SIX
“So, what’ve we got?”
Bren held open the door for Violet, not that the woman needed an open door. She was already barging in.
“The first one is due in five minutes.” He looked at his watch. “She has Montessori training and was a nanny to a French diplomat’s kids.”
“Score one! If she can handle little mon-soors and madams, she’s already ahead of the game.” She caught him looking her up and down. “What? Am I not dressed appropriately to interview kid wranglers?”
He shook his head, annoyed with himself for being so transparent, especially as he’d done a pretty good job of keeping everything in check around Violet these past months. She wasn’t dressed appropriately to be within a hundred feet of him. She wore a fifties-style red skirt that puffed out, hitting just above her knees, and he knew as soon as she sat down it would ride up to reveal those lickable rose tattoos. Her low-cut shirt showcased cleavage he wanted to bury his face and stay ensconced in for the foreseeable future. Why had he thought this was a good idea again?
The doorbell rang before he was forced to comment on her outfit, not that he should. Women should be able to wear whatever the hell they liked, but everything Violet did or said or wore provoked him. It was unreasonable, he knew, but he couldn’t help how he felt.
“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered.
Two hours later, Bren was at his wit’s end, but the one bright light in all this was Violet, who had come prepared. Bren hadn’t even thought to have a list of questions, preferring to go by instinct and see how the conversation went. Before the first interview, Violet had pulled out a clipboard, held up her phone, and asked sweetly if the interviewee objected to being recorded. She then pretty much took over the whole process.
Her “process” had weeded out the first three candidates as unemployable. One because she said a light rap with a wooden spoon across the knuckles did wonders for naughty children. (Asking a nanny’s philosophy on disciplining his kids had never occurred to him. Violet was all over it.) Another was dismissed as unsuitable because she said the children would need to be quiet while her stories were on (Days of Our Lives fan). Number three answered all the questions put to her appropriately, but she smelled strongly of onions, and while Bren liked onions, he wasn’t a fan of it as perfume.
Now they were left with the final interview of the day. Bren choked back a laugh when she walked in, because this woman was straight out of central casting for Scandinavian child-care providers. He gave his cointerviewer a look: gonna protect me from this Swedish chick looking to score a green card and my millions? Violet twitched her lips, clearly remembering that exchange.
Now they were sharing inside jokes. Christ.
Look up hot nanny in the dictionary and you’d see a picture of Elin Gustafsson in all her blond, blue-eyed natural beauty. She wore a white blouse with little flowers on it and slim black pants that cut off before her ankles. Her English was perfect, her teeth were straight. Violet asked if she could drive and she produced her license, along with CPR certification.
Violet wasn’t trying to trip her up, exactly, but as the interview went on and no immediate red flags were raised, the questioning intensified.
Are you comfortable reviewing and assisting with homework?
Are you willing to live in or do multiday overnight stays with the children to accommodate their father’s playing schedule?
Have you ever had to handle an emergency?
Would you care for a sick child? Do you know how to administer an EpiPen?
Elin answered everything clearly and with no hesitation. She loved children. She loved unharnessing their capacity for greatness. She loved how children had so much to teach us about the wonders of the world. Bren half expected the ghost of Whitney Houston to enter any minute warbling about children being the future. Of course they were, but he didn’t need to hear it in such touchy-feely terms. Maybe he was looking for faults where none existed, because Elin was perfect.
Then came the true test. Gretzky trotted in, sat at her feet, and proceeded to let one rip.
“You have a dog,” Elin said rather obviously.
At last, her Achilles’ heel. She hates dogs.
Violet was on it. “Are you okay with dogs? The kids love him even though he’s a freakin’ fart machine.”
“I adore dogs,” she said in full-on Stepford mode, gazing on Gretzky as if he had just expelled the scent of fresh-baked cookies. She bent down to pet him, and Bren watched for the dumb mutt’s reaction.
He loved it, but then he loved anyone who paid him the slightest bit of attention.
“Bye-ee!” Violet shut the door on Elin and turned to Bren. So weird, it was like they were a couple seeing off a visitor.
“She’s—”
“She seems—”
At talking over each other, they smiled. And whoa, when the Scot curved his lips, it was something else. Worlds exploded and re-formed with that smile.
“Good,” Violet said, eager to have her opinion out there so it didn’t look like she was parroting his. “She seems really competent.”
“You think so?” Smile gone, he screwed up his mouth, rubbed his chin. The sound of palm against beard was subtle and delicious.
“Oh, yeah, didn’t you? And she can start quickly. That’s huge. Plus the girls liked her.” Bren had asked his daughters to meet her when it looked like she’d passed the not-crazy test. Elin had been a sweetheart to them; the girls hadn’t run from the room screaming.
Walking toward the kitchen, Violet heard his steady tread close behind her. “You don’t think she’s a bit too—”
“What?”
“Swedish?”
She grabbed her messenger bag off the chair where she’d slung it three hours ago. Frankly, the interviews had worn her out.
More likely, it was having to sit on the same sofa with Bren, her body itching to slide closer and pick up where they’d left off last night in the soup aisle. He’d come really close to kissing her with beef broth as their romantic backdrop—she was sure of it. She was also sure she would have let him, which was all wrong, because she was supposed to be annoyed with him.
She should have said no to helping him out, but he’d looked so miserable and she’d wanted to help. To feel useful. Prove to everyone there was more to her than the good-time girl who had nothing to contribute to the almighty Rebels.
“What’s wrong with the Swedish? Not only are they a very enlightened people and a nation of hockey fanatics, you just know she can put an Ikea bookcase together. They probably have contests for that in Helsinki.”
“Stockholm.”
“Fine, Stockholm. As long as you’re okay with meatballs for dinner and Abba morning, noon, and night, then you’re all set.”
“I suppose I could call her references.” He said it like this was a hellish task instead of the answer to his prayers.
“What’s your problem? You’ve found Ms. Perfect, a chick who won’t party or let you down or be a bad influence. I thought this is what you wanted.”
His eyebrows slammed together. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“What?”
“Partying? Bad influence? Where’s that coming from?”
Really? She didn’t have time for this. “Look, I did you a favor and asked all the hard questions while you figured out if she was a C or a D cup. Barely a B, in case you need a second opinion. She passed all the tests, right?” Her voice had gone a bit pitchy there, as Simon Cowell would say to some woebegone would-be diva on America’s Got Talent.
She slung her bag across her body. “You deflected Creepy Soup Guy and I helped you back. We’re even. You don’t have to talk to me again or worry I might lead your kids astray.”
He was still rocking the Bren scowl of doom. After a long beat, he uttered: “Harper.”
“Yeah, Harper.” She wished her sister had never said a word. Better to live in ignorant bliss about what Mr. Kilt ’n’ Built really thought of her.
Time to book it out of here. She was already moving toward the door when she felt a pressure around her wrist. She looked down to find a big Scottish hand halting her progress, and she kept looking because that was generally the universal sign for lay off, buddy!
He didn’t take the hint. In fact, he was now looking in surprise at his hand as if he wasn’t quite sure how it had gotten there. As if forces beyond his control had made him do it. It was the first time he had touched her. It was also magnificent.
She pulled away. Not a jerk, just a slide, because she wanted to hold on to his touch for a few more pathetic seconds.
He stabbed fingers through his dark hair. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
No, you shouldn’t, but I will count the seconds until you do it again.
She shook off that ridiculous thought. This guy had totally dissed her to Harper, then almost kissed her after scaring away what could have been the love of her life in the soup aisle. What a dick.
Silent seething was not her MO. It was time for a reckoning.
“Why did you say that? Why did you tell Harper you didn’t want me near your kids?” God, was that her voice? She sounded so . . . hurt.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Fine.” She pivoted and took a few steps, tempting him to touch her again. Reel her into the embrace of his big, hard body—so she could stomp on his oversized feet!
“Wait,” he gritted out. “Let me explain.”
She faced him, her bag on a cocked hip, giving him her best I haven’t got all day vibe.
“When Harper talked about how she’d get all the wives and girlfriends on board to help, she started listing them off. I was grateful, and then your name came up and I felt something . . . else.”
He paused, so she filled the gap. “Disgust?”
“No. God, no.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair again. “You know my history. Everyone knows it. Today I’m eleven months sober.”
“Congratulations.”
“I think if you were in this house, I might not make it to twelve.”
Oh. Ohhh.
“Me being near your kids—or near you—would drive you to drink?”
She stepped in close, needing to test this hypothesis for herself. Could he be serious? Admittedly, she had it going on, but surely he had enough willpower to withstand the sensual onslaught of one Violet Vasquez.
“You’re kind of”—he waved over her—“provocative.” She watched the bulge of his Adam’s apple, how his blue eyes darkened to inky midnight. “I’m not supposed to date anyone during my first year of sobriety.”
“You want to date me?”
“No. I don’t want to date anyone. I’m using that word as a euphemism for everything, and I mean everything, I want to do to you.”
She wasn’t sure she had the imagination to conjure the everything Bren meant. She wasn’t sure she needed it. His honesty toppled her.
“I—I don’t get it. You’ve done nothing but glare at me since we met like I’m something on the bottom of your shoe.”
“And you’ve spent that entire time getting under my skin.”
They were so close now, almost skin-to-skin. “You’re fun to provoke.”
“Right. Fun.” A breath left him, warming her lips, stoking her desire. “I can’t be involved with anyone right now, not when I need all my strength for my kids and the play-offs. I’m barely holding on, Violet. I want to do everything to you. I want everything from you. I would consume you with need. Desire. Darkness. It’d be dirty and desperate and not very pretty. And I suspect you’re the kind of woman who needs more than I have to give. A hundred percent of my focus.” A hundred percent of his focus dipped to her breasts, then back up to her lips.
“I never intended to set back your recovery.”
“I know that. I know it’s not malicious. You’re this vibrant force, a woman who lights up every room she enters. You can’t be expected to dim your sun.”
What a lovely thing to say. “I tease, Bren, but I never imagined that you thought of me that way. Not seriously.” That she might possess such power shocked her. Thrilled her, too. Those things he’d said. All that need he’d expressed. It had been so long since any man saw her that way, as having the potential to ruin him.
Ruin them both.
“I do, Violet. I think of you all the fucking time.” He was breathing hard now, hot puffs of want drawing her close. Pulling her under. “And it’s—fuck, it’s killing me.”
Don’t die, she thought, just as his mouth descended on hers, taking advantage of her gasp to curl his tongue inside. Her shock extended past a few seconds, her brain still caught on his protest mere seconds ago.
But shock gave way to surrender.
Surrender gave way to ferocity.
His mouth on hers was everything she’d never known she needed.
He pushed her back against the fridge. Something fell—magnets, perhaps?—and then his body was a wall of heat and sinew stealing every slice of common sense. She felt his erection, hard and flagrant, against her belly. He lifted her, his hands under her ass while she responded in the only way she could: she wrapped her legs around his hips like a hussy.
If this was only a fraction of his focus, she was a goner.
He ground against her, all hard deliciousness, and her overriding thought was: it’s been so long, and this is going to be embarrassingly quick. His beard didn’t just tickle, it abraded. The roughness was divine, alternating with his firm lips and wicked tongue fucking her mouth.
His hand slipped farther under her skirt, over her ass, down her cleft, a teasing brush that found her wet and ready.
“Jesus, Violet,” he muttered against her mouth. “You’re soaked. You fucking need this, too?”
Her legs were wrapped around his hips in a tree hug while he dry-humped her against a fridge. These were not the actions of a woman who didn’t need.
He stopped kissing her and stared into her eyes, panting hotly against her lips. It was as if he was looking for some assurance. Permission. Invitation.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His fingers delved deeper, employing luscious strokes of her folds. The kissing had ended and what was left behind was sheer, terrifying intimacy. A gaze that could melt stone, a scrutiny that hungered. He fondled, rubbed, and touched, while he ground against her hard and with carnal intent. Surrounded by all this pleasure, she could only hold on, feeling like she was flying full throttle into a cat-five hurricane.
Then he ripped his fingers away and dropped her to the floor like a sack of Idahos.
“Dad!” Franky’s voice called out. “Gretzky needs to go outside! Can I take him?”
Shallow breath. “Take him out front, love, but don’t go near the road.”
A few seconds passed. The front door slammed.
Bren rubbed his beard, then he swiped a finger still wet with her desire across his lips. His tongue darted out to taste her, and briefly he closed his eyes in what looked like absolute bliss.
Violet’s legs were a jellied mess, the fridge holding her upright. “That’s some hearing you have there, St. James. Positively bionic.”
“Skill of the single dad.” His eyes snapped open. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly resist,” she said, laughing off the knot of dread behind her breastbone that he had regrets. After all, she was trouble.
“So, you understand? Why this can’t happen?”
“Oh yeah. The sex would probably cause a tornado. We owe it to the world not to give in to our inappropriate lust.”
He didn’t laugh. This guy needed a humor transplant, yet the grumpy thing really worked for her.
Still, she had to gain some measure of control here. “Anyway, you screwed up.”
“Had better kisses, then?”
“Oh, not that. The kiss wasn’t half bad.” The kiss seared my soul. “No, meaning you had a chance when we first met in the Empty Net and you turned me down. Now you’ve had a little taste so you know what you’re missing.” Gotcha, Scot.
He squinted at her, more of the grouch. If he kept that up, she’d be climbing him like a tree in two seconds.
“Guess I should call those references.”
She sighed, not sure if any progress had been made here, though no girl despised being considered a temptress of the highest order. “Yep. Better snap up the Swede before someone else does.”
And then she left before she begged him to bone her on the kitchen island counter.