man.

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