“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?