Page 27

There he is.

Towering. Barefoot. Panic-stricken.

I stop in the doorway, blink once, and let out a stunned, involuntary bark of laughter.

He’s holding Rosie in the air like she’s Simba from The Lion King, except she’s wailing, he’s sweating, and there’s poop everywhere.

I mean everywhere.

“I looked away for two seconds,” he says, wild-eyed. “She exploded. It’s on the walls, Lena. The walls.”

There’s a distinct brown smear trailing from the changing table down the leg of his jeans and onto the floor.

I lose it.

I try not to, I really do, but the laugh that rips from my throat is involuntary and slightly unhinged.

“Don’t laugh,” he says, holding Rosie further away like that’ll stop the damage.

I hold up my hands. “Okay, okay, I’ll take her. I’ll shower her in the main bathroom. You go shower too and…burn your clothes.”

To his credit, he looks like a man on the brink.

He passes her over like she’s radioactive, and I cradle her gingerly, trying not to gag. Her onesie is a war crime. My hand squelches, and I black out briefly.

“Right,” I say, steeling myself. “To the bathroom we go.”

I take Rosie into the main bathroom and set her down on a towel while I strip off her disaster of a onesie. She giggles and immediately tries to crawl toward the toilet.

“Nope,” I tell her, hauling her back and grabbing a washcloth. “Not today, Satan.”

I get the water running and test it until it’s warm, then plop her carefully into the tub.

There’s poop in her curls. Her actual curls.

I rinse, scrub, pray, and repeat.

By the time Wes walks in again, freshly scrubbed and wearing clean black jeans and nothing else, I am sweating and soaked.

He tosses his ruined t-shirt into a garbage bag.

I glance up from where I’m crouched next to the tub.

And yeah. I gape. Because, well, it’s impossible not to, and he’s not wearing a shirt.

Wes is a lot. Broad shoulders. Defined chest. A tattoo I didn’t know existed peeking from under his collarbone.

And abs. Lots of them.

My eyes linger too long. I know they do because when I drag them away, it takes the emotional strength of a thousand therapists.

It’s only my third week here. I’m not allowed to have thoughts like that.

He quirks an eyebrow. “You good?”

I clear my throat. “Peachy. She’s all clean.”

“You’re a warrior. She should have come with a manual.”