Caveman: A Single Dad Next Door Romance

by Jo Raven

  “I will talk to Ross,” she says, “This can’t go on.”

  “What…?” I try to chase the fuzz from my brain—because I slept. Through most of the night. A fucking first. “Wait, Tay. No.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  I roll this around in my mind. “Then I’m coming with you.”

  How did that happen, how did I sleep when I haven’t been able to get any shut-eye for more than a couple of hours, tops, every night since Emma passed?

  And then I remember Octavia’s body curled beside me, her arm over my stomach, her breath on my neck.

  My fingers inside her as she came, her face flushed, her moans, and how I came all over myself like a teenager.

  Damn. No wonder the front of my T-shirt is stuck to my chest.

  Octavia is staring at me. “You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to come with me.”

  I force my mind back to the conversation. “Yeah, I do.”

  “I can do this on my own. If I took every nasty word everyone around here had for me, for us, I’d be rocking in a corner by now,” Octavia mutters, her eyes bright. “I have to face him. It won’t be the first time.”

  She’s fierce. I realize I underestimated her. There’s nothing fragile about her now.

  “Us? Who, your family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What about?”

  She shrugs, stops still for a moment, her expression closing up. “There are these… rumors that my mom slept around. She won’t say who our dad is, and everyone says each one of us, me, Gigi, Merc, have a different one. And then I had the braces…”

  “Braces?” I rub a hand over my eyes, trying to focus, because damn, everything’s fuzzy.

  “Yeah, braces.” And she bares her teeth—perfect, small, white teeth. She looks like one of those laughing foxes they show sometimes on Discovery channel.

  A cute fox, and I find myself laughing quietly.

  What is she doing to me? I want to laugh, and weep. I want to hold her, protect the bright flame of her mind, and beat up the goddamn bullies for notching scars in her confidence.

  “Fucking bullies,” I mutter. If she just points me the right way, and I’ll punch them for her, but she doesn’t want that. She wants to face them on her own.

  But I really don’t want her alone with Ross again, because that motherfucker is just—

  “Hey.” I focus on her. “What are you doing with those?”

  “I’m going to trim your beard,” she declares, coming at me with a pair of scissors I didn’t know I owned.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Your bathroom.”

  Huh. I put my hand on my beard protectively. “But I should get ready for work.”

  “You’re not going in today.”

  I blink at her. “Says who?”

  “Says me.” She winks. She fucking winks! “I already called the garage.”

  “You did, huh?”

  Can’t remember the last time someone took care of me, and don’t know how to deal with it, but my mouth keeps wanting to smile, so I give in and shake my head, grinning at her.

  I swear, this girl…

  “Lean back, and close your eyes,” she says, all bossy and shit, and no matter how battered my body feels, it can’t stop my dick from stirring.

  “What the fuck will you do, trim my beard in the shape of a heart, or what?”

  She blushes. “Just shorter.” I don’t close my eyes as she leans in, staring at the determined look on her face. She’s wielding those scissors kinda dangerously. “Have you always had a beard?”

  “Since I was five,” I tell her solemnly.

  She snorts and snips away, her brows arching before her expression returns to its former focus. “Really.”

  “No.” I finally close my eyes, just for this. “Since Emma died.”

  She pauses for a few seconds, not touching me. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she whispers.

  I say nothing, squeezing my eyes tighter, as if that will block the pain.

  After a moment, she starts trimming again, her fingertips light on my cheekbone, on my jaw, on my neck, the snick snick of the scissors soothing.

  “Have you checked on the kids?” I ask when she stops and tugs on my beard, as if checking to see how her work looks.

  “They had breakfast and are watching TV.” And before I speak, she goes on, “On your phone, you had some messages from a Zane, and a Kaden. Also, yesterday… we called Grandma.”

  I open my eyes, shocked. “My mother?”

  She straightens, bites on her lower lip. “Yes. The kids wanted it.”

  “Dammit.” Anger fills me. Then guilt and sadness. Then relief. “Good. I should’ve done it long ago.”

  “Well, your mom’s fine. If you were worried.” She seems to doubt that.

  “I know. I asked Kaden and Zane to keep tabs on her.”

  “Who are they?”

  “My adopted brother. And my blood brother.”

  She nods. “You should call them back. They were asking if you’re still alive.”

  “Fucking drama queens.” I did answer their calls from time to time, to avoid having them come down in person to check on me, but just not all the time.

  Okay, not most of the time.

  The temptation to close my eyes again and ignore the world is strong. So damn strong. It’s how I’ve coped all this time.

  But the gate is open now, battered down, and I know she’s right. I should call them.

  “Anything else you feel you should tell me?” I grouse.

  Too many truths for one single fucking morning.

  “You look good with your beard trimmed,” she says without missing a beat, the little minx, smirking at me. “Promise to think about shaving?”

  Speechless. I’m fucking speechless.

  Chapter Thirty

  Octavia

  Wow. He doesn’t look like a caveman anymore. Not really.

  And I’m in big trouble. Okay, bigger than before.

  Because he looks devastatingly handsome with his beard trimmed short, his hair falling in those dark eyes. Even propped up on the pillows in his bed, the sheets up to his waist, his face still kinda pale from sickness, he looks sharp and dangerous and sexy.

  He looks like a rock star. He looks… delicious. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.

  So I run to the bathroom to clean the scissors and put them away so I won’t stare at him like a blushing twelve-year-old with a massive crush.

  Crap. I put the scissors away and turn on the water, run my hands under the tap. Splash my face. My cheeks are hot.

  Just because we slept together doesn’t mean he wants anything else to do with me. I mean, sure, he has opened up some, tries to be nicer. I can see him making the effort. But he’s a grown man, a dad, a guy who lost his wife not long ago.

  And I’m just the nanny of his kids. I have to remember that. I’m not his friend, even less his girlfriend. I have no rights over his kids, his house, or his heart.

  It’s just that sleeping beside him, in his arms… it was the best feeling ever in the world, and I’m falling so hard for him my head is spinning. Who knew I liked rude and rugged older men?

  Though it’s not only that, I think to myself as I dry my face. It’s the change in him. The revelation that he’s not like that inside, so rude and brash. That he wasn’t always like that, and maybe… maybe he can find his way back.

  And you want to be the one to do it, right? Hold his hand, guide his way? Save him?

  God, I’m stupid. This is the oldest mistake in the book. How many women have fallen for bad, tortured boys hoping to change them, to save them, and ended up destroyed by them?

  That’s right. Plenty. You can’t let this happen to you. Pay the debts and then college, remember? A future. That’s what you want. Put distance between you and Matt Hansen.

  If you don’t, he will, and then he’ll smash your heart to pieces.

  “Is Daddy gonna d
ie like Mommy did?” Mary asks as we pass outside Matt’s bedroom on the way to theirs after lunch, and I freeze, not expecting the question.

  I probably should have, knowing what I know now about this family.

  “No, sweetie.” I swallow hard. “He won’t.”

  “He will,” Cole says from my other side, nodding.

  “They said the same about Mommy,” Mary says in a serious, too old for her age voice, “and then she died.”

  I stop, go down on my knees and hug them both to me, because oh God, they’re ripping my heart to shreds. “Your daddy isn’t going to die. He isn’t going anywhere, either. Trust me, he’s already getting better, and he’ll be back on his feet by tonight. He just needs to rest.”

  “I want to see him,” Mary says, and again Cole nods like a bobblehead.

  “He’s asleep, resting. Maybe later—”

  “Tay, bring them in,” Matt’s deep voice calls from inside the room, and we all still. “Come on in!”

  Mary and Cole grin, and I laugh at their happy little faces. “Go on! Daddy wants to see you.”

  They don’t lose time, slipping out of my arms, pushing the door open all the way and running into his room.

  I follow just in time to see him open his arms to them. They climb on the bed like monkeys and sprawl all over him.

  I cover my mouth, not laughing anymore, all choked up.

  How am I going to keep my distance when everything these guys do touches me so deeply? It’s unfair. It’s like I have no defences against them.

  Them, with their cuteness and sadness.

  And him with his pain and roughness and raw sexiness.

  Oh God, what am I going to do?

  “What, what?” Matt is asking Cole, his raspy, deep voice drawing my attention even as I fight the pull. “What were you doing? Poop what?”

  “The poop train,” Cole is saying.

  Matt turns toward me, his dark gaze finding me and pinning me. “What are you doing with my son?”

  “We’re potty training,” I say defiantly. “He’s old enough, and I asked Gigi to bring over our old potty.”

  “Potty,” Cole says, grinning from ear to ear, proud of himself.

  Mary laughs delightedly.

  “You know how to train him for that?” Matt asks faintly.

  “I trained Merc.” I snicker when I remember that. I was a kid myself, but loved playing at being my siblings’ mom. “He would drive me crazy.”

  “Who’s Merc?” Mary asks.

  “Merc is my little brother.”

  “Like Cole?”

  “Yes, like Cole is to you. Merc used to pee all over the bathroom. He didn’t like to aim with his weenie.” I stick my tongue out at Cole and he giggles. “And he also liked to tell me how big his poop was every time when he was done.”

  “Boys have weenies,” Mary says seriously.

  That kid cracks me up, especially nowadays when she doesn’t seem so angry and frustrated with herself all the time. She seems calmer. More like a five-year-old girl.

  “That’s right,” I tell her, mirroring her expression. “Boys have weenies.”

  “So you’re a potty trainer, too.” When I look up, I find Matt’s eyes on me again, and they’re amused and warm and interested. “And Merc is your brother. Merc as in… mercenary?

  “No.” I shake my head. “That’d be Mercury.”

  “Your name is Octavia, your sister’s name is Gigi…”

  “Augusta, actually. Octavia, Augusta and Mercury.” I sigh. “Don’t ask. Mom was going through a Roman phase. Maybe it was that Gladiator movie.”

  And he smiles. He really smiles, big and wide and boyish. It transforms his face, softens it. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile like that, and oh God…

  If he was handsome before, he’s breathtaking now, and that’s… bad for my resolutions.

  Really, really bad.

  “The kids could stay here for a bit,” Matt says. “Here with me. Color their books or whatever it is they like doing.”

  He has his arms around them, and I have to look away because his bare, muscular, inked arms around his kids are just killing me.

  My ovaries. God. Have mercy.

  “I’ll go grab the coloring things,” I mumble and make my escape, all but running out of his bedroom and into the kids’.

  Once there, I stop to catch my breath.

  God.

  Grabbing the coloring supplies, I return to Matt’s bedroom and lay the books and pencils on top of the covers. He thanks me and opens the books, asking his kids to tell him what they are doing, and which pictures they like.

  They look so frigging happy that he’s paying them attention, playing with them. I want to hug all three of them, and Matt glances at me and beckons with the hand that’s resting on Mary’s shoulders for me to go sit with them.

  I grin at him, but before I move, Cole shoves his coloring book at his dad.

  “Someone writed in my book,” he says in a small, hurt voice.

  “Wrote,” I correct automatically, and then as what he said sinks in, “What do you mean?”

  “Show me,” Matt says.

  And we all bend over the book, grinning, and then freeze.

  Stare at the words scrawled there in big black letters.

  ‘Don’t you love kids?’

  We’re sitting in the living room downstairs, the kids playing on the carpet at our feet. A very pale Matt is hunched up beside me, a hand in his hair, red spots on his cheekbones.

  “Who the hell wrote that in his book? Did anyone get inside the house? Any worker, or salesperson?”

  “No, of course not.” I do my best not to feel offended at this. He’s stressed, and sick. “Could it be from when that lady down the street looked after them?”

  “Maybe.” But he doesn’t look convinced.

  I’m not either. I mean, I’ve been there every day when Cole was coloring. Never saw those words before. “You can’t think that psycho sneaked inside the house? Wouldn’t the security cameras catch that?”

  “There are some issues with the cameras,” he says, and a chill runs through me. When he puts his arm around me, I tell myself not to read anything into the gentle touch. “We’ve been locking all doors and windows. I’ll check them all again.”

  But the chill remains as we watch the kids play, innocent and unaware of all the fears plaguing us.

  “You don’t think he’ll hurt the kids?” I whisper. “Those words…”

  He pulls me closer. “He’s trying to scare us, that’s all. Fucking Ross. Just don’t let my kids out of your sight until we find proof.”

  I nod against his shoulder.

  I’ll get that proof. I’m going to confront Ross, my bully, and make him confess. If his problem is with me, then this is the only way.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Matt

  Octavia is a mass of nerves, and my own thoughts are too much of a fucking tangle to reassure her everything will be okay.

  It has to, right? If Ross is doing this, the police are on it. And what the hell will he do? Kill more cats? Write on the windows?

  Fucking boo.

  I’ll take that fucker down, if the police refuse to touch him. Scaring us, scaring my kids and my girl isn’t fucking acceptable.

  My girl.

  Fuck.

  If not for the unease in my gut telling me this isn’t over, that things will get worse, I’d have gone off to punch something.

  Because if this crazy psycho has it in for me and my kids, then he has it in for her, too—and if she got one threatening message already, then I’m scared goddamn shitless it won’t be the last.

  I was weightless last night. Free. Not pinned down. With her in my arms, I was flying on top of the nightmares, never sucked in.

  Now it feels as though the weight of the world has crashed back down on me.

  Leaving Octavia with the kids, I call John Elba and tell him what happened, more to keep him up-to-date than expecting
anything to be done.

  As predicted, he says the words were probably already in the book when I moved here, or were written by some kid when I was leaving Cole with Dolly.

  “I’m sorry to say it, Hansen,” he says. “But if this isn’t a prank like I think and you’re right that this is some psycho, then the key is you. It all points to you. You are the link.”

  “Is that so?” I growl, just because I know no other way of letting my frustration out.

  “That is so. Octavia got a message, and she is connected to you. She says her boyfriend got a message, and he is connected through her to y—”

  “He’s not her goddamn boyfriend.”

  There’s a silence at the other end of the line.

  It allows me to think about what I’ve said, and how I said it.

  Jesus.

  But John goes on, “And then the messages you got point to your kids and your past. Nobody is talking about Octavia’s past. Only about her connection to you.”

  About me fucking her.

  I don’t know what’s going on, but somehow I dragged her into my shit, into the bullying I want to save her from, and maybe into real danger, too.

  “John…” I hesitate. I’ve closed myself off for so long it’s hard opening up to people, but hell, I’m trying. If anything, what I feel around Octavia made me realize I have to start relying on people more. “I have a bad hunch about this.”

  There, I’ve said it. It’s off my fucking chest.

  Or it should be, but it’s still there, dammit—weighing a ton, crushing my lungs.

  “Is there something else you know?” John asks quietly. “Anything you remembered, or figured out?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Could this be about a woman? An ex-girlfriend?”

  “But why? And why now? Above all, what would Ross have to do with it?”

  “You’re convinced it’s him, huh?”

  “That motherfucker.” Keeping my temper is a struggle. “You don’t believe it’s him? Even his own father believes it.”

  “I believe in evidence,” John says. “Even some clues and hints wouldn’t hurt at this point, and we have nothing. So lie low for a while, all right? Don’t go punching Ross again. Let us do our job.”