Give It All by Cara McKenna Page A

items on my desk. Quite a thorough going-over with a lint brush,” he added, glancing at his cat.
    His cat—the reason Kim had seen him crack his door open,the party he’d spoken to before entering? Not awaiting a roommate’s permission to enter, but making sure his
pet
didn’t escape.
    “What about scouring your bathroom?” she asked.
    “As often as my brain demands it. When I’m busy, perhaps two or three times a week.”
    “And now that you’re idle?”
    He frowned. “Twice a day, lately.”
    “Jesus. That sounds exhausting.”
    A dry smile. “Exhausting, degrading, tiresome. Anyone you see who looks the picture of control . . . It’s all a costume. Underneath you’ll always find a naked, trembling fraud. Trust me.”
    She stared at him, long and hard. His hair was messier than usual, feet surely dirty from the parking lot, manicured hands likely still stinking of rubber . . . but his clothes were immaculate, despite the casual getup. He was a wreck, dressing daily to pass for a successful, commanding professional. And just now, he was failing.
    “Do you even realize how strong the fumes are, in there? It’s a wonder you haven’t passed out and cracked your skull on the bathtub.”
    “There’s no wonder in any of it, merely dysfunction.”
    She studied Duncan’s unearthly face, like the perfect façade of a fancy house . . . but behind the drawn curtains, junk stacked up to the ceiling. “This what you take the pills for?”
    “This, and the panic and anxiety attacks. Though they do little to help now.”
    “You are one steaming hot mess, aren’t you?”
    “If only my therapist offered such candid assessments. Incidentally, I’d be grateful if you kept this to yourself.”
    I’ll bet you would.
    “Man, I had you pegged way wrong.” Mr. Perfect, a cold, calculating corporate sniper. In reality, a slave to a set of compulsions Raina knew about from books and television and movies but couldn’t begin to truly understand. He needed saving, in more ways than she’d ever guessed. And she had to admit, as a woman who resented feeling dependent upon anyone, a busted-up man held a certain appeal. She’d far prefer to be needed than beholden herself. Spelled
doomed
for any kind of serious relationship, but it was a drill she knew well, thanks to her dad, a role she could fill in her sleep.
    “Pack your shit, Duncan. You’re coming home with me.”
    That sad smile sharpened and he leaned against the doorframe. Even a touch slumped, the man was tall. Luxurious. He was too many things that shouldn’t fit together, yet here he was, standing before her, smirking.
    “Because you suspect I’m in danger?” he asked. “Or because of what you’ve just seen?”
    “Both. Though I came because I think you’re vulnerable, here on your own, and that little valentine written on your car confirms it. Who knows who’s behind those charges? But add those to an angry mob, and you’ll realize it’s true. You need help.”
    “And so you’re graciously volunteering to associate yourself with public enemy number one?”
    “I’m not afraid of anybody. Plus, nobody fucks with the owner of the town’s only bar. So get packed and let’s go.”
    “I don’t care to be told what my decisions are, Ms. Harper. In fact, there are few sensations I resent more.”
    “You’re preaching to the choir. But consider the benefits, at least. You get access to a kitchen, a washer and dryer, all the vodka you can drink—provided you don’t pair it with pills. Your cat can shed all it wants, in whatever room it likes. It can claw my boots to shit and I won’t even complain. Make yourselves at home. In fact, feel free to clean my bathroom.”
    His eyes narrowed at the joke.
    She huffed, frustrated. This must be what it felt like, arguing with herself. Poor Miah.
    “Come on. You have to admit, it’s safer than staying here.”
    “If I wanted a bodyguard, I’d have the feds put me in protective custody. But I