Especially my wife.
Fuck me, did I fuck up there.
“So, what else could you do, what else are you interested in?”
And fuck me again, sideways this time, because Jake needs to shut his mouth.
Before I can even move my eyes away from her plump lips, her little nose and the freckles dotted across it and come up with something interesting to say, he’s there, like a little Jack Russell, yapping out his next question.
Meanwhile, I sit there, mute, watching her.
“I’d still like to work with babies or children in some capacity, and I love music. Obviously, it’s been a big part of my life. Then there’s fashion, and I’d like to travel some more.”
“So, working for Max sounds like the perfect job then,” Kenzie chimes back in. “You’d get to travel while working with a baby and surrounded by music and musicians.”
“If you’re seriously thinking about nannying, I’d rather you worked for Max than anyone else, especially if you’re looking at live-in jobs,” Cal says, my eyes narrowing at everyone around the table because not one of them has bothered to ask me about this first.
“Most nanny positions are live-in, especially in London, most locations, really.”
I refill my wine glass as I search for another excuse as to why this shouldn’t happen, but at the same time, I recall how comfortable Billie looked holding Layla in her arms. After what I’ve seen today, if I were ever going to trust anyone with my baby girl, Billie would probably be very close to the top of the list.
“Where would they live, Max, if you get someone to live in?” Cal asks.
“The flat above the garage,” I reply.
“What about the studio, the noise?” Jake asks.
“It’s fully soundproof. Plus, it’s not like I’m going to be over there at odd hours. If I’m there working, chances are whoever I take on for the job will be over here with the baby.”
“I think it’s the perfect solution,” Mel adds. “I’m sure Billie doesn’t wanna be stuck living with us after living away from home the last four years. She’d get her own space, have a job she loves, and be around people we trust.”
Me? You trust me? With Billie? Oh, you shouldn’t. You really fucking shouldn’t.
I almost laugh out loud, instead, I stare into my wine glass, panicking that the inappropriate thoughts I’m having about Billie. The way she’s got me all twisted up inside might be obviously displayed on my face.
This couldn’t happen . . . but then where would the harm? No. It couldn’t happen.
“Wha’d’ya think, Bill?” Kenzie asks her.
“When’s your next tour?” Billie asks.
“Starts at the end of May. Six months in the States, home for a month, and then we head to Australia for their summer. Fourteen shows, I think.”
“Sixteen,” Cal adds from beside me. “Two new dates have been added, there might be more yet. Mel will be with us.”
I can feel Jake’s eyes pinned on me, and I know he’s hanging for my reaction.
I reach for my wine, only to realise I’ve downed my second glass. Without having to say a word, Mel tops me up. I take a swig as she stands from the table to retrieve the apple pie from the oven. Jake decides to fill the silence, opens his mouth and starts vomiting words again. I’ve never known the bloke to be so talkative.
“That’d be cool, having you on tour with us, Bill, someone more my age to hang about with rather than these boring ol’ farts. It’s been bad enough in the past with Jay and Cal all loved up and married, but then Max joined the sad and married club for the last tour . . .” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. The same head I want to rip off its neck and launch out of my back patio doors.
My own head’s swimming. I’ve barely touched a drop of alcohol since the day Whitney left, so the wine has gone straight to it . . . Whitney, she’ll be back here by the end of next week, and the last thing I want to do is rely on her in any way when it comes to looking after Layla. I want to show her that I’m more than capable of raising my daughter without her, even if it does mean employing someone to help, which is something Whitney was pushing for anyway. I’d point blank refused in the beginning, but the situation is different now, and I know there’s no way I’m going to be able to cope long term on my own.
My lips bounce together as I let out a long breath. While I’d been lost in my own thoughts, the table was cleared, apple pie and ice cream were served, and a large brandy was placed in front of me.
Billie is nowhere to be seen. Post Malone is singing about a sunflower through the speakers above my head, and Jake is the only one left at the table, and he’s still studying me.
“What?” I question.
“So, little Billie, huh, all grown up.”
“That’s what happens, at least for some of us.” My reply fully loaded with sarcasm.
He rolls his eyes like a teenage girl. “Who’d have guessed she’d grow up so pretty though? Pretty and—” He moves his hands in the air, I think as a way to describe Billie’s curves. Her hips, arse, and that tiny little waist.
I swallow, my mouth actually watering while I think about all those parts of her. “She’s always been pretty,” I snap. More now because I’m pissed off at my own wayward thoughts, but also because Jake’s looking at her as if he shares those same thoughts, and I don’t like it. Not one little bit. “She was a cute kid, you just didn’t see it. By the time you joined us, she was at that awkward teenage girl stage.”
“Fucking awkward? She was . . .”
I raise my brows.
“Anyway, whatever. She’s hot as fuck now. I’d even think about having a kid just so she’d come and work for me.”
“That’s Cal’s little sister, you need to watch your mouth.” He doesn’t respond because Billie re-enters the room carrying Layla.
Fucking hell. My dick and my brain are at war—my brain screaming at me not to go there and my dick totally ignoring that particular command.
“All clean,” she announces. “She woke up with a smelly bum, so I thought I’d change her nappy while her bottle warms up.”
My eyes slide from Billie to the kitchen worktop and take in the bottle sitting in the warmer. I reach for my brandy, knock it back in one swig, and then refill my glass.
“Yeah, like fuck you haven’t noticed how hot she is,” Jake mumbles quietly from across the table.
Oh, I’ve noticed.
Her arse and the way it appears to have been poured into those jeans.
Her tits sitting so round and full under that sweatshirt.
The ink on her shoulder, visible because of the way her top hangs off it.
The red, gold, and blonde hues to her hair.
Her collarbone and the curve of her neck.
The pink tinge that spreads across her cheeks whenever there’s attention on her, the freckles that cover those cheeks and her small button nose—seriously, how can she even smell through those tiny little nostrils—and the way it turns up slightly at the tip.
The blueness of her eyes, the arch of her perfect brows.
The citrus fragrance of her perfume. I’d never taken the time to smell a sunflower, I’m not even sure if they have a fragrance, but the way Billie smells, that is how a sunflower should smell, exactly like a sunny day.
I’d noticed it all.
Every single, gorgeous part of her.
But it’s more than that, more than the way she looks. Billie is just a beautiful person, goodness personified. It radiates from her. Watching her with my daughter, it’s apparent. And that, amongst about a million other reasons, is why I have to stay the fuck away, because me and goodness? We don’t mix.
I knock back my brandy and make the somewhat conscious decision to take up Mel’s offer to look after Layla tonight so that I can get absolutely hammered.
And that right there is responsible parenting.
Billie
The boys are all drunk or well on their way to achieving that sta
tus.
Mel and I had a glass of wine with our dinner but then switched to water or coffee. Kenz, however, managed to knock back a couple of glasses of wine before Cal cut her off.
She’s currently lying on Max’s sofa, singing along to Rex Orange County’s “Loving Is Easy.” When I look up from my coffee mug, Max is watching me from across the table.
Jake is retelling a tale about a girl who straddled his lap while he was on stage during a gig in Berlin. She was topless and wearing no knickers under her short denim skirt.
I laugh when everyone else does, even though I’m not listening. His voice is just background noise to the myriad of thoughts rioting through my mind.
I’ve grown up surrounded by rock stars, actors, models, and all kinds of celebrities. I was probably around nine or ten years old when I began to realise not everyone’s family was famous, that most of my friends didn’t walk into their kitchen to see the person they’d watched on the telly the night before, sitting at the table, drinking a beer with their big brother.
It was just my normal. I never got star-struck or tongue-tied around anyone, regardless of their celebrity status. Max was probably one of the more famous faces. He was also the one who’d been in my life the longest, regardless of how rarely we’d seen each other over the past few years. He’s changed a lot in that time. The cocky, self-assured and often arrogant man my young heart crushed on, is gone, and in front of me, is a still hot but very broken man. Maybe it’s that, I muse as I watch his eyes shift between the faces sat around the large kitchen table, or maybe it’s because he’s hurting, and I want to fix that for him. Perhaps that’s the reason for this pull, the attraction I’m feeling for him.
It’s Max, for fuck's sake. He dates and marries supermodels, he’s at least sixteen years older than I am, and I need to get a grip. I need to unpack my shit that’s sitting in the garage at home, find my vibrator, and get myself off.
That’s what it is. I’m horny. It’s been a while since I’ve even thought about sex, and I’m obviously frustrated. That’s what it must be.
My phone vibrates from where it sits on the table in front of me. I see the name on the screen and don’t hesitate before answering. “Drew?”
Drew’s the Bosworth’s driver and security. At least he was, and I’m hoping he’s responding to the message I sent him earlier, asking if he knew how Ollie and Amelia were doing. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to contact Carmen, so I’d messaged him instead.
“Hey, Billie. How are you?” His lazy Southern Californian accent sounds down the line, bathing me in its warmth.
We had a bit of a thing last year, Drew and me. We went out a couple of times, got a bit hot and heavy on the sofa in my apartment, but never had full-on sex. He’s a good-looking bloke. A tall, tanned, blue-eyed, blond-haired ex-US-serviceman who, sadly, just wasn’t my type. I can’t pinpoint exactly what it was that was missing, but it simply wasn’t there.
I’d used the excuse of not shitting where you eat, sleep, and live and told him that because we worked together, I thought it was a bad idea taking things further. He’d pushed to give things a go but, eventually and somewhat begrudgingly, settled for merely being friends.
“I’m good thanks. Did you get my message?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling, that and because I’ve missed that sexy accent of yours.”
I look up when he mentions the word sexy, paranoid that our conversation can be heard by everyone at the table. I press the volume button on the side, hoping to quiet Drews voice, and note that it’s only Max paying attention to my call.
“I speak English, Drew. I’m from England, where the language was invented; therefore, I don’t have an accent. It's you lot across the pond who talk funny.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works, sweetheart. But hey, if you say so . . .”
“So, how are the kids?”
“They’re actually doing okay. Carmen has taken them to a friend’s house in Lake Sherwood and has someone home schooling them. I’ve been off for coupla days, but I’m heading back tomorrow.”
“That’s good, and I’m happy you got to keep your job.”
“You could’ve kept yours too. The kids and Carmen miss you; we all do . . . especially me.”
“Staying wasn’t an option.”
“Not even for me? For us?”
“Drew . . .” I fidget uncomfortably in my chair as I huff out his name. From the slight slur of his words, I think he might’ve been drinking. I want to get up and find somewhere private to have this conversation now that he’s taken it in a direction I wasn’t expecting, but Max’s amber-coloured eyes are scorching a path across the table and heating my skin. It’ll be blatantly obvious I don’t want him listening if I move.
Why don’t I want him hearing this? I’ve nothing to hide.
“I thought maybe you might’ve stayed, found someone else to work for, and given us a go.”
“I need my family around me right now, and I’d been thinking of coming home anyway, even before everything happened.”
I hear him let out a long slow breath as I watch Max lean back in his chair, one arm slung across his chest, a glass of brandy being held in his opposite hand.
I take in the hand holding his glass, the fine, dark hairs on the back of his long fingers, and my pelvic floor involuntarily pulls tight when he taps his middle finger on the glass. I swallow and lick my lips. My eyes then roam up his inked forearms, across the black T-shirt covering his chest, his beard, his full lips, finally resting back on those expressive eyes of his, which are still on me.
The merest hint of a smile lifts the right corner of his mouth, but at the same time, his dark brows are drawn down into a frown. The whole combination leaves my brain scattered, and I let out a noise resembling something between a sigh and a groan.
Bloody man.
“Billie?”
“Ugh, sorry.”
I totally missed whatever Drew said, and I watch Max’s chest and shoulders move in a silent chuckle.
Fucker!
I raise my brows and glare at him. His smile intensifies, and I shake my head as my heart and belly go into free fall. My vagina has suddenly developed a mind and a pulse all of its very own. A pulse that’s beating loud and strong right now, making it known that it’s very much alive and in need of attention.
The Max Young kind of attention.
“Listen, Drew, I’m having dinner with the family right now and need to go, but could you tell them I’d love to hear from them and maybe see some pictures of what they’re up to? And please, give them all my love.”
“That include me? You sending some of that love my way?”
With the slur in Drew’s speech now apparent, it’s obvious he’s been drinking.
I decide to shut things down. “Of course. Gotta go, Drew. Thanks for calling me. Speak soon.” I press to end the call and put my phone back down on the table.
Max’s smile turns into a cocky grin, his posture totally relaxed, composed, and oh so fucking hot as he sits draped in his kitchen chair.
He tilts his chin my way and asks. “So, Bamm, you gonna move in and come help me look after my baby girl?”
Good job I’m sitting down because the room and my whole world both turn sideways.
Max
No.
No. No. No. No. No.
What the fuck have I just done?
Billie
I shake my hands in an attempt to remove the excess water from them while searching for a towel so I can dry them properly. I pull open drawers and cupboards in the small en suite bathroom in the apartment above Max Young’s garage.
It’s where Kenzie and I crashed last night while the “grown-ups” all slept over at the house. Once Mel took Layla off to bed with her, and it became apparent the boys were there for the long haul, we brought ourselves over here and crashed. Well, I crashed. Kenz spent half the night on her phone, doing whatever seventeen-year-old girls do on their phones all night.
She’s lying on her belly out cold, starfished across the bed. If it were just her, it probably wouldn’t be a problem because the bed is enormous, but I tend to sleep in the exact same position, so there’d been a fair amount of kicking and complaining each time we touched during the night.
I find two brand new toothbrushes, a refill for the foaming hand soap, which sits on the edge of the sink, and a bottle of mouthwash. No hand towels—no towels of any kind, actually.
Water drips off my chin from where I just splashed and scrubbed at it with my hands. I grab some toilet roll and dab under my eyes, ridding my skin of the remnants of last night’s make-up. The only problem is that, without my BB cream to cover it, I can just make out the yellow bruising which stubbornly remains coated across the corner of my eye, cheek, and jaw.
I release my hair from the plait it was in, tip my head upside down, and finger comb it. Standing upright and giving it a final comb through and shake, I look at myself in the mirror. Luckily, I’ve retained some of the tan my skin had built up over the four years I’d spent living in California. My freckles, especially, are still prominent, and the light dusting that covers my nose and cheeks helps hide the bruising and the fact I’m not wearing any make-up.
“You’ll do,” I tell myself before turning my back on the mirror.
I walk through the bedroom and out into the open plan living, dining, and kitchen area. Like the bedroom, it’s generously sized, and I could easily see myself living here.
I said yes, last night. Yes to being Max Young’s live-in nanny. What else could I say? I’m a Nanny. I have no job right now. I need a job, and Max needs a nanny. I could hardly say no. What excuse would I use? Sorry, dude, but I’m worried I might drop your daughter each and every time you walk into or out of a room or even breathe too close to me? Basically, I’m a perve . . . and someone you probably don’t want your baby girl around!
All the Forbidden Things Page 15
