Page 54 of The Refiner

It’s a freaking mystery. Knowing men like Astor exist disrupts every factual conclusion I’ve drawn about men over the years. Men are selfish, arrogant, and entitled—especially atGameTaleswhere I’ve done most of my research on assholes. They don’t do nice things for women, unless there’s something in it for them.

What’s in it for Astor to cut Piper’s grass? To help me make funeral arrangements?

I seriously can’t find a reason he would do such things. He already knows I would never sleep with him, nor do I like him. (Okay, I like him a little, but not much.) It’s baffling. I don’t understand his motives and it’s killing me.

It’s like when he insisted on coming here to help me look for the will; he could have stayed home with his daughter and family. He could have caught up on sleep or answered emails. He literally could have done anything other than come over and help me dig through files.

He makes absolutely no sense.

Unless… Maybe he loves my sister in all those “other” ways he mentioned. Maybe whatever they had meant more to him than any other relationship? Maybe the people of Bloomfield are just nicer and have less to do than those who live where I do in Fairfield?

All I know is I’ve never seen a surgeon (other than Piper) be so giving—especially to someone like me, who pushes people away like it’s a sport.

Astor Potter is a freaking mystery—a hot mystery, but a mystery all the same.

Pushing open the door to Piper’s office, I take in the wall-to-wall bookshelves, brass wall lighting, and centuries-old furniture. Piper had such grandma-taste in decor. I swear, if our grandma was alive, she would be so proud of Piper’s design choices.

Ignoring the open book on her desk, I head to the cabinet in the corner, pulling open the top drawer. It takes me all of two minutes to find the file I’m looking for: Last Will and Testament. She even labeled it in a pink folder, just like I said she would.

Oh, Piper-weanie, I would say you’re predictable, but you ruined that by surprising me with your secret side-beau and a baby.

Sliding to the floor, I open the file, but then my phone rings from the living room. And to my ever-loving horror, I hear the back door open, and Astor say, “Hello?”

I spring up and dart into the living room with the file clutched in my hands. “Hang it up,” I whisper-shout.

Astor gives me his back—his sweaty, muscular back.

I’m frozen to the floor. If I grab for the phone, I might accidentally touch him, and we all know that accidentally touching a man when he’s shirtless always leads to crazy aftermaths—like reverse cowgirl on the kitchen island.

No one needs those kinds of memories haunting them when they are home alone and perpetually single.

“I’m sorry, she’s in the middle of something. Can I take a message?” Astor carries on with the phone call like the world’s hottest secretary.

“I beg your pardon?”

His body tenses.

Oh shit. “Hang up the phone,” I beg. “Just hang up.” It doesn’t matter who’s on the other end. They can thank me later, since Astor looks seconds away from punching something.

“I see,” he says flatly.

Only Ass Face or Archer can cause rage like that. Kenny would have recognized Astor and the threat in his voice, only Tweedle Dee and Dumb would keep poking the bear. (Well, and me, but we’re not talking about me here.) Screw it, sweaty or not, I can’t allow Astor to ruin one of the only stable things I have left—my job.

I jump for the phone, but Astor holds it above his head, his angry eyes narrowing on me. “You let this asshole talk to you like this?”

“Which asshole?” I jump again, and he snags me around the waist, clutching me to his chest in a tight hold.

I give up fighting because, well, I’m just physically and mentally drained. If Astor wants to rip someone from work a new asshole, then who am I to stand in his way? For just this once, I’ll let him be the buffer.

When Astor realizes I’ve stopped fighting, he pulls the phone back to his ear.

“I’ll tell you what, Alan—”

Alan? Does he mean Archer?

“—you’ll keep her job secure or her attorney will file motion after motion until your company goes bankrupt from legal fees.”

I can’t help it; I hug this mammoth of a man. No one has ever talked to Alan—who I’m one hundred percent certain is Archer—like that for me. I don’t particularly need Astor’s help with Archer, but I’m not all that turned off about it like I thought I would be.

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