What the fuck am I doing?

What in the fucking hell am I doing?

And it gets worse, because as I stalk out of Jasper’s office and into the car bay, certain I’ve lost my job due to my unbelievable stupidity, she follows me.

“Thanks,” she says quietly. “I know you didn’t mean what you said. About me working for you. But I’m grateful—”

“Be at my house at eight AM,” I say and march off to finish fixing the Toyota I’d been in the middle of repairing when I saw them enter the office.

If Jasper doesn’t kick me out today.

Goddammit, yeah, of course this is much worse. Something’s wrong with me. Why did I tell her to come to my house? Why did I come out to tell Ross to shut up in the first place? Why did I follow them into Jasper’s office?

Why do I keep noticing her, why am I so aware, so protective of her? She’s none of my business. She can’t ever be.

But her wide eyes keep flashing in front of me, full of questions. Shocked. Afraid.

So damn pretty they won’t let me focus on the task at hand. My hand slips in engine oil, and I slam my head into the underbelly of the car because I try to sit up while still wedged underneath it all when my cell dings with a message.

So fucking distracted.

It’s just a line from Dolly the neighbor looking after my kids, reminding me that I need to pick them up earlier today. Something about a bachelorette party. Or a birthday? As if I give a fuck.

This is why I came here, to this town. To escape humanity. To avoid people and the impact of their miserable little lives on mine. I should have gone for a cabin in the woods, but that wouldn’t work with the kids.

My kids mean the fucking world to me. Although the world has lost its shine, they’re part of me.

And part of her, of Emma, so even as the reminder hurts, I’d never give up on them. I only hope they won’t give up on me.

* * *

Over the next hours, I have plenty of time to consider my idiocy—for instance as I ask Evan if I can take off earlier to pick up my kids, and he glances nervously at the office.

Evan runs the shop in all but name, especially when Jasper isn’t around, and he isn’t around much, unlike his dick of a son.

I hate to put Evan in a spot. He’s is the closest to a friend I’ve made in this godforsaken town. He doesn’t annoy me, mostly because he’s so quiet. And he doesn’t seem annoyed by my usual silence and dark moods.

Yet he hesitates. “Old man ain’t too happy about you right now, buddy. What he wants is to make your life harder, not easier, at least for a while, until his anger cools. He’ll have my balls if I even hint at giving you preferential treatment.”

I shove my hands in my pockets. “Look, man, I get it. But I need to go.”

He sighs. Glances again at the office. “Your kids. That’s important, I know. Can’t you tell your nanny to, I dunno, keep them busy half an hour longer?”

I scowl at the stains on the floor and say nothing.

“Look,” he tries again, “I heard what happened in there. Hell, I saw how Ross grabbed her arm, how he has always treated her. You did the right thing. But the boss is pissed today, okay?”

I shake my head. “I’m going.”

Another sigh, more heartfelt this time. “You need this job, don’t you? It’s good pay. Christ, Matt.” He paces in front of me, two paces in one direction, two in the other. He stops. “I’m gonna regret saying this, but yeah, okay. Go.” He waves a hand at me, shooing me away. “I’ll cover for you.”

Shocked, I just stare at him. Can’t remember these sorts of small kindnesses, although I’m sure I’ve experienced them in my life. I’ve been sitting in the dark for so long, the memories have sunk deep, like stones, all the way to the bottom of my mind, and are gone.

“Go before I change my mind,” he says darkly, and this time I don’t have to be told twice.

With a nod of thanks, I turn about and go.

* * *

Cole is having a hissy fit, writhing on the floor and screaming his lungs out—and I don’t even get what the hell is the matter with him.

“It’s just the terrible twos,” Dolly says consolingly, and I step back before she pats my arm, because fuck no. “You know how it is.”

Not really. “He’s three. When will it stop?”

She shakes her head.

Right.

“Why is he crying now?” He keeps wailing and thrashing on the floor. An attempt to pick him up earns me a kick in the stomach, but I hold on to him, determined not to let go.

“He hasn’t had his nap.”

“Why not?”

“He was crying. Wanted his mommy.”

Hell. I suck in a breath and it sticks in my throat. “Where’s Mary?”

I want to grab both my kids and get the fuck out of here right now, before my brain starts properly processing what Dolly said about why Cole was crying.

The same reason why Mary has bad dreams, and why I can’t sleep at night.

We find my daughter in the next room, a messy kitchen. She’s under the table, sucking on her thumb, rocking back and forth, tear tracks on her cheeks.

“What the hell happened?” I grind out, a hammer pounding inside my temples, as I try to ignore the stab of fear in my chest.

“She gets like that sometimes,” Dolly says dismissively. “Sensitive little girl. Maybe one of the other kids said something to her? I don’t know. I can’t keep an eye on them every single moment, Mr. Hansen, it’s—”

Cursing under my breath, I go to my knees, Cole firmly held to my side, and tug on her arm. “Mary. Come here.”

She sniffles, looks away, pulls her thumb from her mouth and lets her hand drop to her lap. She looks tiny under the Formica table, her blond hair tangled, her sky-blue dress, the one she selected so carefully this morning to replace the clothes I’d chosen for her, rumpled and stained.

My chest is so tight I can’t fucking breathe.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go home.”

“To Grandma?” she asks in a tiny voice, fucking killing me.

“No.”

“I want my grandma,” she wails softly, and for the millionth time this month I ask myself what I thought I was doing, bringing them along with me in this dark spiral I’m in, in this desperate escape from something I can’t name.

“We’ll call her,” I promise with sudden inspiration, shocked to realize I’m gonna do it, even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t call home for a while longer.

Not until I found a way out of hell.

“She doesn’t get along with the other children very well,” Dolly goes on behind me. Maybe she was talking all along. I didn’t notice. “She’s a bit difficult.”

“My daughter isn’t difficult,” I say through clenched teeth as I finally manage to tug Mary out from under the table and haul her to my right side, my arm tight around her.

“Hm,” is all Dolly offers, clearly disagreeing.

I kiss the top of my daughter’s head, her soft hair with their scent of shampoo and talcum, fierce protectiveness rising through me like a burning flame.

There’s so much more I could have said. We’ve been through some tough times. We’re still not ashore, still drifting, trying to make it out of the wreck.

Mary isn’t difficult. She’s wounded, and I have no idea how to heal her. I hope she’ll forget the pain one day, find trust in the world again. In the people around her.

But how could she, when she barely had me these past few years, then her grandfather passed away, and I took her away from her grandmother?

All my fault. All my goddamn fault.

I hold both my kids to me, feeling their slight bodies pressed to my sides, and breathe in deeply, not sure if it’s them I’m trying to comfort, them I’m trying to save, or myself.

Which is a fucking useless thought.

Nothing can save me. That much I’ve known all along.

I just don’t know why I haven’t given up yet, and that’s the only truth I’ve allowed myself to consider all this damn time.

* * *

When the doorbell rings the next morning, I drag myself out of the armchair where I spent the night, feeling like something scraped off the bottom of a barrel. I frown as I try to remember who it might be.

And when I open the door and see who it is, the image of her hits me like a hammer to the solar plexus, cutting off my breath.

Big blue eyes, glossy dark hair pulled back, the delicate arch of her neck over her light coat and her elegant legs over prim black pumps…

Fucking déjà vu.

“Good morning,” she says, giving me a faint, hesitant smile.

I told her to come over, didn’t I? The memory surfaces slowly in my sluggish brain. In my defense, I did try my damnedest to sleep last night, but it didn’t work out, and the pills make me feel as if I dug out graves all night instead of resting.

Maybe I had been digging graves in my dreams, come to think of it. The image flashes in front of my eyes, superimposed over the girl’s slight form.

Not the girl.

Octavia.

Belatedly I realize I’ve been standing there and staring at her—or into the void—for quite some time, and that she’s shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, probably wondering if I’m not all right in the head.

She has a right to wonder.

I step aside and gesture for her to come inside, then rake my hand through my overlong hair and close the door behind us.

It’s dim inside the living room, the shutters still closed. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember if I ever opened them since we arrived here. The kids mostly play upstairs, or at the neighbor’s house. I only sit here during my sleepless nights, with the TV on and my mind blank.

Or worse, with my mind wrapped around the same old memories, stuck in the past, unable to let go.

She’s looking around, and I do the same, seeing for the first time the line of whiskey bottles beside the sofa, the dirty glasses and dishes on the low table, the thick layer of dust over every surface.

I frown.

She doesn’t seem fazed, though—and I don’t even know why I should care how she feels about the state of the house. She shrugs off her coat, and she’s dressed in a deep blue dress like a sixties pin-up, the bust molding over her tits, cinching tight at her small waist.

My mouth goes dry.

My mind twists, caught between past and present.

Unware of the havoc she wreaks with my body and thoughts, she shoves the TV control and an empty bag of chips to the side and sits down on the armchair, legs pressed together, small pale hands resting on her thighs, her purse placed neatly beside her.

I’m seeing everything. Every detail of her, even in the dimness, from that wide gaze to the curve of her tits, the contained nervousness of her pose and the determination in her expression.

She’s watching me. Not speaking, not asking me anything. Not saying anything about herself. What did she say the first time I opened my door to find her standing there, days ago?

“I love kids. I’m good with them.”

She also said she raised her brother and sister.

Would you look at this? My memory is full of holes the size of the fucking state, but I remember her words.

Just like I remember everything I’ve been trying so hard to forget.

“Want some coffee?” I ask because it’s the first thing that pops into my mind, and I’m relieved when she nods.

I escape into the kitchen and start a fresh pot. I’ll need it, too, if I’m to function today.

“I love this kitchen,” her voice behind me makes me jump.

Closing my eyes briefly, taking a calming breath, I turn around and try to see what she’s seeing.

A large window framing the tree in the back garden. An ash tree? I barely noticed it before. But I do notice her when she runs her hand over the dusty counter and unlatches the window, opening it and leaning out, golden sunlight catching red threads in her dark hair and making her face glow.

“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.