“That I’m as dirty as a gas station restroom?”

He’s definitely flustered, and I laugh. The blush makes him almost endearing. “Don’t worry. I smell gross and I’d love a shower.”

He swallows and nods. “You’ll have to use my en suite.

Soap and towels are in there.” But isn’t his

wife—?

“I can wash and dry your clothes if you want. Give you something of mine in the meantime. Though I don’t have anything that will fit. You’re very . . .”

He clears his throat. “Small.”

Wait a minute—is he divorced? Is that why he doesn’t wear a ring? But then he wouldn’t have pics of his wife in his office, would he? Oh my God, is she dead? No, Guy would have told me. Or would he?

“You have an iPhone, right?” He exits the living room and comes back holding out a charger. “Here you go.”

I don’t take it. I just stare up at his irritatingly handsome face, and—God, this is driving me nuts. “Listen,” I say, perhaps more aggressively than I should, “I know it’s rude, but I’m too weirded out not to, so I’m just going to ask you right out.” I take a deep breath. “Where is your family?”

He shrugs, still holding out the charger. “It’s not rude.

My parents are in Dallas. My eldest brother lives on the Air Force base in Vegas, and the other recently deployed to Belgium—”

“Not that family. Your other family.”

His head tilts. “Does my father have a secret family you want to tell me about, or . . . ?”

“No. Your kid, where is she?”

“My what?” He squints at me.

“There’s a picture of her in your office,” I say weakly. “And Guy told me you two babysit together.”

“Ah.” He shakes his head with a smile. “Penny’s not my kid. But she gave me that picture. She made the frame in school.”

She’s not his— Oh. “You’re with her mother, then?”

“No. Lily and I dated briefly ages ago, but now we’re friends. She’s a teacher, and a single mother for the past year. Sometimes I’ll watch Penny for her, or drop her off at

school if she’s running late. Stuff like that.”

Oh. “Oh.” Boy, do I love feeling like an idiot. “So you live . . . alone?”

He nods. And then his eyes widen and he takes a step back. “Oh. I see.”

“See what?”

“Why you asked. I’m sorry, I didn’t even think that you might feel unsafe sleeping here if it’s just the two of us. I will—”

“Oh, no.” I take a step forward to reassure him. “I asked because I was curious. Honestly, it seemed incredibly weird to me that you—” I realize what I’m about to say and snap my jaw shut before I continue. Levi’s not fooled.

“Were you shocked that someone would marry me?” he asks, biting back a smile.

Yup. “Not at all! You’re smart. And, um, tall. Still have all your hair. And I’m sure that with women you don’t hate you’re nicer than you have historically been with me!”

“Bee, I don’t—” He exhales hard. “Get in the truck.”

“Why?”

“I’m driving you back to the cemetery and feeding you to the coyotes.”

“Historically,” I hurry to say. “You’ve been nice to me today! You saved me from a zombie attack, for sure. And from Fred and Mark!”

He frowns. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with them.”

“Lots of misogyny’s my guess.” I debate whether continuing. Then I think: fuck it. “Also, it doesn’t help that your team is exclusively male and almost exclusively white.”

I expect him to contradict me. Instead he says, “You’re right. It’s appalling.”

“You chose the members.”

He shakes his head. “I inherited the team from my predecessor.”

“Oh?”

“The only new hire I made was Kaylee.” He sighs. “I officially reprimanded Mark. His behavior today is in his file. And I called a team meeting this afternoon, in which I reiterated that you are co-leader and that what you say goes. If anything like today ever happens again, let me know.

I’ll deal with it. Come, I’ll find you something to wear.”

I’m a little shell-shocked that he called a meeting to officially Sausage Reference™ me, so I follow him without questions. The upstairs area is just as pretty as the first floor, but with more personality. I spot a vinyl player and CDs, pictures on the walls, even some Pitt swag I recognize from my own apartment. His bedroom, though . . . his bedroom is magic. Something out of a catalog. It’s a corner room with two large windows, wooden furniture, ceilinghigh bookshelves, and, in the middle of the king-sized bed, sleeping softly on top of the comforter . . .

“Are you allergic to cats?” he asks, rummaging through a drawer.

I shake my head, then remember that he’s not looking at me. “No.”

“Schrödinger’s probably going to leave you alone, anyway. He’s old and grumpy.”

Schrödinger! “I thought you hated cats.”

He turns with a confused look. “Why?”

“I don’t know. You seemed a bit hostile toward my cat today.”

“You mean, your cat that doesn’t exist?”

“Félicette exists! I have literally wiped boogers from her eyes, so—”

“Félicette?”