by Nicole Snow
Mrs. Potter was out sick that day, so I'd gotten a replacement, a girl I could trust, she’d said. One who also hadn’t known Nelia was to never – ever – be near the twins without my supervision.
That was the one time I'd let a stranger watch them. Until now. Whether she's hot as fuck or not, Cupcake is a stranger, too.
I slam the door shut and run down the back stairs, sliding to a stop when I hear laughter. The boys. I shove a door open as if it weighs a ton, and have the sense to catch it from hitting me as it swings backwards when my feet glue themselves to the floor.
They're both there. Jesus. And so's Cupcake. Their laughter comes to an abrupt halt when they see me. All three stop and stare like I’m some crazy lunatic intruder.
That’s not far from the truth. “Whose car's parked out front?”
She frowns and wipes her hands on a towel. “A guest’s. Why?”
“What’s his name? Where’s he from? Where’s he going?” It rattles out like the automatic rifle fire I remember from my Army days.
Using the towel to wipe Adam’s cheek, she says, “Chester Hobbs from Minneapolis. Older businessman. He always spends the night here when he's on his way to and from his daughter’s place in Ontario.” Turning a cold glare on me, she adds, “Would you like to know how old he is, or that his wife died five years ago?”
I catch the reprimand, the way she bites her lips together before spinning around.
“Time to check on those cookies again,” she says, placing a reassuring hand on each of the boys.
“We made cookies, Daddy,” Adam says, looking at me over his shoulder.
“Chocolate chip,” Chase adds.
The last bits of tension and fear seeps out of my body. “Smells good,” I say, emulating a normal person again.
“Now, we’re making cinnamon rolls,” Adam tells me while crossing the room beside Tabby.
“For tomorrow morning,” Chase adds from her other side. He stops what's on the tip of my tongue about them having all this sugar.
She opens a big stainless-steel oven door and peeks inside. So do the boys.
“Not quite done, yet,” she says. “Let's give it a little longer.”
The air is heavy, and strained. It's my fucking fault.
When she turns around and our eyes meet, hot guilt slices through me. I shrug my shoulders. “Sorry.”
“Me, too,” she says.
I’m not sure why she bothers. I was the lunatic, belting her with questions about some old fart who's probably stayed in this place a million times.
“We’ve already eaten, but saved you a plate.” She opens a door on the side-by-side fridge. “I’ll warm it up. You can wash in that sink over there.”
I glance to the left, and hoping to ease the tension, ask, “The one with the hand washing only sign?”
“Yes.” She grins slightly. “Health code.”
“Gotcha.” Actually, she’s the one that’s got me. Right where it counts.
She’s wearing an apron, pink of course, and covered in flour. There’s even flour on her face, which turns my dick to diamond, picturing how I'd like to wipe it away.
Shit, let's be honest: everything about Tabby Danes turns me on.
I remove my coat and drape it over a chair before moving to the sink to scrub my hands. By the time I’m done, she’s set a plate on the end of the long island that's half covered in white dust.
“Chase spilled flour!” Adam says.
“No! Didn’t mean to!” Chase snaps back.
“Of course you didn’t,” Cupcake says, smiling sweetly at Chase, who looks like a red-faced chipmunk. “Luckily, it landed right where we’ll need it. Once those cookies are out of the oven, it’ll be time to kneed our dough.”
“You make cinnamon rolls from scratch?” I ask. Haven't seen that since I used to spend summers with my grandma down in Kentucky.
“Of course,” she says. “Is there another way?”
Clearly not for her. Should've guessed that. “Frozen,” I say. “But they're never as good.”
The boys pipe in then, telling me what they’ve done all afternoon, including baking the chocolate chip cookies she rescues from the oven. Two of the cookies end up on a plate beside me. I eat them while they're still warm and at the peak of perfection. Just like her.
I set the small plate atop the larger one that I’d practically licked clean after gobbling down the lasagna. “Where should I put these?”
“Just leave them there,” she says while giving the boys each a section of white dough. “I’ll get them after we get this dough kneaded.”
“I could do that for you.”
She eyes me skeptically. “Knead dough?”
I pick up the plates and carry them to the sink. “Yes.”
“You’ve kneaded dough before?” She laughs. “I doubt that.”
Keeping my eyes locked on hers, I walk back to the island. “These hands are good for more than just pounding nails and sawing boards.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” she says.
“Why? Because I’m not covered in flour?” I swipe the tip of her nose with one finger and hold it up for her to see the flour I’d removed. “Like the rest of you?”
“Accidents happen,” she says. She turns away and her cheek is sun fire.
Seeing her blush taunts every inch of my cock.
Before I can respond, she flicks her fingers my way, spewing flour dust into my face.
Tease. Her playfulness sends sparks through me, and I plant both of my hands in the flour spread across the granite counter top.
As if reading my mind, she says, “You wouldn’t!”
I laugh.
“Don’t you dare,” she says, wagging a finger. “I already have enough to clean up.”
There's a good amount of flour on the counter and floor, true. Rather than flick flour at her as intended, I elbow her instead. “Step aside. Let me show you how a man kneads dough.”
“Oh, please,” she laughs, elbowing me back. “This is mine, get your own dough.”
I point to the empty bowl. “None left.”
“Snooze and you lose,” she says, laughing again.
“I never lose, Ms. Danes.” I step sideways so I’m right behind her, then wrap my arms around both sides of her, just above those lush ass cheeks, burying my hands in her dough. “Never.”
She wiggles, trying to shove me away. “My dough. You hear? I can’t teach the boys how to knead with your big hands in it.”
I can barely think with the way her tight butt bumps into the front of my jeans, making my cock so hard I think it'll explode. Pinpointing the ounce of attention not controlled by my hard-on, I say, “Then I’ll teach them.” It takes a moment to pull up memories from when I was little, but once they hit, I flip the mound of dough over.
“It’s like this, boys,” I growl. “You have to dig the heels of your palms into this stuff, use them to stretch the dough. Not too hard or fast, or it’ll get tough.”
Her ponytail tickles my nose as she turns enough to look at me over one shoulder. “Who taught you that?”
“Why? Is it wrong?”
Her eyes bounce between my eyes and my lips, which causes a ripple of chaos to jolt through me. So does the way she swallows, and the way she smells. Sweet and sexy. So fucking sexy.
“Unfortunately, no,” she says.
Chase and Adam are barely paying attention. For once, I don't mind.
I fold my hands over the tops of hers, using them to gently force her hands to knead the dough beneath mine, and I step closer, damn near getting high off the way her ass feels pressed up against my dick. Hellfire churns in my balls.
I feel her tremble slightly, and for the first time since they’d been born, I wish my boys were in another room. Then I’d reach up and knead her tits the same way we're working the dough – slow, forceful, thoroughly. If these hands could wander, they'd find hard nipples and warm, wet pussy lips. If the boys weren't here, fuck. It'd
be less than ten minutes before I had her bent over with my balls smacking hard on her clit, dick buried in pink, pink, so much pink perfection.
The fantasy owns my mind and it's hard to remember we're hardly by ourselves, even if they are distracted. I force her to stretch the dough across the counter top, giving me a reason to press more firmly against her ass. She melts against me, enjoying it as much as I am.
She grabs the dough and flips it over, then stretches it again, as if giving me permission to dry-fuck her. Electricity shoots through me and I give my hips a quick upwards thrust. She swallows a gasp, plants her hands on the counter, as if pulling my dick deep inside her.
It's fucking nuclear. Taking us so dangerously close to full meltdown.
Until someone clears their throat.
Someone behind us who shouldn't be there.
She freezes. So do I.
A second later, she twists slightly. “Gramps. Hey.”
The old man’s been behind us for God only knows how long, and must've seen the way I’m practically butt-fucking his granddaughter, fully-clothed or not.
Shit!
“We can’t have guests in the kitchen, Tabby.”
“We won’t feed these rolls to the public,” she says. “It's off hours and we certainly weren't doing anything that'd get a health inspector after us.”
How the hell can she sound so calm? My blood’s pumping faster than a marathon runner's. I’ve been slowly easing away from her, not wanting the old man to see just how tightly I’d had her pressed against the countertop, but if I try to talk, I’ll risk my voice cracking like a goddamn kid.
“Doesn’t matter who eats them,” Morris says sharply. “It matters whose hands have been in them.”
“Everyone washed their hands,” she says, gathering the dough into a ball, defiance creeping into her tone. “Thoroughly.”
I drop my hands to my sides as she picks up the dough and drops it into a bowl. “Put yours in here, too,” she says to the boys. Once they do, she spins around and hands me a towel.
The old man is still glaring at me. “Health codes,” he says.
I nod. It’s all I can think to do.
“I’ll have this place inspection clean in twenty minutes, Gramps. No worries. Save the white gloves some work.” She nods to the boys. “Go wash your hands, please. And don’t forget the soap!”
“We won’t, Tabby,” they say, hurrying towards the sink.
I follow, desperate to get my mind off this fuckery. “I’ll make sure.”
The sink is large enough for all three of us to wash at the same time, which we do, using gobs of soap.
Morris stands at the door the whole time, watching. As soon as we dry our hands, he pushes the door open. “I’d like a word with you, Mr. Osborne.”
“Of course.” He wants more than a word. He’d like to knock my head off. Can’t say I blame him. There must be some twisted part of me that likes this – the way I keep fucking up my life.
He leads us down the hall and into the front foyer. The boys and I follow. Morris stops near his office door, and his eyes, how they look at the boys and then the front room, tells me what he expects.
“You boys go play a game of checkers,” I say. “Practice makes perfect.”
They run into the front room while I follow Morris into his interrogation room, closing the door behind me. I’ve never been in this predicament before, and it’s rather hellish, but that’s nothing new. My life’s been toxic for some time now.
There's a brutal pause. I'm half-expecting him to belt me on the chin, and I'm ready to stand and take it like a man. Just as long as he doesn't fire my stupid horn dog ass.
“I’m taking a chance on you, Mr. Osborne, and I want it to work out,” Morris says at last, giving me the evil eye. “But I’ll kick your ass out that door so far you’ll need wings if you don’t stay away from my granddaughter.”
I bite my tongue as a thousand come-backs race through my mind. He’s got a hold over me, one I gave him, and I can’t afford to break it. Fuck.
“You understand, you say so.”
“Yes, sir!” I say. Just like I'm back in boot camp.
He walks to his desk and opens a drawer. When he reaches in, I half-expect to see him pull out a gun. Instead, I hear the tinkling of metal. Wound tight, my reflexes are good, and I catch the set of keys he throws my way.
“There’s a shed out back,” he says. “It’s full of power-tools. Get that barn done as fast as you can and then get the hell off my property.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, reaching behind me for the door knob. “I will.”
Hours later, long after I’ve read the boys a story I downloaded onto the tablet, I’m staring at the ceiling, watching how the howling wind makes the shadows cast by the moonlight flutter. I see teeth and claws and death in those dark shapes. I see my own life burned, cremated, inching up to the sky in a plume of smoke.
There has to be a way for me to navigate this and not fuck up again. The Stone Syndicate is out there. Aiden’s bodyguard said they'd be, and I believe him. They’ll find us. It’s only a matter of time.
I gotta make this money. Gotta make this work. If I don’t, we’re dead.
Whatever Cupcake does to me, she isn't worth risking Adam and Chase. No woman could ever be.
I'll become a fucking eunuch before I put them in harm's way.
My throat burns as I glance towards the other bed, where both boys are sleeping.
Today was my last warning. If I fuck up again, we're dead.
Dead. All three of us.
V: Cold Shoulder (Tabby)
I wrap the cinnamon rolls in tinfoil and fill one thermos with coffee and the other with hot chocolate, then place everything in the basket, including cups, plates, and silverware. The lodge has an odd vibe to it today, like it’s emptier than usual.
It's not just missing people, but something more. Something that’s invisible, yet warming and wholesome. It’s probably just me. I had a restless night. When I did finally fall asleep, I had some pretty crazy dreams. I hate when that happens. Stress always does it. Puts nightmares in my head that wake me up early, but I can’t remember them.
And the odd vibe, well, that's mostly thanks to Gramps. He wasn't happy about Rex and the boys being in the kitchen.
That, I could have dealt with, but the rest of it?
He's not happy about the position he caught me and Rex in.
I should be embarrassed. Humiliated. Ashamed.
But I’m not. I’m human. Gramps has to understand that. I’m twenty-five. Most women my age have a healthy sex life.
There’s nothing wrong with it.
There’s nothing wrong with me. Except, I’m still a virgin, and woefully aware of it.
Mainly because no one has ever lit a fire inside me like Rex did last night. I should be glad Gramps walked in when he did, but I’m not. Until last night, my sex life revolved around imagining what things would feel like.
Now I know.
Know and want so much more.
The heat pooling inside me while I carry the basket out of the kitchen makes me grin. Or maybe it’s the thought of seeing Rex that has me smiling. I like him, for all his faults. The whys are a mystery, but I like him. There's more than the brute I met his first night here. Sometimes, when he gets that dark scowl on his face, I feel like he’s scared, running from something, and my heart drums sympathy.
Breath-stealing cold, the wind, hits me the second I'm outside. Crap. How stupid am I? Heaven only knows because it takes the icy wind to wake me up enough to realize Rex is running from something.
The death of his wife. Pain. Memories, perhaps.
How had I forgotten?
Thinking about myself. That's how.
About how I’d like to get fucked hard and often by Rex Osborne. Soundly fucked so I know exactly what it feels like for real, not just what I’ve read in dirty books or seen on TV. Or made up in my own mind, like I’ve been doing for eons.
/> Great. Embarrassment hits me now. Strong but delayed. Hell, I didn't even pretend to stop him last night, right?
When did I become so...idiotic? So desperate? So sex-starved? It’s never bothered me before.
Gramps has chased off plenty of men since I turned sixteen, well before anything could ever happen. It's nothing new. This is just more of the same.
But if that's true, then why am I so worried what Rex thinks of me for wanting to give it up so easy?
I’m almost to the barn door, but seriously consider turning around, until the image of Adam and Chase eating the cinnamon rolls they made last night flutters in my mind. Those two boys are adorable, and so well behaved.
Me, and my nosiness, had dropped a couple of hints yesterday while baking cookies with them about mothers, hoping they’d shed some light on what happened to theirs, but they hadn’t. In fact, they’d acted like they’d never had one. The only woman they mentioned was Mrs. Potter again, who never let them play video games or watch TV while their dad worked days.
Their mother was still on my mind when Rex stormed into the kitchen demanding to know every little thing about Chester Hobbs. Of course, I dropped the convenient fact that Chester’s wife died five years ago, not-so-secretly wishing it'd make him open up.
Fresh guilt stings me.
Rex was probably thinking about her. Missing her. I’d seen the sadness in his eyes. The regret. And I was the only female for miles around. Just like a siren, I'd offered pleasure, a way to forget, but had I brought him the opposite?
I open the barn door and step in. Rex is at the far end, on the ladder, and barely glances my way while pounding in a nail. The boys are happy to see me.
“I brought you some cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate,” I tell them while setting the basket down.
“Cocoa? Yippie!” They do their trademark jumping thing. Makes me laugh every time.
Yesterday, I’d watched which boy took the bag with their name on it and discovered a way to tell them apart – at least somewhat. Adam is left-handed, while Chase is right. Chase also has a dimple when he grins in his right cheek. That's the closest I'll get to having an identifying dot.
