The House Mate (Roommates #3)

I came in a hot, pulsing surge, relishing the wave of euphoria that swept over me, making my muscles quake. My breath was coming in long drags as I let my eyes slip open again.

No big deal. This was perfectly normal for a red-blooded male living with sex on a stick. The old nanny fantasy.

In my dirty mind, Addison was the perfect sensual vixen, ripe for the taking.

And in my mind was exactly where she’d have to stay.





Chapter Eight


Addison

Light streamed into the room and I blinked, rolling over to grab my phone from the nightstand beside me. Clicking it on, I glanced at the time and gasped.

“Shit.” I jumped from the bed and rushed to the baby’s room, my hands already outstretched to soothe whatever tears were surely waiting for me.

Why had the baby monitor stopped working? And why hadn’t Max woken me up before he left? He was already long gone—had probably left an hour ago, which meant Dylan was completely unattended and it was entirely my fault. If she was hurt or hungry . . .

I pushed open the door to find Dylan standing at the bars of her crib, gurgling happily, and I let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank God,” I breathed, moving closer to scoop her into my arms. As I approached, I noticed something else—a little piece of paper, the same shade of white as the crib, with tiny, scrawled words in cramped lettering.



Addison—

Sorry I missed you. The baby got up at the crack of dawn so we had a daddy/daughter early morning. She’s fed and changed and needed a few more Zs, so I figured I’d let her wake you when she was ready.

Have a great day,

Max



I blinked. “Have a great day?” That was it?

Why the hell would he get up so early with the baby when he had to work all day? Unless . . .

I scrubbed my free hand over my face and then lifted Dylan from her crib.

I’d overstepped last night—gotten too personal too fast. And now, of course, he was avoiding me.

Greg had done that too. When I’d first confronted him about his proclivities in the bedroom, he’d shied away from me and barely spoken to me for a week. He’d told me that I ran over him like a steamroller, that I didn’t give him time to express himself naturally.

Had I done that to Max too?

Dylan strained to get down and I set her gently onto the carpet. She toddled toward the little box full of toys I’d brought for her yesterday, and I glanced around the room.

This place alone should have been clue enough that Dylan hadn’t been living here long. Aside from the barely stocked white changing table and the matching white crib, the room was bare. The walls were white and the windows were undressed. It was more fitting for a nunnery than a nursery.

“We’re going to have to do something about this, little lady,” I told Dylan.

“Ball,” she responded, holding one up to show me.

“Smart little girl.”

I pulled her into my arms again and carried her downstairs, careful to make sure her ball was in tow, and together we started our daily routine. We made breakfast together and ate, and afterward, I built a fort for her with the spare linens in the hall closet.

Like I had the day before, I texted pictures and messages to Max, and little gray checks appeared on my screen, letting me know he’d seen my messages and had chosen not to respond.

Well, that was okay. After all, he hadn’t responded yesterday either.

Still, I couldn’t shake the mental image of him grimacing when he saw my name flash on his phone screen. Like just looking at what I said—no matter what it was—was some colossal reminder of what an oversharing, prying asshole I was. And then I’d gone and made it a billion times worse by telling him the story about Greg. Max had probably felt obligated to make me feel better, hence his panty-melting declaration, but that didn’t change the fact that I’d overstepped.

There was nothing to do about that now, so Dylan and I went on with our day, playing and cleaning and laughing until the doorbell rang at three in the afternoon.

I frowned, wondering if Max might be expecting a package, but when I made it to the door, I found a tall, leggy woman grinning at me. She was in a gray business suit that perfectly matched the color of her eyes and set off the bright red of her hair.

I sucked in my cheeks, uncomfortably aware of the fact that Dylan and I had deemed today a pajama day.

“Hello,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“Oh, hi.” Her voice was just as chipper as her smile, but something about it sounded too shrill and wrong—almost like she’d had to rehearse what it sounded like to be polite. She took a step inside the house and I backed away, somewhat at a loss as she stuck her hand out toward me.

I accepted it and shook it, not sure what else to do.

“I’m Tiffany, Max’s assistant. I was in the area, and Max asked me to drop by and let you know he’d be working late tonight. He also wanted me to see if you all were doing all right?” She glanced over at the linen fort, which was primarily held up by the vacuum Dylan had taken to sitting on like it was a pony.