I ignore her.

Most of the time I manage pretty damn fine, keeping my gaze anywhere but on Octavia, keeping myself busy before I leave for work, or when I return in the afternoon.

That’s easy. Lots to do between the kids and the house. There are still boxes to unpack, furniture to fix, walls to paint. It’s an old house and lots of repairs needed.

Not that I had any interest in making them when we arrived. I had no interest in anything, and nothing has changed, but it takes my damn mind off her, turns my focus elsewhere.

But this morning is rough.

The kitchen is a fucking mess, milk and soggy cereal dripping from the table, the shards of a bowl all over the floor. I have Cole squirming in my hold, and I swear, the kid has eight legs and arms, while Mary is pulling on my hand like she wants to tear it right off, and then the doorbell rings.

The bright, brittle sound shoots through my skull like a bullet, and I groan.

Cole pats my face with a sticky hand, and Mary tries again to escape. This time her small fingers slip from mine, and she runs to the door.

Dammit.

“Tati!” Mary shouts as she expertly unlocks and opens the door.

When the fuck did she learn to do that? I thought she was safe at home, and now I find out she can open the door to any fucking stranger.

And then there she is, that persistent, fearless woman-child, standing right outside the door, all big blue eyes and prim dress barely showing under her long, light coat that’s buttoned up to her chin, dark hair chastely pulled back.

Looking at me.

Normally I control my reactions, my temper, my lust.

My reflex attraction to her.

But not after the night I just had. A bad night. Bad nights, stretching back into time. Three years without real sleep.

My control is slipping.

And I can’t let it show. “You’re early,” I snap.

“By ten minutes,” Octavia counters easily.

“And you’re wearing a fucking dress.”

“Language,” she replies, slender jaw tight.

Goddammmit.

I put Cole down and push hair out of my eyes. “Mary, take your brother and go to the kitchen.”

“We want breakfast!” she whines, and the headache throbbing behind my eyes spikes.

“In a minute. Now off you go.”

“Want me to make them breakfast?” Octavia asks.

“No.”

“I could just—”

I smash my fist into the door, breathing hard, and I feel nothing.

Nothing at all.

She has jerked back, away from me, her face white. “What,” she says, her voice not quite steady, “is the matter with you?”

That’s a damn good question.

Pain finally seeps through the numbness, traveling from my busted knuckles up my arm, settling in my shoulders and neck.

Ow. Shit.

With it, some of the haze clears, and the cold fear in her gaze cuts through the rest like a knife.

Hell. Turning my back to her, I stalk over to the sofa and sink down, putting my head in my hands. It’s so fucking heavy. And I can’t think.

My mind’s fucked up.

I hear her light steps, the click of her heels. The door clicks shut. She approaches me and I lift my head, not sure what to say. I should say I’m sorry, but the words stick in my throat.

My breath stops.

She’s unbuttoning her light coat, and she’s not wearing a dress underneath like I thought. Her red blouse fits like a glove, dark like blood, hugging her curves, kissing her collarbone. Her jeans are old and faded, ripped at one knee, and I find myself straining for a single fucking glimpse of her bare flesh.

“Sit down,” I rasp.

She doesn’t. Of course not. “I’ll see to the kids,” she says, her voice so soft I barely hear her. I watch her lips move. “I’ll be right back.”

The kids have fled the living room—and me—as fast as their little feet could carry them, vanishing into the kitchen, and she follows them.

They don’t really like me.

Like that’s news. How many times do I have to experience it for the knowledge to sink in?

And I suck at taking care of them.

But I can’t employ this nanny. Fuck, what am I doing, letting her into my house, letting her think she can work for me?

Telling others she’s mine?

I flex my hands—one bruised and aching, the other stiff and half-numb ever since that night when the dark became too much.

One more thing I’d rather not remember.

She returns, takes a seat across from me. So close.

What the hell, isn’t she afraid anymore? She doesn’t recall my fist smashing into the fucking door, right in front of her, or my damn angry words?

If her memory is so short-term, she won’t survive long in this world.

She licks her lips, clasps her hands nervously together. “Matt…”

But she doesn’t continue.

She’s leaving. I know she is.

And that’s good, that’s what she should do, so why the fuck am I hunching over, my stomach in knots? My head is pounding. I should be getting ready to go to work, but I don’t move.

Can’t.

“Bad night?” she finally asks, and I blink, certain I didn’t hear her well.

I drop my gaze down to my hands, curled on my thighs. I shrug.

And she leans closer. She’s in my space. Nobody stands or sits so close to me except for my kids. “I wanted to ask you about the kids’ mother.”

Fuck. I climb to my feet. “We’re done here.”

“I need to know.” Said so earnestly. Naively. “Mary needs—”

“What the fuck ever.” Hot anger rockets through my chest, burning up my neck. “She doesn’t concern you.”

“Doesn’t she?” She gives me an incredulous look that only makes me angrier. When I don’t speak, a flush spreads on her cheeks. “I’m going to be looking after these kids. It may be hard for you to talk about her, but the kids seem to miss her and—”

“It’s none of your fucking business.”

She flinches. Hard.

Fuck. Fuck!

I glance at the kitchen door where Cole is standing, staring back at me with wide eyes. He scurries away.

“Look…” she begins.

“You don’t need to fucking know,” I hiss at her. “Just look after them. That’s what I’ll be paying you for. Feed them. Keep them busy. Don’t let them fall and break their neck. Keep them safe.” My chest hurts. My throat burns. It feels like more words than I’ve strung up together in years. “Fuck.”

Her lower lip trembles, and my heart is jackhammering in my chest.

It’s too early. It’s fucking bad. I’m raw and open wide, so I’m throwing up defenses like crazy, spikes and walls. Hurting her.

So I walk away from her before I hurt her more.

It would be so damn easy.

* * *

Snatches from my nightmares visit me all day long as I work on an old Honda Civic, and while I eat a burger I grabbed from a hole in the wall across the street, manned by an old guy who’s half-blind.

I keep rubbing the inside of my left wrist, an unconscious gesture I don’t notice until Evan asks me about it.

After that, I throw myself into the work with all I have, trying to forget.

Jasper watches me from across the car bay, standing outside his small office, his face unreadable. I didn’t win any favors when I got in the way of his little bullying session with Octavia the other day, I’m well aware of that.

Nothing I would’ve done differently, though, and he still hasn’t said anything to me about it. Doesn’t mean he won’t find a way to turn it against me in the future. That’s how the world turns. Everything you throw at it comes back and bites you in the ass, sooner or later.

Sometimes you don’t even know what the hell you did in a past life to deserve the suckerpunch in the gut life delivers you.

But you feel it. Oh yeah, you sure as hell feel it when it lands.

“So… Octavia works for you?” Evan asks me later, as I wipe my hands on a rug, getting ready to head back to my kids.

I glance at him. He’s a good guy, but right now he’s plain nosy. “Yeah,” I say shortly.

“Is she taking care of your kids? She talked about wanting to work as a nanny when she finished school. She’s a natural, man. She all but raised her brother and sister. Good choice, is all I’m saying.”

“You know her.” Not a question. It’s obvious—and why do I care?

“It’s a small town,” he says, nodding. “I know her family. Good people. Her sister is very pretty, a little minx, and...” He throws me a sheepish glance. “Sorry. Gigi is a character. And her brother, Merc, good kid. Their mom is a nice, hard-working lady, and takes good care of them.”

What do I care about her family? All those ridiculous names. And what do I care that there doesn’t seem to be a father included in the list Evan seems to think I need?

I pull on my hoodie and push the hair off my face. I’m covered in sweat and car oil, and the evening is falling, warm and soft, the sky deepening into a perfect blue.

Emma’s favorite color.

My heart is hammering. Yeah, it was her favorite, and I can picture her perfectly sitting on the porch of our house, in that shimmery blue dress she wore when I proposed to her. So young. So fiery.

So beautiful.

“Hey.” Evan punches me lightly in the arm. His brows are drawn together. “You okay, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Maybe I have.