Addison

I swept the hair out of my face and stared around the newly cleaned kitchen.

There was no denying it had been an undertaking. What few groceries left in the fridge needed to be cleaned out—and the hazardous waste department was probably a better candidate to do it than I was, but I’d done my best all the same. My arms were sore up to the elbows from scrubbing away at dishes and getting on my knees to tackle the floors, but there was no doubting the place looked better. I might have even gone so far as to say it looked damned good.

Now that Dylan was upstairs napping, I finally sank into a chair, ready to search online for the recipe I’d be making for tonight’s dinner.

God, that little girl was an angel.

I hoped Max knew how lucky he was to have her. She hadn’t thrown a single temper tantrum—not one, all day. Even when she’d been hungry, she waddled into the kitchen and sat in front of her high chair like a patient puppy waiting to go outside.

Playing with her was easy too. She needed to learn to share, but she understood sounds and shapes well for her age, and when we read together, she listened intently to every word. A few times, she’d even added some words of her own—like “bird” or “car” or “horse.” But then, on the rare occasion, she’d say “Da-da.”

And twice, she’d said “Ma-ma” too.

I didn’t know if this was simply because kids learned these words practically in unison—like one couldn’t exist without the other—or because maybe because her mother had been in her life at some point?

In the quieter moments, when I was picking up the living room, I searched the photos in the frames along the mantel to find some sign of a woman in Max and Dylan’s life, but there was not even the slightest hint of one. Other than a picture of an elderly woman with her arm slung around Max, who was wearing an Army Ranger uniform, there were no women in his pictures at all. They were all photos of his college graduation, campfires with his friends, and beach trips.

There wasn’t even a picture of Dylan. Not anywhere.

It was odd. Based on how doting and careful he’d been with her yesterday and this morning, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who was such an egomaniac that he didn’t bother to frame pictures of his own daughter. It was possible, of course, that since he was a guy he just hadn’t thought to change things around. After all, for all I knew, the pictures he had could have been set up by his mother when he’d first moved in.

Still, it didn’t seem right to me. Not really.

I let out a sigh and scrolled down the page, then selected the tastiest-looking picture and glanced at the recipe. With quick, efficient movements, I collected all the ingredients listed and pushed aside the thoughts in my brain that were exploding with curiosity.

I didn’t know Max very well. Maybe I was the caregiver for his daughter, but that didn’t give me the right to ask personal questions of him.

And yet . . .

What happened when Dylan was old enough to ask me about her mother? Shouldn’t I know whether she was out there somewhere, whether she might show up some weekend to take Dylan for a visit and leave me alone in the house with Max?

My mind stalled on that thought, idling to picture what a dinner alone with him might be like. What the evening afterward could bring.

Excitement and anxiety filled my heart in equal measure. Just thinking about being alone with him had me nearly hyperventilating. He was just so . . . daunting. When I’d messaged him throughout the day, he’d only responded to direct questions. And then, when I’d made a little joke about not wanting to kill him, even then he’d answered with a serious response. With the stern, impassive look that was always on his face, the worry etched into his features, it was hard not to take him seriously. He was intimidating, and I wasn’t even sure why.

But then I would picture him smiling down at his little girl—holding her in those big strong arms covered in ink, and my knees went weak. His presence was like this looming aura that filled any room he was in, and I was swallowed up in it instantly—on eggshells, holding my breath, hanging on to every word . . .

And wanting to ride him like a bull at the rodeo. Not that it matters. Because it definitely does not.

I shook my head and read over the recipe again, but just as I reached for the first ingredient, the front door swung open.

“Max,” I gasped, breathless. I’d been so distracted by thoughts of him in his military garb and riding him like a bull that I hadn’t even heard his truck pull up.

He grinned at me, and I noticed that his straight white smile slanted a little to one side, making his jaw look that much more rugged and square.

God, what was with me and this guy’s jaw?

“You’re home early.” My gaze shot toward the clock. It was barely even four. I stepped into the foyer as he looked around the living room and his eyes went wide.

“You didn’t have to do all this.” He gestured to the vacuumed carpet and polished furniture.

“It was no trouble,” I said. “Really.”

“I have a cleaning lady—”

“I know, I know.” I waved him off. “But you know, I live here too and I wanted to do my share.” I shrugged. “I prefer a tidy house, anyway.”

He walked into the kitchen, and I followed behind him like a hungry puppy following a trail of dog treats. No doubt my face looked just as hungry as one too, now that I got a good look at his backside in his fitted slacks.

I swallowed hard.

“I’m drawing the line,” he said. “You are not making dinner. You must be exhausted.”

My feet screamed in agreement with him, but I shook my head all the same. “No, absolutely not. I’ve already got a recipe. You sit down. You’ve been working all day.”

“You’re the one who’s been working all day.” He gestured toward the clean kitchen, and I rolled my eyes.

“The cleaning, sure, but Dylan’s no work. It was a great day.”

That much was true. Even with all the running and chasing and multi-tasking, Dylan was a joy. I already felt a deep bond with the little girl, and the reward that came from taking care of her? Well, that was a whole hell of a lot better than passing paper coffee cups along to bleary-eyed zombie-like commuters.

“She’s still down for her nap, though, so if you go upstairs—”

“I’ll be quiet.” He nodded. “Look, I’m sorry I’m here earlier than you expected. I couldn’t stay away. I was just a little nervous, but I have to say now that I’m impressed.”

I blushed, trying not to look as flustered as I felt. Why should his praise feel like I was being given a gold star by a favorite teacher? I knew I’d done a good job, had gone above and beyond the call of duty. And still . . .

Whenever I looked at him I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

“Actually, I was going to say you should probably wake her up. If she sleeps much longer, she’ll never go to bed tonight,” I said.

He nodded, beaming. “All right. I’ll go say hello.”

He exited the room, and while I listened to his heavy footfalls on the stairs, I finally allowed myself to exhale again. God, one more week of living here and I was going to need an oxygen tank.

Shaking my head at myself for what felt like the millionth time, I set to work on dinner. I’d marinated some steak, and the potatoes were already in the oven. All I had to do was sear the meat and sauté the asparagus, and it would be the perfect masculine meal.

As the vegetables sizzled in their skillet, I set the table, listening to both father and daughter laughing as they said hello to each other again. Apparently, it hadn’t taken much doing to get Dylan up—she’d screamed as soon as her bedroom door opened, and I could hear their soft-spoken conversation all the way from the kitchen.

An hour later when the steak was ready, I called for the little family to join me in the kitchen and served the food on the table. I cut Dylan’s steak into tiny pieces and mashed her potato while Max set her in her high chair. As we walked past each other, I felt all the air drain from the room again, swallowed up by his very presence.

“You shouldn’t have done all this.”

My heart sank. I’d wanted him to be impressed, wanted to go above and beyond to make sure this house felt like a home. I’d been so eager to hear his praise, but now I felt like a fool.

Feeling Max’s intense stare on me, I focused my attention on making sure Dylan was eating well.

It had been a while since I’d been able to prepare a home-cooked meal like this. Greg was a gluten-free, GMO-free, non-dairy vegan. After taking so much criticism when I had tried to cook for him, I eventually just gave up. It was irrational, but tears filled my eyes and I had to work to blink them away. I’d been here all of one day, and yet Max’s approval felt like everything.

“I can do that. Here, let’s switch spots,” he said, but I waved him off.

“It’s fine. If you don’t like the meal, I won’t be offended.” And if he wanted to order a pizza or run out for a burger, what did I care?

“Who said anything about not liking the meal?”

I dared a glance in his direction.

Using his knife and fork, Max cut a big bite of steak and popped it into his mouth. I held my breath while he chewed.

“Eat,” he commanded. “After dinner, you’ve got the rest of the night off. I’ll do the dishes and put Dylan to bed.”

“I can’t let you do that,” I said, but his gaze turned stern.

“I meant what I said before. You worked all day; you deserve some down time.”

“But you worked too. You need—”

“Let me worry about what I need.”

His declaration cut off any chance of further discussion, and I settled back into my food was renewed vigor. Partly because I was starving and partly because I was dying to get away from his commanding gaze, but also because my face was flaming at the thought of Max and his needs.

Jesus, what kind of nanny pictured her boss naked?

A horny one, my inner devil shot back.

I shoved a bite of steak in my mouth and chewed, forcing myself to think of anything but the man across from me.

Desperate for escape and some space between me and Max, the second Dylan was settled and my food was done, I stood from the table and brushed my hands against my jeans.

“All right, well, it’s nearly six, so . . .”

I glanced around. I’d already done the cleaning earlier that day, so all that was left was the dinner dishes. Which meant I was done for the day, with nothing left to do.

“Yes, by all means. Go relax,” Max said, encouraging me with a smile.

I started for the stairs, then decided a bath and pajamas might be a nice idea—just the thing to put me in a mood for chilling.

I filled the tub and stepped in, luxuriating in the bubbles, and trusted that Max had everything covered. I spent the next hour talking myself down. Max was my boss, and hiding in my room every night after six p.m. like an eighty-five-year-old cat lady was so not going to work for me. I needed to bite the bullet, face my demons—in this case, the luscious Max—and get past this ridiculous schoolgirl crush. The only way around this thing was through it.

When I was done with my bath, I tossed my hair up in a bun, dressed in my pajamas, and headed back down the stairs, filled with a renewed sense of determination. Once I got to know Max and we became friends, I’d see him as more than just the hunky, underwear-model-worthy man of the house. Maybe we could open a bottle of wine and talk. Break the ice. I might even get the chance to ask him about Dylan’s mother.

When I arrived in the kitchen, though, it was to find Max poised at the sink, my ceramic coffee mug in his hands.

A surge of guilt rolled over me. He probably hadn’t gotten the chance to breathe since he’d walked through the door, and here I was letting him take dish duty while I goofed off.

Noticing my entrance, he turned to face me, and I could have sworn that his gaze raked over me. I crossed my arms over my chest, if only for good measure. I knew the flannel of my pajamas would hide the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra, but with the X-ray heat of his vision, I felt like I couldn’t be too sure.

“Where’s Dylan?” I asked.

“Asleep. She went out like a light.”

I nodded. “Good. She only napped for a half hour that second time, so she was probably pooped.” I glanced at the dishes again. “Look, don’t you want a couple minutes to yourself? I’m sure I can handle the rest of the dishes.”

He looked down at the few plates that were still in the sink. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“You know, a shower wouldn’t be half bad.” He turned the water off, then thanked me and left the room.

The dishes were just as quick and easy to finish as expected. I was done within ten minutes, which left me just enough time to scavenge for the bottle of wine I’d picked up at the store. Opening it, I poured two glasses, then stood back and wondered if I was being too forward. What if he didn’t like wine? Or what if he didn’t want to spend his evening rehashing his past with his daughter’s nanny? Or what if—

“Hey.”

I turned to find him standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a fitted white T-shirt and jeans. He was frigging sex on legs, and my belly gave a nervous flip, the familiar sense of intimidation and longing mingling in my gut.

Remember the plan. Wine, chat, and get to know him, my inner voice reminded me.

But something told me this was going to be a lot trickier than I’d thought.