“Hey.”
“Is that the nice young man who helped me with the groceries the other day?” Mom starts gathering the empty bowls into a stack. “Adam.”
“That’s the one,” Gigi says triumphantly. “See? The boy has manners.”
“He’s not a boy,” I mutter, not sure why I’m annoyed. I remember Jasper calling Matt a boy. So condescending.
“Where does he live?” Mom asks.
“Old Mr. Collins’s house.”
She frowns. “Didn’t know he’d moved out. Him and all his cats. Maybe he’s renting out the house?”
Maybe.
“Adam likes you, Tati,” Gigi singsongs, stuck in that rut. “I saw him talking to you the other day. He only has eyes for you.”
Merc makes gagging noises.
“He doesn’t like me,” I say firmly and get up to help Mom. “He was just being polite.”
But I’m not sure about that, either. He did seem to be flirting with me. I’m not an idiot. I can tell when a guy wants into my panties, even if I’ve never let anyone try.
“Oh come on. Live a little, Tati,” Gigi whines.
My mind flashes to Matt standing with me by the window, tall and powerful and mysterious, dark hair gleaming, his profile strong, handsome and forbidding.
Dark to Adam’s lightness, a brooding beast versus the boy-next-door charm of our brand-new neighbor.
“I think he’s going to ask you out,” Gigi says, and I frown, because Matt doesn’t even look at me that way. “Adam,” she clarifies.
Oh right. Adam.
Can’t figure out why for a moment there I wondered how Matt’s mouth would taste if he kissed me, how his strong arms around me would feel.
What I’d do if he gave any sign that he finds me pretty.
But that won’t happen, and I know it.
Chapter Nine
Matt
I ignore her.
Most of the time I manage pretty damn fine, keeping my gaze anywhere but on Octavia, keeping myself busy before I leave for work, or when I return in the afternoon.
That’s easy. Lots to do between the kids and the house. There are still boxes to unpack, furniture to fix, walls to paint. It’s an old house and lots of repairs needed.
Not that I had any interest in making them when we arrived. I had no interest in anything, and nothing has changed, but it takes my damn mind off her, turns my focus elsewhere.
But this morning is rough.
The kitchen is a fucking mess, milk and soggy cereal dripping from the table, the shards of a bowl all over the floor. I have Cole squirming in my hold, and I swear, the kid has eight legs and arms, while Mary is pulling on my hand like she wants to tear it right off, and then the doorbell rings.
The bright, brittle sound shoots through my skull like a bullet, and I groan.
Cole pats my face with a sticky hand, and Mary tries again to escape. This time her small fingers slip from mine, and she runs to the door.
Dammit.
“Tati!” Mary shouts as she expertly unlocks and opens the door.
When the fuck did she learn to do that? I thought she was safe at home, and now I find out she can open the door to any fucking stranger.
And then there she is, that persistent, fearless woman-child, standing right outside the door, all big blue eyes and prim dress barely showing under her long, light coat that’s buttoned up to her chin, dark hair chastely pulled back.
Looking at me.
Normally I control my reactions, my temper, my lust.
My reflex attraction to her.
But not after the night I just had. A bad night. Bad nights, stretching back into time. Three years without real sleep.
My control is slipping.
And I can’t let it show. “You’re early,” I snap.
“By ten minutes,” Octavia counters easily.
“And you’re wearing a fucking dress.”
“Language,” she replies, slender jaw tight.
Goddammmit.
I put Cole down and push hair out of my eyes. “Mary, take your brother and go to the kitchen.”
“We want breakfast!” she whines, and the headache throbbing behind my eyes spikes.
“In a minute. Now off you go.”
“Want me to make them breakfast?” Octavia asks.
“No.”
“I could just—”
I smash my fist into the door, breathing hard, and I feel nothing.
Nothing at all.
She has jerked back, away from me, her face white. “What,” she says, her voice not quite steady, “is the matter with you?”
That’s a damn good question.
Pain finally seeps through the numbness, traveling from my busted knuckles up my arm, settling in my shoulders and neck.
Ow. Shit.
With it, some of the haze clears, and the cold fear in her gaze cuts through the rest like a knife.
Hell. Turning my back to her, I stalk over to the sofa and sink down, putting my head in my hands. It’s so fucking heavy. And I can’t think.
My mind’s fucked up.
I hear her light steps, the click of her heels. The door clicks shut. She approaches me and I lift my head, not sure what to say. I should say I’m sorry, but the words stick in my throat.
My breath stops.
She’s unbuttoning her light coat, and she’s not wearing a dress underneath like I thought. Her red blouse fits like a glove, dark like blood, hugging her curves, kissing her collarbone. Her jeans are old and faded, ripped at one knee, and I find myself straining for a single fucking glimpse of her bare flesh.
“Sit down,” I rasp.
She doesn’t. Of course not. “I’ll see to the kids,” she says, her voice so soft I barely hear her. I watch her lips move. “I’ll be right back.”
The kids have fled the living room—and me—as fast as their little feet could carry them, vanishing into the kitchen, and she follows them.
They don’t really like me.
Like that’s news. How many times do I have to experience it for the knowledge to sink in?
And I suck at taking care of them.
But I can’t employ this nanny. Fuck, what am I doing, letting her into my house, letting her think she can work for me?
Telling others she’s mine?
I flex my hands—one bruised and aching, the other stiff and half-numb ever since that night when the dark became too much.
One more thing I’d rather not remember.
She returns, takes a seat across from me. So close.
What the hell, isn’t she afraid anymore? She doesn’t recall my fist smashing into the fucking door, right in front of her, or my damn angry words?
If her memory is so short-term, she won’t survive long in this world.
She licks her lips, clasps her hands nervously together. “Matt…”
But she doesn’t continue.
She’s leaving. I know she is.
And that’s good, that’s what she should do, so why the fuck am I hunching over, my stomach in knots? My head is pounding. I should be getting ready to go to work, but I don’t move.
Can’t.
“Bad night?” she finally asks, and I blink, certain I didn’t hear her well.
I drop my gaze down to my hands, curled on my thighs. I shrug.
And she leans closer. She’s in my space. Nobody stands or sits so close to me except for my kids. “I wanted to ask you about the kids’ mother.”