by Jo Raven
Wow.
Okay, Gigi wasn’t exaggerating. He sure is hot. His white tank top and low-slung sweats mold to a powerful body. Tousled dark hair falls in his bright eyes. He scratches at his short, scruffy beard, and licks soft-looking lips.
He grunts. “Who the fuck are you?”
Oh yeah, Gigi was right on both accounts. He’s hot—and an asshole.
“Octavia Watson. I’m here for the interview?” Of course you’re here for the interview, don’t make it into a question. “You told me on the phone that I should be here at eight.”
There.
I lift my chin and wait, my gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark, and I don’t mean just dark brown. They’re deep and stormy like rainclouds about to burst. Dark like night wells that don’t reflect the moonlight.
“Interview?” he mutters, sounding confused.
“For the job. To babysit your children.”
He squints at me.
Encouraged, I step closer. He towers over me, and his scent hits me—clean male sweat with a hint of…something chemical? “Can I see the kids?”
“What?” He scowls. “No.”
My heart drops to my feet. “But…”
“We’re done here.” He starts closing the door, and I panic.
“I have experience! Look, I raised my brother and sister. I love kids, I’m really good with them. On the phone, you said—”
He slams the door closed and I stumble back, stunned.
Jesus.
“Screw you, Matt Hansen!” I shout at the shuttered house, my hands fisting at my sides. I swallow hard. “Jerk.”
Only silence answers me this time.
Well, that went down real fine, Octavia. Real fine.
What now?
I turn my back to the door, my eyes stinging. And I hate it. I hate that this affects me so much. It’s unfair that he told me I had a chance and then slammed the door in my face without hearing me out.
It’s the unfairness that gets to me. As I stand in the morning light, not blinking, hoping I won’t shed any tears—for all the things I’ve wished for since I was little in this shitty town, for all the dreams that I may not yet fulfill—I feel so close to falling apart, it’s unreal.
Get yourself together, Octavia. This is nothing.
A small setback.
Repeating that to myself, I walk down the porch steps and stare out into the empty morning, down to the path crossing the small, overgrown garden, already thinking of any other job I could find and cursing myself for heaping all my hopes on this one as if it were a sure thing.
A mistake.
But life goes on, like before, and it’s up to me to change it around.
Chapter Three
Matt
Once I’ve managed to locate and pull on a marginally clean shirt, once I’ve put on shoes and raked a hand through my wild hair, I grab the kids and go leave them with a neighbor for the day.
Not the one across the street who’s turned out to be a chain-smoking granny, about a thousand years old, lost in a web of wrinkles and attitude. No, a young mom of three, five houses down, who looks hurried and overwhelmed in a flowery dress and a scarf wrapped around her head.
I pay her a big wad of dollars to keep an eye over the little brats while I work. It’s the fifth day in a row, and it feels wrong.
And expensive for my limited funds.
Cole clings to my leg as I turn toward the door to go. Guilt stabs sharp teeth into my soul. I shove it deep and ignore it, detaching my son from my leg and setting him aside.
Mary watches me from a few feet away, accusation in her eyes, her small mouth tight.
Hell.
“It’s okay, Mr. Hansen. I’ve got them,” the woman says. Her name is Sally, or Dolly, or something equally unimportant to me.
I nod, a dark thread of worry winding its way through the tangled mess of my thoughts. “I’ll call at noon.”
As I walk to my truck, I think again how much cheaper hiring a nanny would be. Better for the kids, too. More… stable. God knows stability hasn’t been part of their lives so far.
Yeah, I know, I’m failing as a father.
Then again, what’s new? What the fuck ever. I just need a nanny to keep an eye on the kids while I’m away at work, but the two who applied for the position earlier this week didn’t even look at my kids when they entered the house. It was obvious they didn’t give a fuck.
Instant disqualification.
So okay, I’ll keep looking. There are bound to be more women looking for a job in this town. I’ll find another.
Just… not her.
Not Octavia.
She’s not suitable. Not acceptable. Not… I dunno. She’s way too young. And headstrong. Not what I had in mind.
So that’s that. End of story.
Jasper’s Garage is on the other side of the town, a ten-minute drive. I could have walked, but I’m late as it is. Not giving the best of impressions during my first week of work.
What do I care about impressions, though? As long as I keep the job, I don’t give a damn, and Jasper Jones won’t kick me out. Good mechanics are hard to come by in this neck of the woods, it seems, and the money he’s paying me is good.
Or… I could let him kick me out. I could walk away. Take the kids and keep moving, keep searching for salvation. But the scary thing is… I’m not sure I even fucking care anymore.
There’s a guy I don’t know smoking right outside the garage door. I stride inside and check the tasks of the day, then head over to the bays and locate the car I’m supposed to work on.
Jasper’s right hand, Evan, nods at me without a comment, and I get to work. I like the fact he’s a man of few words.
My words are few, too. Not many to start with, and they’ve dried away over the years.
Which is just as well.
I lose myself in my work. Rivets, chassis, rumbling engines. All this is so familiar it almost feels like home.
Almost.
Lying on my back under the car, I frown up at the dark metal, and it fades, so that I see a night without stars, a road vanishing in black mist, and I shiver.
Cole fell and hit his knee sometime during the day, and the neighbor supposedly looking after him didn’t think to let me know. Mary is shooting me baleful glances and won’t speak to me when I go to pick them up in the later afternoon.
Girl hates me.
I have to drag her to the bathroom to brush her teeth, and then her hair tie gets caught in her hair, and she wails as I try to take it out, even though I try my godfucking best not to hurt her.
I don’t wanna hurt them.
Gritting my teeth, I wrestle the damn thing out of her golden curls and sit her down on the closed toilet seat. Just in time to catch Cole before he pitches over into the bathtub.
While I hold on to my son’s small body as he flails and whines, Mary takes the opportunity to jump off the toilet and run out of the bathroom, wailing some more.
I stand in the middle of the badly lit bathroom, trying to catch my breath, not sure what the fuck to do. My kids don’t know me anymore. They don’t like me.
They sure as hell don’t love me.
I took them away from the only other family they still have—my mom, who took care of them while I lost myself. I barely saw them over the past three years, and then I yanked them away from the only home they remember and brought them here, to this small town in the middle of nowhere, leaving them during the day with a woman who can’t look after them.
I’d fucking hate me, too.
Cole screams and I curse, putting him down. He runs away from me as fast as his little feet can carry him, and I step back until I hit the wall and slide down.
Fuck this shit. I was never good at this. She was. She wanted kids. She loved them, and I… I was helpless when it came to her.
Now that sounds like I regret them. Which isn’t true. I love them.
I just don’t know how to deal with it.
Chri
st, I need to sleep. It’s been a while since I last managed a couple of hours in a night. I’ll force it on myself, since nothing else works. Everything, anything to forget the past. To forget Cole’s little mournful face as I walked out this morning, Mary’s wail.
By the time I push back to my feet and splash my face at the sink, then make my way to the kid’s bedroom, the brats are two lumps under their covers, pretending to be asleep.
Like every night.
They won’t let me tuck them in.
“Good night,” I whisper, not sure they hear me. I stare at them a bit longer, remembering when I first held them in my arms, tiny, squirming bundles of energy and life.
My kids.
Switching off the light, I turn around and walk out to the kitchen. I leave the lights off. By touch I find the sleeping pills and swallow two with a gulp of water.
Resist the urge to take more. All of them.
Then I head into the living room and sink down on the sofa, turn on the TV and stare at it without seeing anything.
At some point, I’ll fall asleep. There’s no escape. And I know the nightmares are waiting for me.
The coffee is stale and toxic, like nuclear waste, burning my mouth. Across the sky dawn is breaking in red and yellow.
At long fucking last.
Dressed only in my sweatpants and a thin T-shirt, I’m standing on the porch, a mug in my hand I don’t remember getting from the kitchen, and a bitter fog in my lungs.
I’m on my last smoke. My last inhale.
My head is full of swirling darkness.
And then I look down at the steps leading to the yard, remembering that girl—yesterday, was it only yesterday?—the wannabe nanny, all star-eyed innocence, her mouth sinfully full, her small tits and slender body, her dark hair—and my body tightens with a pang of arousal.
With a curse, I head back inside and hunt for the bottle of booze under the kitchen sink, sparing a single thought to whether the kids might discover it in that not so well-thought hiding place, and Christ, I’m drinking before going to work, dammit—then I replace the coffee with pure Scotch and wash the night down.
Taking a deep drag from my cig, I lean against the sink with a groan. I’m a mess. I can’t take care of the kids. What was I thinking?
Leaving. That was what I was thinking. All I could think of at some point.
Not having to put up with the questions and the concern anymore. Not having to hide from everyone who watched, waiting for me to fall apart.
But I didn’t. Not as far as they could see.
It was a no-win situation. If I fell apart, I wasn’t a real man. If I didn’t, well… I had a heart of stone.
I thump my chest once, softly, with my fist. Maybe it has turned to fucking stone. God knows it feels that way. Cold. Heavy.
Unfeeling.
Maybe it was the only way.
In any case…. yeah, I had to leave, and take kids with me. Leaving them behind wasn’t an option.
Even if they hate me.
Maybe I should have left them. Maybe they’d have been happier without me. Not like they’d miss me. Maybe…
Yeah, whatever. It’s done, now. We’re here.
And I need to get my head on straight before it’s too late.
Chapter Four
Octavia
“There are other jobs out there,” Gigi says when she finds out about my failed attempt to talk to Matt Hansen.
But she’s still in school and hasn’t really looked for herself, apart from small summertime jobs such as selling tickets at the drive-in movie theater out of town and the occasional festival. If we lived in Springfield, or close to it, maybe, but here…
Here we’re in the middle of nowhere. Besides, I need something better than minimum wage. I need a steady job, a good-paying job, to pay those debts off, debts accumulated at a time Merc was sick and Mom had to take out some loans to keep us afloat, what with having no family to support her.
Pay the debts, and go off to college, so that I can return and take proper care of my family. That’s my dream.
Hey, I’m not giving up on that.
So I’m officially on a job hunt. I’ve already asked at the few shops on the main street if they’re looking for help, but so far, all I got in way of answers was heads shaking in the negative.
Nothing.
Not that I’m surprised. There’s a reason I banged on Matthew Hansen’s door and insisted to be interviewed. Although embarrassing myself in front of his neighbors made no frigging difference.
I’m not qualified for anything much, not yet. I’ve worked in a store before, so that counts, but without any job openings in the few stores of the town it’s useless.
And like I told Tall, Dark and Jerk, I know how to handle kids, how to care for them. I just love kids. I’ve thought about studying to become a kindergarten teacher. That would be awesome.
But that’s in the future. For now, the dream seems so distant. No matter how many ads I’ve gone over, how many houses I called, the few requests for nannies that were advertised have all been filled, and I’m running out of options.
I lick my dry lips, too hot in my dark pants and soft gray blouse, my feet killing me even in my conservative low heels as I make one more round, the same I made yesterday and the day before.
The round of desperation.
I visit the grocery store, the ice cream shop, the small hardware shop, the bank, the dentist and the two diners. I ask at the second-hand store, the gas station, and the old pizza place where Mom works. Then I enter the new coffee shop with its shiny brand new white tables and steel chairs and ask once more.
Nope. Nada.
My dream of escape dwindles on the horizon. A mirage. It was never real, never going to happen.
Unless… unless I pack my bags and leave town, penniless and desperate. Go to the big city and take my chances there.
Leave Mom, and Gigi, and Merc behind.
Not forever, I tell myself as a vise tightens around my heart. Just for a while, until I find a job and save some money. And then I’ll go to college and return with a good salary to take care of them all.
This has been my dream ever since I can remember.
And what kind of job would an educated person find here?
That’s the question I’ve been avoiding.
That, and the thought of the years between now and then, and of how badly leaving my family behind will hurt. We’re so close. My dad leaving only served to bring us closer, and going away will be like sawing off a limb.
Shaking my head, trying to dislodge the thought like every time it surfaces, I stop in front of the drugstore.
“Whatcha doing here, Zipper Lips?” The witty one is Anthony “Stone” Campbell, who’s lounging outside the coffee shop across the street, his lips pulled into a sneer.
He may have grown up from the skinny, stinky kid in my class into a tall, less stinky guy, but he never lost his obnoxiousness. Looks like you can’t outgrow mean, or stupid.
Ignoring him with the ease of long practice, I step inside the drugstore, not even sure I want to ask yet again about a job. I already know there isn’t an opening.
Maybe I’ll just buy some painkillers. My head hurts from the heat I’ve been trudging through all day.
Or some sunscreen. It feels as if my nose will be peeling come tomorrow. I touch it gingerly and wince.
Inside the store it’s blessedly air-conditioned, and I let the cool air blow on my flushed cheeks as the door closes behind me.
My hair is a frazzled mess, and I pat it down in a desperate effort to look presentable as I approach the counter. I easily find some ibuprofen, but then realize there are three people ahead of me, and I check out the small make-up display to distract myself while waiting.
Gigi always says I should wear more make-up. She says my eyes are pretty and that I should outline them more.
Gigi is crazy.
I put down the lipstick I was checking out—the hue is called
Flamingo, which makes me grin—and catch a guy’s gaze on me. He’s standing second in the small line, and he’s handsome in a classic, clear-cut way with his wavy brown hair and green eyes, the five-o’clock shadow on his cheeks, the wiry frame filling out his navy-blue shirt nicely.
A cold shiver runs over my skin when his gaze lifts to my face, and his mouth tilts in a smile.
I look away, flustered.
By the time I gather my wits enough to look back at him, the line has moved, and a broad-shouldered guy is walking by me, his shaggy black hair and beard registering after the longest second in history.
Matthew Hansen. What are the odds?
Then again, it is a small town. Nothing fateful here. Just everyday life happening.
He doesn’t seem to think so, judging by the way his brows draw together when he notices me. He stops.
“You,” he says.
It sounds like an accusation. And yet his gaze holds no heat, only surprise.
“Mr. Hansen.” I pull my shoulders back. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I’m standing so close to him.
Way too close. He’s so tall and broad-shouldered he’s like a wall.
He says nothing, just staring at me, the darkness in his eyes swallowing me whole. I’m so aware of his height, the big muscles in his arms, his long dark lashes, it’s insane.
I’m wringing my hands together, and I make myself stop. “Look, Mr. Hansen…” I have to say something sensible. “How are the kids? Have you found a nanny for them yet?”
But this was the wrong call, because his expression shutters. “Yeah.”
That one word hits me hard. “You hired someone else?”
He nods and pushes dark hair out of his eyes. He’s still looking at me. His gaze is like a laser beam, passing over my face, then moving lower, and a wave of desire hits me, knotting up my insides.
Crap.
Christ, what’s the matter with me? For some reason, Matt Hansen has my whole body clenching with need just by standing there.
Why does my body react to this bear of a man when it remains numb and cold when other guys look at me?
When he passed me over for the job, not even deigning to talk to me, and went and hired someone else the next day?
