Wow. He doesn’t look like a caveman anymore. Not really.

And I’m in big trouble. Okay, bigger than before.

Because he looks devastatingly handsome with his beard trimmed short, his hair falling in those dark eyes. Even propped up on the pillows in his bed, the sheets up to his waist, his face still kinda pale from sickness, he looks sharp and dangerous and sexy.

He looks like a rock star. He looks… delicious. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.

So I run to the bathroom to clean the scissors and put them away so I won’t stare at him like a blushing twelve-year-old with a massive crush.

Crap. I put the scissors away and turn on the water, run my hands under the tap. Splash my face. My cheeks are hot.

Just because we slept together doesn’t mean he wants anything else to do with me. I mean, sure, he has opened up some, tries to be nicer. I can see him making the effort. But he’s a grown man, a dad, a guy who lost his wife not long ago.

And I’m just the nanny of his kids. I have to remember that. I’m not his friend, even less his girlfriend. I have no rights over his kids, his house, or his heart.

It’s just that sleeping beside him, in his arms… it was the best feeling ever in the world, and I’m falling so hard for him my head is spinning. Who knew I liked rude and rugged older men?

Though it’s not only that, I think to myself as I dry my face. It’s the change in him. The revelation that he’s not like that inside, so rude and brash. That he wasn’t always like that, and maybe… maybe he can find his way back.

And you want to be the one to do it, right? Hold his hand, guide his way? Save him?

God, I’m stupid. This is the oldest mistake in the book. How many women have fallen for bad, tortured boys hoping to change them, to save them, and ended up destroyed by them?

That’s right. Plenty. You can’t let this happen to you. Pay the debts and then college, remember? A future. That’s what you want. Put distance between you and Matt Hansen.

If you don’t, he will, and then he’ll smash your heart to pieces.

* * *

“Is Daddy gonna die like Mommy did?” Mary asks as we pass outside Matt’s bedroom on the way to theirs after lunch, and I freeze, not expecting the question.

I probably should have, knowing what I know now about this family.

“No, sweetie.” I swallow hard. “He won’t.”

“He will,” Cole says from my other side, nodding.

“They said the same about Mommy,” Mary says in a serious, too old for her age voice, “and then she died.”

I stop, go down on my knees and hug them both to me, because oh God, they’re ripping my heart to shreds. “Your daddy isn’t going to die. He isn’t going anywhere, either. Trust me, he’s already getting better, and he’ll be back on his feet by tonight. He just needs to rest.”

“I want to see him,” Mary says, and again Cole nods like a bobblehead.

“He’s asleep, resting. Maybe later—”

“Tay, bring them in,” Matt’s deep voice calls from inside the room, and we all still. “Come on in!”

Mary and Cole grin, and I laugh at their happy little faces. “Go on! Daddy wants to see you.”

They don’t lose time, slipping out of my arms, pushing the door open all the way and running into his room.

I follow just in time to see him open his arms to them. They climb on the bed like monkeys and sprawl all over him.

I cover my mouth, not laughing anymore, all choked up.

How am I going to keep my distance when everything these guys do touches me so deeply? It’s unfair. It’s like I have no defences against them.

Them, with their cuteness and sadness.

And him with his pain and roughness and raw sexiness.

Oh God, what am I going to do?

“What, what?” Matt is asking Cole, his raspy, deep voice drawing my attention even as I fight the pull. “What were you doing? Poop what?”

“The poop train,” Cole is saying.

Matt turns toward me, his dark gaze finding me and pinning me. “What are you doing with my son?”

“We’re potty training,” I say defiantly. “He’s old enough, and I asked Gigi to bring over our old potty.”

“Potty,” Cole says, grinning from ear to ear, proud of himself.

Mary laughs delightedly.

“You know how to train him for that?” Matt asks faintly.

“I trained Merc.” I snicker when I remember that. I was a kid myself, but loved playing at being my siblings’ mom. “He would drive me crazy.”

“Who’s Merc?” Mary asks.

“Merc is my little brother.”

“Like Cole?”

“Yes, like Cole is to you. Merc used to pee all over the bathroom. He didn’t like to aim with his weenie.” I stick my tongue out at Cole and he giggles. “And he also liked to tell me how big his poop was every time when he was done.”

“Boys have weenies,” Mary says seriously.

That kid cracks me up, especially nowadays when she doesn’t seem so angry and frustrated with herself all the time. She seems calmer. More like a five-year-old girl.

“That’s right,” I tell her, mirroring her expression. “Boys have weenies.”

“So you’re a potty trainer, too.” When I look up, I find Matt’s eyes on me again, and they’re amused and warm and interested. “And Merc is your brother. Merc as in… mercenary?

“No.” I shake my head. “That’d be Mercury.”

“Your name is Octavia, your sister’s name is Gigi…”

“Augusta, actually. Octavia, Augusta and Mercury.” I sigh. “Don’t ask. Mom was going through a Roman phase. Maybe it was that Gladiator movie.”

And he smiles. He really smiles, big and wide and boyish. It transforms his face, softens it. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile like that, and oh God…

If he was handsome before, he’s breathtaking now, and that’s… bad for my resolutions.

Really, really bad.

“The kids could stay here for a bit,” Matt says. “Here with me. Color their books or whatever it is they like doing.”

He has his arms around them, and I have to look away because his bare, muscular, inked arms around his kids are just killing me.

My ovaries. God. Have mercy.

“I’ll go grab the coloring things,” I mumble and make my escape, all but running out of his bedroom and into the kids’.

Once there, I stop to catch my breath.

God.

Grabbing the coloring supplies, I return to Matt’s bedroom and lay the books and pencils on top of the covers. He thanks me and opens the books, asking his kids to tell him what they are doing, and which pictures they like.

They look so frigging happy that he’s paying them attention, playing with them. I want to hug all three of them, and Matt glances at me and beckons with the hand that’s resting on Mary’s shoulders for me to go sit with them.

I grin at him, but before I move, Cole shoves his coloring book at his dad.

“Someone writed in my book,” he says in a small, hurt voice.

“Wrote,” I correct automatically, and then as what he said sinks in, “What do you mean?”

“Show me,” Matt says.

And we all bend over the book, grinning, and then freeze.

Stare at the words scrawled there in big black letters.

‘Don’t you love kids?’

* * *

We’re sitting in the living room downstairs, the kids playing on the carpet at our feet. A very pale Matt is hunched up beside me, a hand in his hair, red spots on his cheekbones.

“Who the hell wrote that in his book? Did anyone get inside the house? Any worker, or salesperson?”

“No, of course not.” I do my best not to feel offended at this. He’s stressed, and sick. “Could it be from when that lady down the street looked after them?”

“Maybe.” But he doesn’t look convinced.

I’m not either. I mean, I’ve been there every day when Cole was coloring. Never saw those words before. “You can’t think that psycho sneaked inside the house? Wouldn’t the security cameras catch that?”

“There are some issues with the cameras,” he says, and a chill runs through me. When he puts his arm around me, I tell myself not to read anything into the gentle touch. “We’ve been locking all doors and windows. I’ll check them all again.”

But the chill remains as we watch the kids play, innocent and unaware of all the fears plaguing us.

“You don’t think he’ll hurt the kids?” I whisper. “Those words…”

He pulls me closer. “He’s trying to scare us, that’s all. Fucking Ross. Just don’t let my kids out of your sight until we find proof.”

I nod against his shoulder.

I’ll get that proof. I’m going to confront Ross, my bully, and make him confess. If his problem is with me, then this is the only way.