Sy sidles up to him, arms crossed. “Every time my Duke comes into this fucking place, he comes out with another family member. I’m here to make sure you’re not about to ambush him with a long-lost sister or some shit.” Ah. So he told him. “That,” I stress, “is between him and Wicker and whatever psycho is standing in as their father this week. I just wanted a nursery decorated for my Princess.” “Well, here we are. Even Picasso had an assistant.” Sy walks back to the SUV, hauling a paint-splattered toolbox out of the back. “At least that’s what Remy told me.”
