“Hey you.” Adam pushes off the fence where he’s leaning, like always, and smiling at me.

He looks good, his brown curls tousled, his gaze bright. He’s wearing a khaki shirt that brings out the green of his eyes.

Something inside me relaxes when I see him. The implications of what Matt told me had frightened me. Ross wouldn’t go crazy like that, would he? To go around threatening any guy hanging out with me?

It’s true he especially liked bullying me at school—even more than he did the average classmate—but that doesn’t mean anything…

Does it?

I reach for Adam’s hand, and he looks down to where our fingers are tangled. “You missed me, huh?”

Matt’s words echo inside my head. “Run home to your boy toy.”

I frown.

“What is it, Tati?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I mean… Look, this may sound weird, but you didn’t happen to get any threatening messages lately, did you?”

He blinks at me with those bottle-green eyes. “Tati…”

“What?” I’m annoyed, and I’m not even sure why. It is a strange question, coming out of the blue, and now I feel like an idiot for asking.

But then he sighs. “Funny you mention that,” he says, his gaze clouding. “I did get a message. I wrote it off as a prank.”

“Oh my God, you’re not serious.” But his smile has faded. “You are. What did the message say? Where did you find it?”

My heart is hammering. I think I might hyperventilate.

He tugs on my hand, looking concerned. “Come sit down with me. It wasn’t that bad, Tati.”

I resist his tug, then give in and let him pull me to the bench outside my house. I glance at the kitchen window, then the one upstairs, in case Gigi is watching.

Nobody seems to be there.

Relaxing a little, I lean back and extricate my hand from his. Stupid, I know. I’m the one who took his hand in the first place.

I discreetly wipe my fingers on my pants.

He snorts as if I’ve done something funny, then leans back, too, looking up at the sky. “Like I said, it wasn’t anything too bad. I found a piece of paper stuck to my door this morning. It said, “Who were you with last night?””

Oh God, it does sound like the messages Matt received. “How…” I swallow hard, my throat dry. “How was it stuck to your door?”

“With tape. Why?”

“Nothing.”

“Tati… Why did you ask me this? What happened? Did someone threaten you?” He looks earnestly at me, and I soften, unable to recall or make sense of why I was so annoyed before.

“No, it’s not me.” I suck in a deep breath. “Someone has been sticking weird messages to Matt Hansen’s door.”

“Matt Hansen? The guy whose kids you look after?”

“That’s the one.”

“You don’t think it’s me, right?” He gives a sheepish smile. “The other day when you asked me why I’m interested in Matt Hansen...”

A snicker escapes me. “Oh God, no.”

“Good.” His smile widens. “Because I might have been a bit jealous of him spending time with you at first, because you’re around his house so much, but now…” He wags his brows. “Not anymore.”

I laugh outright. “You’re crazy.”

“For you.”

My laughter fades. “So… who were you with last night?”

“What?”

“The message on your door.”

He leans away from me, mouth tightening. “I told you. I was visiting my sister.”

He did say that. I play with the hem of my shirt, trying to pinpoint the source of my unease. “I think I’ll turn in early tonight,” I hear myself say. “I feel like I’m coming down with something.”

I’m surprised to realize I really mean it. About wanting to turn in early, at least.

“No ice cream?” His face falls, and guilt sweeps through me.

But it’s not enough to make me change my mind. “Not tonight.” I get up, a bit unsteadily. “And you’re right about the messages. It’s probably a prank.”

I turn around to go, when he says, “No goodnight kiss?”

My stomach flops in a strange way. Excitement? Not sure what it is, but I shake my head. “Good night, Adam.”

As I trudge home and climb the stairs to my bedroom, I realize what’s bothering me.

He keeps calling me Tati, and it feels… overly familiar. Did I tell him to call me that? Frankly I can’t remember.

But even as my rational mind tells me it’s not a big deal, I still don’t like it.

* * *

Next morning the Hansen household is in a state of emergency—and not because of any new mysterious message.

“She won’t stop crying,” Matt tells me at the door, looking exhausted and disheveled, his black T-shirt clinging distractingly to his muscular chest and shoulders, his dark hair falling in his eyes. “Oh shit.”

Sure enough, a wail reaches my ears, and then Cole sobbing. “He’s crying, too?”

“Sure is.” He hurries up the stairs, then stops at the top, bent over.

“Matt.” He looks awfully pale. I’m torn between touching him, grabbing him because he looks like he’s about to fall over, and stepping away from him.

Good sense prevails, and I keep my hands to myself. I’m not letting my guard down around him ever again.

He shakes his head like a dog and straightens, continuing toward the source of the noise.

“Is she sick?” He has stopped at the door and I frown as I enter the room, heading to Mary’s bed. “Hey, girl, what’s wrong?”

She wails something unintelligible and throws herself into my arms. I make out the words “dream” and “Mommy” and my heart clenches in my chest.

“She’s not sick. I checked.” He frowns. “She didn’t want me holding her.”

“Shh.” I pet the girl’s silky hair, then beckon for Cole to join us, and he climbs off his bed and comes to cuddle. “Everything’s fine. It was just a bad dream.”

Matt is still standing at the door, that familiar pain in his eyes, a hurt like a bleeding wound.

I have to look away, not trusting myself.

With a last long look at us cuddling on Mary’s bed, he turns around and leaves. I hear his steps heading to his bedroom.

I won’t go after him.

Not again.

He’s been cold with me, and I know I pushed him when I said I knew about his wife’s death. I said it too soon. Made it sound perhaps as if I’d been going around behind his back, asking questions.

Which I had, but I thought… I thought it was to help him, since he wouldn’t open up himself, wouldn’t talk to me.

That was stupid of me. I should have waited. In fact, no, I shouldn’t have cared. He’s just my employer, and I came near to begging for this job. I love his kids. They’re growing on me, with their quiet pain and their need for affection. I want to take care of them.

For myself. For them. Not just because he asked me to, not only because he’s paying me to.

For him.

I know. I’m in too deep, running out of air, and I can’t seem to find the surface.

* * *

I leave the kids playing with a Lego set, cross-legged on the carpet, still hiccupping, figuring they need a few moments to come around—during which time I can check if I have the ingredients to make them pancakes.

I want to pamper them, since waking was so traumatic today.

The floorboards creak under my steps as I make my way toward the stairs. I wonder where Matt is, and then I know.

I’d been half hoping he’d be gone by the time I came out of the kids’ bedroom, but I can hear him in the shower.

Cursing silently, I start toward the stairs, but before I take two steps, the water shuts off and the bathroom door opens.

I’m caught like a deer in headlights as Matt emerges in a billowing cloud of steam, clad only in a small towel slung around his narrow hips. He’s toweling his hair with another towel as I take him in, slightly dazed.

Because the man is cut. Ripped. Much more muscular than I thought, despite the glimpses I caught when seeing him in his faded T-shirts over the days and weeks.

And the ink I noticed on his arm continues around his torso.

Barbed wire, wrapping around him in a death hold.

I open my mouth to say something—Wow is the word that springs to mind, as well as Holy Shit—he notices me and does a double take.

He lowers the towel from his head, his dark hair sticking out in all directions, and damn if he isn’t cute on top of being drop dead sexy.

He’s almost thirty, twelve years older than me. He’s a brooding, rude asshole who doesn’t really want me in his house. He’s bearded and tattooed and despite being a dad to the kids playing next door, every inch of him screams bad boy.

So what does it say about me that I don’t care for Adam kissing me, but I’m wondering instead how Matt’s mouth would taste?

As if hearing my thoughts, he licks his lips, his gaze dipping to my cleavage, and his eyes darken, pupils dilating.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he wants me. That powerful chest is rising and falling fast, and then I see the unmistakable bulge at the front of the towel, and swallow hard.

Jesus. He’s hard, and an answering throb starts between my legs. My blood beats hot under my skin. My face flames.

I can’t move from the spot. Couldn’t if my life depended on it. I can’t stop looking at him, at the way his biceps flex as he clenches the towel in a powerful fist, at his flat stomach, his chiseled pecs, his ink, his mouth, his burning eyes—and then my gaze backslides again, returning to the tent on the front of the towel.

Good God, just how big is his cock—and why do I feel so hot as if I’m about to self-combust?

“Tay…” His voice is hoarse, and I swallow a moan at the sound of it, his voice so strained by arousal, wrapped around his pet name for me.

I like it. Tati makes me feel like a little kid. Tay makes me feel like the woman a man like Matt would notice.

Letting the towel in his hand drop, he takes two steps, pinning me to the bannister of the stairs. He touches my face, looking down at me, and his hardness presses against my stomach, hard like steel.

He smells of soap and arousal, a dark, spicy scent that I draw deep into my lungs.

What is happening? My body is on fire. My skin aches, begging for his touch. His callused, big hand on my face isn’t enough. Not nearly. I need it elsewhere.

Everywhere.

I lift a hand to touch a droplet that’s sliding down his chest, lingering over the ink, over the smoothness of his warm skin, the solid feel of the muscle underneath.

He draws a shaky breath, his cock swelling more, pressing into me though the layers of fabric, making me gasp.

“Fuck,” he whispers, “fuck, girl.”

He grinds into me, his hand sliding around the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair, strands catching on his calluses, tugging. The slight sting makes me gasp again, makes my nipples harden, strain against the lace of my bra.

Heat unfurls between my legs, deep inside me. Oh God, I think I just soaked my panties.

Is he going to kiss me? His mouth is beautiful, full lips parted as he pants raggedly.

He doesn’t. His head jerks up in alert, though I can hear nothing over the sound of my harsh breathing.

Then he steps back, releasing me. “You should run back to your little boyfriend,” he says snidely and strides away. He enters his bedroom and slams the door behind him, leaving me shaken, aching and confused.

What in the world just happened?