Page 30 of I'll Keep Her Safe

Besides, I don’t need Bailey to do this. All I need to do is get out of my own way. The website has been ready for weeks now, and if I’m completely honest with myself, I’ve only been tinkering with it to avoid the much scarier move of actuallylaunchingthe business.

But there’s no reason I couldn’t make the website live right now. All the information is there. I even have a few months’ worth of blog posts prepared. Our social accounts are all created. They’re just not public yet. The only thing stopping me from starting this business is… me.

Who knows when Bailey will be ready to spend time on it again, or if that’s even what she wants? I’m sick of waiting, holding back, making excuses. I didn’t spend years at college for nothing.

Sugar climbs onto my lap from where she’s been dozing beside me. I have to shift my laptop to the bed in front of me to make room for her, and as I do, I make a decision. This is the time I’m supposed to move forward, and if I have to do it without Bailey, then so be it.

With a steadying breath, I press the button to make the website live. Once I’ve checked it looks as it should, I publish our first blog post, then I go into our social media accounts and make them public, adding a post to each.

When all that’s done, I close the lid on my laptop and look down at Sugar, my blood pulsing. Finally, I’ve taken a step forward with my career, and I’m surprised by the burst of pride and excitement I feel.

I stand from the bed, holding Sugar above me,Lion Kingstyle, laughing. “I did it, Sugar! I’m officially in business!”

She gazes down at me warily, and I set her onto the floor with another laugh, following as she sneaks out into the hall and down the stairs. In the living room, I grab one of her toys—a small ball with a rattle inside—and kick it along the floor to her, delighted when she pounces on it with glee. It’s like a weight has lifted off my shoulders, finally launching the business. I should have done this ages ago.

Sugar chases the ball to the glass doors, pausing to watch a sparrow in the yard. I follow her, gazing outside. It’s clear the yard was once artfully designed, but it looks as though no one’s maintained it for some time. The shrubs are unruly, choked by vines that creep from the back wall onto the stone pavers, threatening to swallow the rusty patio furniture. Weeds proliferate between the cracks in the pavers, the overgrown lawn scattered with leaves. It’s ironic how unkempt Mr. Mathers’s yard is, given his profession, but the thought vanishes when Sugar swats the ball away. I chase after her, laughing as she tumbles head over paws, wrestling with the ball.

My laughter vanishes when Mr. Mathers comes in through the front door, an hour earlier than I’d expected him, but it’s not that he’s early making me pause. It’s the scowl twisting his face.

13

Wyatt

This has been the worst fucking day on record. First, two of the guys called in sick (or, more likely, hungover), so I had to work twice as fast as usual to stay on top of everything at the Park Slope site. Then, I put my fucking back out.

It’s my own fault. There was an especially large rock that I wanted to move to the corner of the yard, something I’d usually do with an excavator, but in my haste to stay on top of the job I convinced myself I could manage it on my own.

Huge mistake.

The minute I tried to haul it into the air, I knew it was a bad idea. I felt a tweak in my lower back, followed by what could only be described as a hot, tearing sensation, then the rock crashed to the ground as I doubled over in agony. I sat for thirty minutes with an ice pack, waiting for the pain to subside, but I knew it was futile. This isn’t the first time I’ve been stupid enough to do something like this, and now I have to pay the price.

The only small mercy is that it’s Friday. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to rest up over the weekend and get back to work on Monday. We are so fucking behind schedule it’s not funny.

I shove the front door shut behind me, hobbling into the kitchen. Poppy is playing with Sugar in the living room, and she glances up when I kick my shoes off with great effort, cursing under my breath as I do. I want nothing more than to fall onto the sofa and drown my sorrows in a cold beer, but there’s no way I want her to see me in this condition. Instead, I hunch over the kitchen counter in pain, praying she’ll leave.

“Hi,” she says tentatively, eying me.

I realize I’m scowling and try to contort my face into a genial smile, but the best I can do is a grimace. “Hey.” The word comes out strangled, and her brow dips with concern.

“Are you okay?” she asks, crossing the room. Sugar follows her, weaving around my feet, but I ignore the kitten.

“I’m fine,” I grate out. I know I’m coming across as an asshole, but given the sheer agony I’m in, I can’t muster the will to care.

Poppy, however, can see through it. “You’re not fine,” she murmurs, looking me over. I can’t tell if I’m annoyed or relieved. “What’s going on?”

I grit my teeth, lowering my gaze. The last thing I want to do is tell her I threw my back out like some frail old man. I already feel fucking ancient compared to her and this will only make it worse.

“Mr. Mathers,” Poppy says quietly, and I shake my head, still not meeting her gaze.

“Wyatt.”

She ignores this. “You’re in pain. Did something happen at work? Is it… is it your back?”

Fuck. How does she know?

“My dad used to put his back out all the time,” Poppy adds gently.

Great. Not only am I so much older than her, she’s now comparing me to her father.

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