Laura’s Due Diligence
Laura’s Due Diligence
Laura
Laura showed up at the address April had finally sent her with coffee, murder in her eyes, and a printed list.
An actual printed list.
If April was going to text like she was being held hostage by a romance novel, Laura was bringing infrastructure.
The door opened.
A man filled it—broad shoulders, neutral expression, presence that made "No Soliciting" signs feel redundant. He looked like he bench-pressed small cars for cardio and made eye contact with bears for fun.
Laura's threat assessment kicked in automatically: Six-four. Two-thirty. Could absolutely kill me. Probably won't.
Behind him, April's hand appeared at his side and hooked lightly into his sleeve.
The man—Mountain Man, Laura's brain supplied—didn't ask a question. Didn't make a point. He shifted. Enough to reveal April. Enough to let her choose what happened next.
April stood there in an oversized men's shirt, barefoot, hair a disaster that said she’d stopped caring around hour nine of whatever this was.
"Hi," April tried.
"No." Laura pointed at April and then pushed past her into the foyer. "We're not doing pleasantries. We're doing explanations. Complete sentences. No 'unclear.' No 'probably.' No—"
She stopped.
Stared.
Eight men.
Laura’s brain did what it always did under pressure: took notes.
Man One: Kitchen. Cooking. Expensive-looking pan work. Feeding-as-love-language energy.
Man Two: Next to Man One. Coffee in hand. Suit energy even in casual clothes. CEO vibes. Oh god that's probably Killian.
Man Three: Couch. Guitar. Looked exceedingly comfortable.
Man Four: Laptop open. April's spare hair tie on his wrist. Feral academic energy.
Man Five: Leaning against a chair. Watching April like she was a problem he'd already solved and was waiting for her to catch up.
Man Six: Armchair. Half-asleep. Looked expensive even unconscious—
Laura's brain screeched to a halt.
She looked at Man Six again.
Wholesome face. The kind of smile that probably sold Christmas ornaments and made middle-aged women weep into their wine. That face had been on her television.
No.
"Is that—" Laura's voice went up half an octave. She pointed like he was evidence. "Is that Mr. Christmas?"
April winced. "Um."
"Mr. Christmas," Laura repeated, louder now. "You're the guy from that show. The one where you inherit the inn. Or the bakery. Or the—what was it—the ranch?"
Man Six sat up straighter, blinking himself more awake. "Uh. Yes?"
"You saved Christmas in at least three different small towns on basic cable," Laura continued, still staring. "I've seen you make snow angels with orphans. You fixed a gazebo in one episode. You definitely proposed to someone in front of a tree lighting."
"That was—those were—" Man Six looked mildly trapped. "Those were different characters. I’m Caleb"
"Were they though?" Laura turned to April, eyes wide. "What is Heartland's Boyfriend of the Year doing in this house?"
"Scratch that, what are you doing here?" Laura demanded, swinging back to April. "Why is Mr. Christmas in a house with seven other men while you're wearing someone's oversized shirt? April. April."
Man Seven—corner, black shirt, bagels—spoke up. "Is 'Mr. Christmas' a compliment or a threat? I can't tell."
"Both," Laura said without looking at him.
She turned back to April, pen already moving toward her list like she was bumping Mr. Christmas up the priority queue.
Man Four lifted his wrist with April's hair tie. "For what it's worth, I also don't know why Mr. Christmas is here."
"Jax," Mr. Christmas said tiredly. "Probably not the time."
"Isn't it though?" Jax asked. "Because I have questions."
"Everyone has questions," Laura snapped. "I have seventy-three of them. And question one just became: why is the man who has saved Christmas fifteen times—"
"Sixteen," Mr. Christmas said.
Laura's head swiveled toward him with the precision of a laser-guided missile.
"Not helpful," she said flatly.
April covered her face with her hands. "Laura—"
"Answer."
April lowered her hands slowly. "My day got out of control and he… kept showing up."
Laura's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Christmas kept showing up."
"Yes."
"Like a holiday hallucination."
"Kind of," April admitted.
Laura stared at her for a long moment.
Then she sat down in the nearest chair, pulled out her list, and made several rapid notes in the margin.
"Okay," Laura said. "Okay. We're doing this. Question one: are you physically okay. Injured. Bruised. Concussed." She leveled the pen at April. "Do not say 'probably.'"
"I'm okay," April said quickly.
Too quickly, Laura noted. But April's pupils weren't dilated. Her hands weren't shaking. She was barefoot and soft-looking in a way that suggested safety, not fear.
"Question two: are you here voluntarily." Laura's voice went flat. "Nod once for yes. Twice for no. Blink three times if you need extraction."
April nodded once.
Mountain Man shifted a fraction at the doorway anyway.
Laura's gaze flicked to him. Then back to April. "Good."
"Question three: do you have your phone."
April patted the shirt pocket reflexively. "Yes."
Laura made a note.
"Question four: do you have your keys. Your wallet. Your dignity." She paused. "Dignity can be optional at this point."
"I have… most of those," April admitted.
"Question five: why are there eight men here at—" Laura checked her watch "—this hour. Explain like I'm HR."
Every single man in the room visibly winced.
Man Four whispered, horrified, "She said the H-word."
Man One crossed himself like he'd heard a curse.
April covered her face with her hands. "Laura—"
"Answer," Laura said, pen hovering.
April lowered her hands. "My day got out of control and they… helped me"
Laura's eyes narrowed. "Because?"
April's mouth opened. Closed. "Because… they don't want me alone."
Silence.
Laura wrote something down.
"Question six: names." She pointed with the pen like a prosecutor. "Real names. Not 'Mr. Christmas.' Start with Window Mountain."
Mountain Man's gaze slid to April first.
April lifted her chin. "Arthur."
"Arthur," Laura repeated, writing. "Great. Window Mountain is Arthur."
"Mateo," Man One said slid a small plate onto the counter and held out a pastry toward Laura like a peace treaty. “I fed her. I can also feed you before you do something that changes your life.”
Laura stared at the pastry.
Did not take it.
Yet.
"Killian," Man Two added and held out a coffee toward Laura. Laura took it on instinct. Killian’s gaze flicked once, checking on April.
"Jiro," Man Three said quietly.
"Jax," Man Four said, and then added, "I swear the hair tie was consensual."
Laura kept her face neutral. She wasn't rewarding comedy when April was standing there in someone's oversized shirt looking like she'd survived a natural disaster.
“Liam. And for the record—” he glanced pointedly at April’s shirt “—I didn’t dress her in that.”
“Liam,” April hissed.
Laura turned her head slowly toward Liam. “Yeah, no. I can see that. That isn’t a fashion choice, it’s evidence.” Her gaze snapped back to April. “Why are you in an oversized men’s shirt, April.”
April did not respond.
"Caleb," Mr. Christmas offered, lifting a hand like he was in class.
Laura's pen paused. She looked up at him. "Mr. Christmas's real name is Caleb."
"Yes."
"And you're just… here."
"Yes."
"In this house."
"Yes."
"With April."
"Yes."
Laura made a note that looked suspiciously like FOLLOW UP ON THIS.
Man Seven tipped his chin in a greeting that somehow managed to be both polite and threatening. “Dante,” he said. He lifted the paper bag an inch. “Bagels. For… normalcy.”
“This is not normal,” Laura said automatically.
Arthur. Mateo. Killian. Jiro. Jax. Liam. Caleb. Dante.
Laura wrote them down like she was building a case file.
Which, arguably, she was.
"Question seven: Is the cupcake song about you?"
Jiro looked up from his guitar. "Which one?"
"The viral one," Laura said without looking at him. "The one with seventeen million views and a cease-and-desist from a bakery chain."
Jiro's shoulders sank. "Yeah."
"Question eight: did you consent to it being public."
"No." His throat bobbed. "I thought it was celebrating. It wasn't my place to decide what the internet got."
“And?” Laura prompted, pen poised like a weapon.
Jiro’s eyes dropped to the guitar. “I shouldn’t have put it out like that.”
April touched his shoulder, brief, reassuring. “I love the song. I just…” She exhaled, searching for the sentence that didn’t sound like rejection. “I wish it had stayed between us.”
Jiro’s expression cracked, relief and regret layered together. He nodded once.
Laura watched the interaction with wide eyes, like she’d accidentally walked into a documentary called April and the Men Who Listen To Her.
She kept writing.
"Question nine: how many of these men have you kissed?"
"Laura—"
"I'm establishing a baseline. Answer the question."
The room froze.
Not in a jealous way.
In a waiting way.
Eight sets of eyes moved—not to Laura, not to each other—
To April.
They're deferring to her, Laura realized. They're letting her control the information.
April stared at the ceiling. "...All of them."
Laura's pen stopped.
"All of them," she repeated carefully.
April dropped her gaze. "It was a day."
A day, Laura's brain repeated. A DAY. April kissed eight men and who knows that else in ONE DAY and two of them are MR. CHRISTMAS and a FAMOUS MUSCIAN.
Her gaze swept the room again, landing on Caleb with particular intensity.
"Question eleven: and how many of those kisses were because you wanted to."
April didn't hesitate. "All of them."
Good, Laura thought, and wrote it down with firmness that felt like relief. Good.
Laura’s eyes flicked around the room again: Arthur like a guard dog with manners.
Mateo still quietly feeding everyone. Jiro looking like he wanted to crawl into his guitar case.
Jax suddenly silent. Liam too close already without realizing he’d moved.
Caleb alert in a careful way. Dante holding bagels like a peace offering he didn’t know how to deliver.
Killian steady, unreadable, watching April only when he thought no one noticed.
"Question twelve: are you engaged to one of them, all of them, or was that a stress hallucination."
"Killian.” She hesitated. "But it's—"
Killian's gaze flicked to April.
April nodded.
Another system, Laura noted. Another silent check-in.
"It started fake," Killian said. "Now it’s not."
Laura stared at him.
CEO. Fake engagement. Now real. April in his house wearing someone's shirt, by the size likely not his.
She turned to Mateo because he looked the most emotionally safe to interrogate. "And you're okay with this."
Mateo shrugged. "I'm feeding her. It's a long game."
Laura muttered something that was half prayer, half threat.
Her pen kept moving.
???
Laura pulled April into a side room while the men did whatever men who lived in a carefully negotiated emotional ecosystem did when strangers showed up with lists.
The door clicked shut.
Laura's professional mask cracked.
"Are you okay?" Her voice came out softer than she'd meant it to. "I was picturing you in a ditch, April."
April nodded. "Yeah. I know it looks—"
"Insane? Like a Dateline episode? Like Mr. Christmas runs a very attractive cult?"
"All of those things."
Laura hesitated. “And the song.”
April’s shoulders stiffened. “What about it?”
“The cupcake one.” Laura lowered her voice. “Do you… actually like it?”
April glanced toward the door. The murmur of men in the living room, low and distant.
She leaned in like she was about to confess a crime. Then she shook her head once. “No.” Her nose scrunched.
“It’s catchy,” April admitted. “Which is not ideal.”
Laura studied her face, really looked.
April's pupils were normal. Her breathing was steady. She wasn't fidgeting. She looked tired, yes, but not scared. Not trapped.
She looked... held.
"You seem okay." Laura studied her. "Better than okay, actually."
"I am."
“They’re…” Laura glanced toward the living room. “Excessive.”
April snorted a laugh.
“But fine,” Laura said, as if it offended her to admit it. “Weirdly protective of you. Arthur wouldn’t let me past the doorway until you touched him and he shifted back like you’d flipped a switch.”
April smiled, small. “He’s like that.”
“And it’s not just him.” Laura frowned, thinking. “They keep…” She mimed it with two fingers, eyes flicking left and right. “Watching you. Like they’re waiting for cues.”
April felt warmth in her chest she wasn’t ready to name. “Yeah.” She smiled. “It’s… weirdly nice.”
Laura’s expression softened. She squeezed April’s hand.
“Good. But if anything changes—if you feel unsafe, or overwhelmed, or if any of this stops being what you want you call me. Immediately. I don’t care if it’s three a.m. I don’t care if you’re at another gala or trapped in a penthouse with eight emotionally complicated men. You call.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Laura nodded once. April glanced at the list in Laura’s hand. “What are you going to do with that?”
Laura blinked. The answer was obvious. “I’m putting it in a spreadsheet.”
“Of course you are.”
“Yes,” Laura said, already halfway back in her coping mechanism. “I’m going to log the entire situation, tag each item by category, and then we’re going to see if there are any issues that qualify.”
“Qualify for what?”
“For me showing up in a tactical turtleneck,” Laura said crisply. “With a trunk full of pepper spray and a lawyer.”
April’s laugh escaped before she could stop it.
Laura’s mouth twitched, like she resented being funny but couldn’t help it. “I need documentation, April. I need a pivot table. I need conditional formatting that screams at me when your life becomes a Dateline cold open.”
April squeezed her hand. “Okay.”
“Good.” Laura exhaled, then lifted the list again like she was conducting an audit.
“Now. Question forty-seven: Does Mateo know about your caffeine addiction or is he going to try to give you herbal tea?”
“Laura—”
“It’s a legitimate concern.”