The Wrong Man (Alpha Men 3)

He shook his head and stomped back into the bedroom, where he attempted to dress himself. He managed to struggle into underwear, socks, track pants, and a loose tank top and trainers, even though the effort left him panting and his bad arm aching.

He felt better after a decent night’s sleep, and tackling the stairs today didn’t feel like too much of a chore. The wound in his thigh pulled uncomfortably with each step, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t manage. He wandered to the fridge, and a quick glance at the contents told him that everything would require cooking. He grimaced. Even with two functioning arms, he wasn’t the greatest of cooks. Attempting a proper breakfast in his current state would only end in disaster.

On to plan B, then. Cornflakes. He hated cornflakes, it was a kid’s meal, but it was that or toast, and he didn’t fancy attempting to butter toast with his left hand. He grabbed a carton of milk and turned to put it on the island behind him and then reached for the orange juice. He somehow miscalculated the grab and fumbled. The carton went tumbling to the floor and exploded on impact.

“Fucking cock-sucking motherfucking son of a donkey’s ball sac!” he yelled as he jumped out of the way. He got splashed anyway. Jesus!

“Uh. Knock, knock?” He swore again, the unfamiliar voice taking him by complete surprise. He didn’t like being sneaked up on. In fact, he fucking hated it. Before the stabbing incident in London, nobody had gotten the jump on him. Ever.

He glared at the woman standing at the back door. She looked familiar. His confusion cleared when he recognized Daisy’s oldest sister, Daphne. No, that was wrong. Daffodil. Stupid name.

She bore a striking similarity to Dahlia with her glossy, dark-brown hair, slender body, and pretty gray eyes, but she lacked her sister’s appealing softness. This one had a cynical mouth and just somehow seemed more . . . angular. He couldn’t figure out what it was. She looked sharp, while Dahlia looked round and cuddly. He reckoned cuddling Daffodil McGregor would be like trying to get cozy with a scorpion. She was well put together and dressed attractively—it was a look that usually appealed to him, sophisticated and sleek. But in comparison to Dahlia’s fussy dress sense, it just left him cold.

Bizarre.

“Hey,” he greeted with a nod, trying for insouciance, despite the bright-orange liquid pooling at his feet. “Daff, right?”

“Yes.” Her voice wasn’t particularly friendly, and he recalled that he hadn’t exactly hit it off with her the first time around. She’d warned him to stay away from Dahlia. He didn’t respond well to people who tried to tell him what to do. Her eyes dropped to his feet, and she sighed. “Having a shitty morning, I take it?”

He shrugged, as there was really no point in answering.

She turned away and stepped into the broom closet next to the guest bathroom before exiting seconds later with a mop and bucket.

“You don’t have to—”

“If I don’t, it won’t get done.” Her voice was curt, and he winced. There was no point in arguing—he couldn’t clean it up himself. Not yet. Feeling like a helpless child, he stepped aside reluctantly and let her mop the floor.

“Get changed while I sort this out,” she commanded him, her tone of voice grating as fuck. “I’ll fix you some breakfast.”

“Thanks,” he muttered sullenly before kicking off his sodden trainers and padding out of the room and upstairs in his socks. He sank down onto the edge of the unmade bed and allowed his shoulders and head to slump for a few moments of self-pity before he shook himself and got up to hunt through his suitcase for a fresh pair of track pants.

It took him forever to get the wet pair off and the new pair on, and in that time he could smell fresh coffee on the brew. He sat for a moment and did his usual morning range of motion exercises for his broken arm. Wrist and shoulder rotations, fist flexing, and a host of other soft-core exercises designed to strengthen his arm.

“How do you like your eggs?” Daff’s voice floated up from the kitchen, and he paced to the loft railing, still flexing his fist while rotating his wrist, to see what she was doing. The floor was clean and she was getting ingredients out of the fridge. God, was that bacon? He didn’t care if her attitude stank, if she gave him bacon he’d probably drop to one knee and propose. He hadn’t had a proper meal since yesterday’s preflight breakfast in London. He was starving.

“Sunny side up,” he called down, and she nodded without looking up. He took a few paces back and sat back down on the bed and lifted one foot to his knee to tug off a sock and then did the same with the other. He contemplated his bare feet for a few morose moments, curling his toes against the hardwood floor. He sat deep in thought for a while until the delicious aroma of frying bacon wafted up to his nose. He limped back downstairs—seriously, these stairs sucked balls—and noticed that her phone screen was lit up on the kitchen island. He sneaked a peek and saw Dahlia’s name above a message—Still on for lunch?—and glanced at Daff, who had her back to him. He quickly tapped Dahlia’s name—or Lia, as it said on the screen—and made a mental note of the number before making his way to the kitchen table and sinking heavily into a chair.