The House Mate Read online

  Maybe that was why the drive to work felt so exceptionally long. It was like every light turned red and all the traffic crawled to a standstill. My only options were to the stare at the clock on the dashboard, or wait for my phone to buzz with news about the baby. I knew that any second I would get a message asking me to come home, or telling me that Dylan was sick or . . .

  I took a deep breath. My office building was just ahead of me now, and I pulled into my parking space, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

  “Coffee,” I muttered to myself. “I’ve got to get some coffee.”

  Climbing out of my truck, I pulled my cell from my pocket and glanced at the home screen. It was cheesy, I knew, but Dylan’s face stared back at me from the photo I’d taken yesterday and chosen as my wallpaper, a spit bubble still wet on her lips. No messages.

  “Probably still having breakfast,” I said, then internally scolded myself. I couldn’t go through the entire day talking to myself. I wasn’t going to become that guy—that nervous parent who left the office at lunchtime because he couldn’t stand to be away from his kid.

  Dylan was in good hands. I just had to be patient. I could do this.

  With all that in mind, I climbed the stairs to my office and managed to only check my cell another four times before opening my door and trudging toward my Keurig. As I popped a K-cup into place, Tiffany hurried through the door, her red hair slightly mussed.

  “Damn, I was trying to beat you to the coffeepot.” She blew out a shallow breath, then held her chest as it rose and fell in quick succession.

  “Did you actually run in here?”

  She smiled. “Maybe.”

  Laughing at herself, she took a seat across from my desk, and we reviewed the notes and agenda for the day. A few times, she paused, and I knew she was on the brink of asking me about Dylan, but either my serious gaze or her own inhibitions stopped her. Whatever the reason was, though, I was grateful for it.

  “Okay, I think that’s everything,” I said, and my phone buzzed against the rustic wood surface of my desk.

  Without bothering to excuse myself, I snatched up the phone and thumbed it open. Dylan stared back at me, but this time it wasn’t my wallpaper photo—she was in her high chair mixing something in a bright yellow bowl and making a mess of it, her head tossed back in mid-laugh. I scrolled down and read the text.

  Addison: Someone likes banana pancakes!

  The text featured a little monkey emoji beneath it, and I smiled.

  “Everything all right?” Tiffany asked, and I was surprised to see her still standing there as I looked up.

  “Yeah, everything’s great.”

  She cocked her head and then backed away. “All right then, if you’re sure.”

  After she left, I stared at the door, still thinking of Dylan mixing her pancake ingredients. I would never have thought to cook with her or have her help like that, not when she was so young. I’d be too nervous about the stove or her somehow getting to one of the knives . . .

  I sipped my coffee, blowing a deep breath out my nose. Even now, with all these hypothetical worries trampling my thoughts, I felt better than I had in the last three days combined. The panic of being a parent, of being responsible for another person’s life, was still there, churning away at the back of my mind, but I was feeling better by the second. Sure, Dylan might get near the stove or the knives when I was around, but I knew Addison would never let that happen. She had a knack. She was a natural at this in a way I wasn’t.

  And the way she looked at Dylan? Addison was the one thing I knew I didn’t have to worry about.

  For the next few hours, I timed myself—only allowing myself to glance at my phone every thirty minutes. Even then, I didn’t allow myself to text and ask how Dylan was doing. The girls needed time to bond, and I needed to work. God knew I needed to work.

  Around two, though, my phone chimed again and I found another picture waiting for me. This time Addison and Dylan were laughing together, each of them holding sparkly Play-Doh in their hands. Had Addison brought toys with her? She didn’t have to do that.

  My heart melted when I read the message underneath.

  Addison: Don’t worry, even the sparkles are non-toxic. We’re learning not to eat play dough.

  I laughed, imagining Dylan’s face wrinkling as she tasted the salty concoction. No doubt that was a lesson she was going to hang on to.

  I moved to put my phone down, but then it buzzed in my hand and another message appeared.

  Addison: Hey, what time do you get home from work? I forgot to ask.

  I replied quickly, letting her know I’d be home around six, but before I could put the phone down, it buzzed again.

  Addison: Okay, great. As for dinner . . . do you have any allergies or anything? Anything you don’t like?

  Max: You don’t have to go grocery shopping.

  Her answer came immediately after my response. I’d left her the car seat just in case, but I’d rather her not have to bother with it.

  Addison: Too late. I’m making dinner, but I need to know if anything is going to kill you first.

  I smiled. She had a sense of humor beneath that bubbly persona.

  Max: No mustard, please. Other than that, I’m easy.

  Addison sent a little thumbs-up in return.

  Grinning, I put the phone down and turned back to my work, but before I got a chance to fully dive in, my office door opened.

  “Hey, you have a minute?” Tiffany peeked around the door and when I nodded, she stepped inside, careful to shut the door behind her.

  “I was thinking, the last couple of days have been tough for you. Do you and Dylan want to come over to my place tonight? It might be nice for you to get a home-cooked meal for a change.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I actually already have plans.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No one calls the drive-through at Wendy’s ‘plans.’”

  I laughed. “No. Dylan’s new nanny is making us dinner.”

  “Oh,” she said, her voice tight. After a pause, she added, “I’d wondered where that little muffin was today.”

  I nodded. “Yep, she’s home, and happy and safe. But like I said, that was very nice of you to offer. Thanks again.”

  “Anytime. It’s an open invitation.” Tiffany hesitated and then headed back out the door, closing it with a tiny snap.

  I threw myself back into work, and at one point, realized that I was humming under my breath.

  I patted myself on the back for a job well done. Now that Addison was living in the house and taking care of the baby, everything was going to be perfect.

  Chapter Six

  Addison

  I swept the hair out of my face and stared around the newly cleaned kitchen.

  There was no denying it had been an undertaking. What few groceries left in the fridge needed to be cleaned out—and the hazardous waste department was probably a better candidate to do it than I was, but I’d done my best all the same. My arms were sore up to the elbows from scrubbing away at dishes and getting on my knees to tackle the floors, but there was no doubting the place looked better. I might have even gone so far as to say it looked damned good.

  Now that Dylan was upstairs napping, I finally sank into a chair, ready to search online for the recipe I’d be making for tonight’s dinner.

  God, that little girl was an angel.

  I hoped Max knew how lucky he was to have her. She hadn’t thrown a single temper tantrum—not one, all day. Even when she’d been hungry, she waddled into the kitchen and sat in front of her high chair like a patient puppy waiting to go outside.

  Playing with her was easy too. She needed to learn to share, but she understood sounds and shapes well for her age, and when we read together, she listened intently to every word. A few times, she’d even added some words of her own—like “bird” or “car” or “horse.” But then, on the rare occasion, she’d say “Da-da.”

  And twice, she’d said “Ma-ma” too.


  I didn’t know if this was simply because kids learned these words practically in unison—like one couldn’t exist without the other—or because maybe because her mother had been in her life at some point?

  In the quieter moments, when I was picking up the living room, I searched the photos in the frames along the mantel to find some sign of a woman in Max and Dylan’s life, but there was not even the slightest hint of one. Other than a picture of an elderly woman with her arm slung around Max, who was wearing an Army Ranger uniform, there were no women in his pictures at all. They were all photos of his college graduation, campfires with his friends, and beach trips.

  There wasn’t even a picture of Dylan. Not anywhere.

  It was odd. Based on how doting and careful he’d been with her yesterday and this morning, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who was such an egomaniac that he didn’t bother to frame pictures of his own daughter. It was possible, of course, that since he was a guy he just hadn’t thought to change things around. After all, for all I knew, the pictures he had could have been set up by his mother when he’d first moved in.

  Still, it didn’t seem right to me. Not really.

  I let out a sigh and scrolled down the page, then selected the tastiest-looking picture and glanced at the recipe. With quick, efficient movements, I collected all the ingredients listed and pushed aside the thoughts in my brain that were exploding with curiosity.

  I didn’t know Max very well. Maybe I was the caregiver for his daughter, but that didn’t give me the right to ask personal questions of him.

  And yet . . .

  What happened when Dylan was old enough to ask me about her mother? Shouldn’t I know whether she was out there somewhere, whether she might show up some weekend to take Dylan for a visit and leave me alone in the house with Max?

  My mind stalled on that thought, idling to picture what a dinner alone with him might be like. What the evening afterward could bring.

  Excitement and anxiety filled my heart in equal measure. Just thinking about being alone with him had me nearly hyperventilating. He was just so . . . daunting. When I’d messaged him throughout the day, he’d only responded to direct questions. And then, when I’d made a little joke about not wanting to kill him, even then he’d answered with a serious response. With the stern, impassive look that was always on his face, the worry etched into his features, it was hard not to take him seriously. He was intimidating, and I wasn’t even sure why.

  But then I would picture him smiling down at his little girl—holding her in those big strong arms covered in ink, and my knees went weak. His presence was like this looming aura that filled any room he was in, and I was swallowed up in it instantly—on eggshells, holding my breath, hanging on to every word . . .

  And wanting to ride him like a bull at the rodeo. Not that it matters. Because it definitely does not.

  I shook my head and read over the recipe again, but just as I reached for the first ingredient, the front door swung open.

  “Max,” I gasped, breathless. I’d been so distracted by thoughts of him in his military garb and riding him like a bull that I hadn’t even heard his truck pull up.

  He grinned at me, and I noticed that his straight white smile slanted a little to one side, making his jaw look that much more rugged and square.

  God, what was with me and this guy’s jaw?

  “You’re home early.” My gaze shot toward the clock. It was barely even four. I stepped into the foyer as he looked around the living room and his eyes went wide.

  “You didn’t have to do all this.” He gestured to the vacuumed carpet and polished furniture.

  “It was no trouble,” I said. “Really.”

  “I have a cleaning lady—”

  “I know, I know.” I waved him off. “But you know, I live here too and I wanted to do my share.” I shrugged. “I prefer a tidy house, anyway.”

  He walked into the kitchen, and I followed behind him like a hungry puppy following a trail of dog treats. No doubt my face looked just as hungry as one too, now that I got a good look at his backside in his fitted slacks.

  I swallowed hard.

  “I’m drawing the line,” he said. “You are not making dinner. You must be exhausted.”

  My feet screamed in agreement with him, but I shook my head all the same. “No, absolutely not. I’ve already got a recipe. You sit down. You’ve been working all day.”

  “You’re the one who’s been working all day.” He gestured toward the clean kitchen, and I rolled my eyes.

  “The cleaning, sure, but Dylan’s no work. It was a great day.”

  That much was true. Even with all the running and chasing and multi-tasking, Dylan was a joy. I already felt a deep bond with the little girl, and the reward that came from taking care of her? Well, that was a whole hell of a lot better than passing paper coffee cups along to bleary-eyed zombie-like commuters.

  “She’s still down for her nap, though, so if you go upstairs—”

  “I’ll be quiet.” He nodded. “Look, I’m sorry I’m here earlier than you expected. I couldn’t stay away. I was just a little nervous, but I have to say now that I’m impressed.”

  I blushed, trying not to look as flustered as I felt. Why should his praise feel like I was being given a gold star by a favorite teacher? I knew I’d done a good job, had gone above and beyond the call of duty. And still . . .

  Whenever I looked at him I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

  “Actually, I was going to say you should probably wake her up. If she sleeps much longer, she’ll never go to bed tonight,” I said.

  He nodded, beaming. “All right. I’ll go say hello.”

  He exited the room, and while I listened to his heavy footfalls on the stairs, I finally allowed myself to exhale again. God, one more week of living here and I was going to need an oxygen tank.

  Shaking my head at myself for what felt like the millionth time, I set to work on dinner. I’d marinated some steak, and the potatoes were already in the oven. All I had to do was sear the meat and sauté the asparagus, and it would be the perfect masculine meal.

  As the vegetables sizzled in their skillet, I set the table, listening to both father and daughter laughing as they said hello to each other again. Apparently, it hadn’t taken much doing to get Dylan up—she’d screamed as soon as her bedroom door opened, and I could hear their soft-spoken conversation all the way from the kitchen.

  An hour later when the steak was ready, I called for the little family to join me in the kitchen and served the food on the table. I cut Dylan’s steak into tiny pieces and mashed her potato while Max set her in her high chair. As we walked past each other, I felt all the air drain from the room again, swallowed up by his very presence.

  “You shouldn’t have done all this.”

  My heart sank. I’d wanted him to be impressed, wanted to go above and beyond to make sure this house felt like a home. I’d been so eager to hear his praise, but now I felt like a fool.

  Feeling Max’s intense stare on me, I focused my attention on making sure Dylan was eating well.

  It had been a while since I’d been able to prepare a home-cooked meal like this. Greg was a gluten-free, GMO-free, non-dairy vegan. After taking so much criticism when I had tried to cook for him, I eventually just gave up. It was irrational, but tears filled my eyes and I had to work to blink them away. I’d been here all of one day, and yet Max’s approval felt like everything.

  “I can do that. Here, let’s switch spots,” he said, but I waved him off.

  “It’s fine. If you don’t like the meal, I won’t be offended.” And if he wanted to order a pizza or run out for a burger, what did I care?

  “Who said anything about not liking the meal?”

  I dared a glance in his direction.

  Using his knife and fork, Max cut a big bite of steak and popped it into his mouth. I held my breath while he chewed.

  “Eat,” he commanded. “After dinner, you’ve got the rest o
f the night off. I’ll do the dishes and put Dylan to bed.”

  “I can’t let you do that,” I said, but his gaze turned stern.

  “I meant what I said before. You worked all day; you deserve some down time.”

  “But you worked too. You need—”

  “Let me worry about what I need.”

  His declaration cut off any chance of further discussion, and I settled back into my food was renewed vigor. Partly because I was starving and partly because I was dying to get away from his commanding gaze, but also because my face was flaming at the thought of Max and his needs.

  Jesus, what kind of nanny pictured her boss naked?

  A horny one, my inner devil shot back.

  I shoved a bite of steak in my mouth and chewed, forcing myself to think of anything but the man across from me.

  Desperate for escape and some space between me and Max, the second Dylan was settled and my food was done, I stood from the table and brushed my hands against my jeans.

  “All right, well, it’s nearly six, so . . .”

  I glanced around. I’d already done the cleaning earlier that day, so all that was left was the dinner dishes. Which meant I was done for the day, with nothing left to do.

  “Yes, by all means. Go relax,” Max said, encouraging me with a smile.

  I started for the stairs, then decided a bath and pajamas might be a nice idea—just the thing to put me in a mood for chilling.

  I filled the tub and stepped in, luxuriating in the bubbles, and trusted that Max had everything covered. I spent the next hour talking myself down. Max was my boss, and hiding in my room every night after six p.m. like an eighty-five-year-old cat lady was so not going to work for me. I needed to bite the bullet, face my demons—in this case, the luscious Max—and get past this ridiculous schoolgirl crush. The only way around this thing was through it.