by Jo Raven
Fucking déjà vu.
“Good morning,” she says, giving me a faint, hesitant smile.
I told her to come over, didn’t I? The memory surfaces slowly in my sluggish brain. In my defense, I did try my damnedest to sleep last night, but it didn’t work out, and the pills make me feel as if I dug out graves all night instead of resting.
Maybe I had been digging graves in my dreams, come to think of it. The image flashes in front of my eyes, superimposed over the girl’s slight form.
Not the girl.
Octavia.
Belatedly I realize I’ve been standing there and staring at her—or into the void—for quite some time, and that she’s shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, probably wondering if I’m not all right in the head.
She has a right to wonder.
I step aside and gesture for her to come inside, then rake my hand through my overlong hair and close the door behind us.
It’s dim inside the living room, the shutters still closed. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember if I ever opened them since we arrived here. The kids mostly play upstairs, or at the neighbor’s house. I only sit here during my sleepless nights, with the TV on and my mind blank.
Or worse, with my mind wrapped around the same old memories, stuck in the past, unable to let go.
She’s looking around, and I do the same, seeing for the first time the line of whiskey bottles beside the sofa, the dirty glasses and dishes on the low table, the thick layer of dust over every surface.
I frown.
She doesn’t seem fazed, though—and I don’t even know why I should care how she feels about the state of the house. She shrugs off her coat, and she’s dressed in a deep blue dress like a sixties pin-up, the bust molding over her tits, cinching tight at her small waist.
My mouth goes dry.
My mind twists, caught between past and present.
Unware of the havoc she wreaks with my body and thoughts, she shoves the TV control and an empty bag of chips to the side and sits down on the armchair, legs pressed together, small pale hands resting on her thighs, her purse placed neatly beside her.
I’m seeing everything. Every detail of her, even in the dimness, from that wide gaze to the curve of her tits, the contained nervousness of her pose and the determination in her expression.
She’s watching me. Not speaking, not asking me anything. Not saying anything about herself. What did she say the first time I opened my door to find her standing there, days ago?
“I love kids. I’m good with them.”
She also said she raised her brother and sister.
Would you look at this? My memory is full of holes the size of the fucking state, but I remember her words.
Just like I remember everything I’ve been trying so hard to forget.
“Want some coffee?” I ask because it’s the first thing that pops into my mind, and I’m relieved when she nods.
I escape into the kitchen and start a fresh pot. I’ll need it, too, if I’m to function today.
“I love this kitchen,” her voice behind me makes me jump.
Closing my eyes briefly, taking a calming breath, I turn around and try to see what she’s seeing.
A large window framing the tree in the back garden. An ash tree? I barely noticed it before. But I do notice her when she runs her hand over the dusty counter and unlatches the window, opening it and leaning out, golden sunlight catching red threads in her dark hair and making her face glow.
“Yeah,” I mutter, not sure what else to say.
How did this happen, that I’m standing here, staring at this girl in my kitchen, scratching at my beard and trying to think of something to say? I haven’t had to make small talk in ages. Or years? Maybe.
I managed to avoid human contact for so long I think I forgot how. Forgot why it matters.
Does it matter?
She turns toward me when I approach the window. There’s a scent of flowers on the air, and it takes me a long moment to realize it’s wafting in from outside, not coming from her.
No, her scent is more subtle, warm and sweet, hitting me right in the chest, and lower. My dick goes hard in a nanosecond, and I hiss in shock.
I haven’t reacted to a woman like that in years. Haven’t allowed myself to be affected. Haven’t wanted to be.
God Fuck, why did I invite her in? Have I gone fucking crazy? Maybe there’s still time to chase her out, because I can’t… Can’t think straight. Can’t get a grip on myself.
I shove off the windowsill and struggle to compose myself. It’s goddamn useless. As my body tightens with desire, my mind spirals into despair.
“You should go,” I say, bracing my hands on the counter, bowing over, telling my dick to fuck off.
She’s silent, except for a small exhale. I wait for her to start screaming at me, to call me names. To storm out.
Or to refuse to go and demand an explanation.
It’s quiet.
Eventually she says, “You told me to come over. You said I work for you. Was that true?”
Her voice is low, calm. Gentle. It glides over my raw nerves like a balm. She’s right. I told her to come.
And I still think it was a fucking bad idea.
“It’ll be a trial run,” I hear myself say as if from a distance. “A week.”
“I understand, Mr. Hansen.”
“Just Matt,” I say, gripping the counter edge, hiding the bulge in my pants, how hard I am for her.
“And the kids? Do they know I’m here? Are they upstairs?”
“I’ll get them.”
Of course they don’t know they now have a nanny. Hell, I didn’t know either before I spoke the words. As I step stiffly out of the kitchen, I wonder once again what in the fucking hell I’m doing.
Chapter Eight
Octavia
A trial run.
I mull this over as I wait at the foot of the stairs for Matt Hansen to come down with his kids.
This doesn’t feel real. It feels like a dream.
This whole morning. Entering his house again, his electric presence inside the small kitchen, the heat of his body when he stood beside me at the window, the tattoos on his arms and the metallic black of his hair and beard.
Again I wonder how old he is. Behind the hair and the beard, it’s hard to tell. His eyes belong in an older face, deep and unfathomable. But his mouth looks soft, his brow smooth.
And why am I thinking of his brow and his mouth? Why am I thinking about him at all, when he’ll most probably change his mind about hiring me in the next five minutes and kick me out once more?
I’ll have to leave town, after all. I’ll need to go just to find a job. Mom barely scrapes by enough for us to live on, and I can’t be a leech for a day longer.
Depressed by the lack of options, I find myself pacing from the bottom of the stairs to the sofa and back.
Mom keeps saying I should focus on my dreams for the future and not worry about money. She thinks I don’t know about the debts. That I haven’t noticed how she saves up the old bread to make French toast or to toss into the soup.
How she hasn’t brought home milk and juice in years, filling the fridge with pop and instant ice tea.
How she hasn’t bought any new clothes or shoes since I can remember, always patching the old ones up, bringing second-hand shirts for Merc from who God where and fixing some of her older pieces for Gigi and me.
Like this dress I’m wearing today.
Like the dress I wore the first time I came here.
Her job at the pizzeria isn’t paying much, and although she got promoted a couple of years ago to kitchen supervisor and got a raise, it still isn’t enough for the four of us.
Kitchen supervisor. Ha. It just means she gets to do the work of three people instead of just one for a few pennies more.
I glance up at the stairs, then return to my pacing. What’s taking him so long? Maybe he’s already changed his mind and I’m wasting my time.
“Dad,” a girlish voice says from the top of the stairs, “is she our new nanny?”
I spin around.
God, this man’s kids are the cutest things.
He’s holding the dark-haired little boy—Cole—on one muscular arm, chasing with the other after his daughter who can’t be more than five. She’s dressed in a pink princess dress and is heading down at break-neck speed.
“Mary!” he calls out in his deep voice.
The girl giggles—and trips.
My heart gives a single, hard boom inside my chest.
Her father won’t catch her.
And she’s falling.
With a gasp, I lunge for her, jumping up two steps, catching her in mid-air just before she tumbles the rest of the way down.
Steadying myself on the narrow step, swaying with her weight, I wrap my arms securely around her, and her sweet little girl smell fills my senses. Her hair smells of flowers and her clothes of crisp, new cotton.
“Gotcha,” I whisper to her and descend the steps I’d climbed to set her safely down on the carpet. “You all right?”
She nods gravely, looking up at me with her father’s dark eyes. “I’m Mary,” she says. “Are you the nanny?”
I can’t help but smile. “I’m Octavia, but you can call me Tati.”
“Jesus,” her asshole dad mutters as he hurries down the stairs. He looks down at his daughter, jaw clenched, and I wonder if he’ll hit her. If he’s violent to them. My chest squeezes at the thought. “Mary, come here right now.”
Mary gives me a long, searching look, smiles, and reaches for her dad’s hand.
He turns his back to me, made of rigid lines and tension. Cole waves at me over his shoulder with a chubby hand. His eyes are blue like mine.
Matt heads into the living room, rounding the sofa, and I stay rooted on the spot, unsure of what I am supposed to do. He’s not going to punish Mary, right? All that anger radiating off him combined with his shaggy beard and hair and that dark gaze sure is intimidating.
But right before he sits down on the sofa, Matthew Hansen kisses his daughter’s head and says, “Girl. Get over here.”
Cole blows me a saliva bubble. Mary sighs.
Silence stretches.
Wait… “Are you speaking to me?”
“It’s Octavia,” I say tightly as I sit down across from him and his kids. “Not girl.”
“You’re a girl,” he says, his voice low and flat. “Are you even legal?”
“You can rest assured I’m eighteen and perfectly legal,” I spit out the words.
What is it with this guy that brings out the worst in me?
Oh, right. His unbelievable rudeness.
Something shifts in his expression, and a flash of what looks like amusement crosses his gaze.
It annoys me even more, so I draw in a breath and let it out slowly.
You need this job, I remind myself.
I do.
“Look. I’ll feed the children, clean them up, play with them, keep them safe until you come home. Tell me when you need me here, let me take notes about their allergies and any medical conditions I should be aware of, their eating and napping preferences, their favorite games.” I stop to draw breath. “I promise I’m reliable, Mr. Hansen.”
“I said, call me Matt.” He’s observing me from under his lashes, and it strikes me that they’re very long and thick.
Absurdly long. Too pretty on a guy that looks—and acts—like a shaggy beast with a stick up his ass.
“Matt,” I concede.
I’ve been calling him that in my mind for so long that it’s a relief. I’d been afraid to slip up.
Mary who has been trying to braid her hair all this time and has apparently given up, tugs on her dad’s muscular arm. “Her name is Tati.”
I grin. “That’s right.”
“Tati,” Cole tries, and the way he says it is so frigging cute my heart melts.
How can an ogre like him have such picture-perfect kids? They could be starring in kids’ ads, Mary with her golden curls, and Cole with his wide smile.
One look at their father’s stormy gaze tells me he’d never allow anything like that, or anything else that’s fun.
My hands clench in my lap.
“They want a kitten,” he says wearily. “No way am I letting them have one. In case they ask for one.”
“All right.” Asshole.
“I work nine to five. Be here at half past eight, and be on time.”
“I will be. Anything else?”
He rubs his forehead. The gesture speaks of tiredness, and I don’t like how my heartstrings twinge in sympathy. “Just… look after them,” he whispers.
Crap. Low blow, right into my gut. Combined with the flicker of pain in his eyes, his soft voice asking me to take care of his kids twists me up inside.
“I will,” I vow. “I’ll make sure they’re okay while you’re away.” A thought strikes me. “Will their mother be visiting?”
The softness leaves his gaze. “The mother won’t be fucking visiting.”
“Dad—” Mary starts, and Matt gets up, his expression furious.
Unsure of what happened, I get to my feet as well. “Why, was it—?”
“Enough.” He leaves the kids sitting there, on the sofa, and he strides over to door, grabbing his car keys from a hook on the wall. He opens the door, letting in the cool morning breeze.
I guess this is it, then. He’s off to work, and I’m babysitting his kids, and whatever crawled up his ass this time doesn’t matter.
“One last thing,” he says, stopping on the doorstep. “This dress you’re wearing.”
Self-conscious, I tug on the hem, the blue fabric stiff. “What about it?”
“Don’t wear it again. No more dresses.”
“What? Why not?”
What a dick!
He doesn’t wait to see if I’ll answer. If I say yes or no, or if I damn him to hell and leave.
No, he just slams the door behind him and is gone.
Great.
“Hey, baby,” Mom says, giving me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek when I enter the kitchen late in the afternoon. “How was your first day as a nanny?”
I shrug, although I’m bursting with things to say.
“Really? That bad?” She arches her brows, putting the lid back on the pot, the heavenly scent of her world-famous minestrone soup filling the room.
“No.” I decide to omit any mention of the very hot and very rude Matt Hansen and stick to a safer topic. “It was great. The kids are lovely, they’re the funniest little things. The boy’s barely three and he babbles a lot. It’s so cute. And the girl…”
“What about the girl?” Mom asks when I hesitate. “How old is she?”
“She’s five. She’s sweet, but…”
“Naughty?” Mom suggests.
“No. The opposite. Too quiet.”
Except for one time when she started to yell. I’m still not sure what exactly happened. They had been eating the spaghetti I’d prepared for them, and it was pretty good, if I say so myself.
She took one bite and she sort of snapped. Fell to the floor and wailed and screamed until I took her in my arms and rocked her, for a long time. Cole joined us, and we stayed like that for ages until Mary calmed down.
And when her father returned from work, I tried to talk to him about it, but he brushed me off, told me not to sweat it.
Told me to run on home.
What a jerk.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Mom is looking at me with concern, and I don’t want that. She has enough worries on her head without adding my rude employer to the mix.
Besides. It’s only day one. I should give him time. Maybe he’ll come around.
Or I’ll grow thicker skin. That would be good for me, and about time.
“What’s for dinner?” Merc bellows, entering the kitchen and dumping his ass in a chair, not
looking up from his cell phone, blue eyes intent on his texting.
As long as he’s not sexting…
“Hello to you, too,” I mutter.
“Heeeeeeeey,” Gigi sings, sauntering in after Merc and plopping down in the chair beside him, stretching out her legs. “How was Day One of Torture, Tati?”
“It was fine,” I say shortly, because Mom is listening in. “I got the job.”
“Of course you did.” Gigi shoots me an appraising look. “Never doubted you.”
“Sure you did.”
She laughs delightedly and tickles Merc who merely moves his chair away from her clever fingers. “And? What did you think of Matthew Hansen? Are the rumors true?”
“What rumors?” Mom asks, carrying the pot to the table and I take out the bowls from the cupboard and place them on the table. Then I place spoons and napkins, and cut up some bread.
Gigi and Merc don’t move to help. I’ve spoiled those brats rotten.
Also, when I turn back around, I find Gigi eyeing me, as if gauging whether to speak in front of Mom.
Too late now, isn’t it, Sis?
“So… Matthew Hansen,” she finally says as Mom ladles out the fragrant soup into the bowls. “His neighbors say he drinks. So he’s obviously going straight to hell.”
He does?
Merc rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”
“What about his wife?” I ask, taking my seat beside Merc. “Where is she?”
“Jacinda says she kicked him out because of his vices,” Gigi says, and as I open my mouth to ask what vices, she goes on, “Nobody knows anything about his wife, though. They’re making stories up because he’s such a jerk.”
“He stood up for me in front of Jasper,” I say softly, remembering the moment. “And Ross. At the garage.”
Mom goes white. I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been looking straight at her as she gets up and walks over to the sink, her back rigid.
What is that about?
“Ross is a perv,” Gigi says cheerfully. “He’s pretty hot, too.”
I make a face. “He’s slimy.”
Merc burps.
“Hey!” Mom returns with more slices of bread. I don’t point out there are still some on the plate in the middle of the table. “Manners.”
