Caveman: A Single Dad Next Door Romance Read online

  Just as my luck would have it, Octavia is still downstairs when I head down, Cole on my arm and Mary holding my hand.

  Thank fuck I’m all jacked out, or my cock would be back up to attention the moment I see her.

  How fast can your body—or mind?—get wired to react to a woman instantly? I got a hard-on the first time I saw her, but now all I need to do is know she’s there, smell her scent, or notice her as I enter a room and boom, my dick goes from zero to two hundred in a second.

  Damn.

  I settle the kids at the table, and she dishes out… pancakes?

  Mary claps her hands, and Cole grins toothily as she slathers the pancakes with what looks like jam.

  Octavia glances my way, smiling, and I mouth, “How?”

  She shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”

  Her smile fades. Her face turns unreadable.

  I rub at my forehead, chasing at the headache beating inside my skull. I deserve that. Worse than that, though her cool politeness is a stab to my chest.

  “I’ve got this,” she says, not looking at me. “You can go now.”

  I stare at her. My kids are quietly eating their pancakes. Mary giggles at something Cole is doing. Cole grins, his mouth full of mushy pancake and jam. They look almost… happy. Nothing like the sobbing mess they were half an hour ago.

  Cole reaches for Octavia, and she takes his small hand, smiling down at him.

  She’s got this. I keep forgetting she’s not really a kid, no matter our age difference. She’s a woman. Pretty, capable, intelligent. Sexy.

  Hell, at her age Emma had already had a few boyfriends, and we had sex on our second date.

  And Jesus, why am I thinking of this now?

  Giving Octavia a nod, I turn to go. I lean on the door frame for a long second, hit by a wave of dizziness—so damn tired—and then continue to the living room to grab my coat and keys.

  “Matt.”

  I stop. Look at her over my shoulder. Wait.

  “You need to speak with them,” she says, and there it is, the mutinous lift of her chin that almost makes me smile. “Talk to them. Promise you’ll be here for them.”

  “I did promise,” I tell her, turning around to face her. This isn’t what I thought she’d want to talk to me about.

  The moment we had at the top of the stairs plays again in front of my eyes.

  “Not to me. Not to your wife.” Octavia steps closer to me. “To them. Say it until they listen. Until they believe it.”

  “Believe what?”

  “That her death is not their fault. That the distance you keep, how cold you are with them, is not their fault. That you still love them.”

  I freeze. “I’m not…” Distant. Cold.

  Fuck.

  “Yes, you are. And I get it, I do. You have your own nightmares. You should visit a therapist, in fact, but it’s not your kids’ fault, and they shouldn’t think it is.”

  Hit by another wave of cold, feeling as if I’ve been punched in the gut, I struggle to catch my breath. “You serious right now?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” Her blue eyes flash with anger—or sadness? But maybe I’m seeing things.

  I lick my dry lips. “You don’t know—”

  “I’m not sure this will work out,” she interrupts me. “Me working for you.”

  I put a hand out, slamming it into the wall to steady myself. “What the hell?” I chase after my thoughts. “I thought you needed a job.”

  “I’ll figure something else out.”

  Heat rolls through my chest. I take a step toward her, my hands in fists. “You’re not going back to the garage to ask fucking Jasper for a job.”

  “Stop.”

  I stop, my blood boiling at the thought of Jasper insulting her, Ross touching her. And then I realize she has tears in her eyes.

  “Please…”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “You have the best kids. And I totally love them. But I can’t do this with you anymore.” She steps around me and picks up her light coat.

  I realize with horror that she’s about to walk out.

  “Octavia.” I struggle for calm. “Wait.”

  “For the record,” she says, her voice strained, “Adam is not my boyfriend, even though he did get a weird message, like you did. I don’t have a boyfriend, and if Ross has gone crazy and is threatening you both, then it’s better for you, better for your kids, if I quit now.”

  Jesus Christ. “Octavia.” I run my hands through my hair. “Look… I’m sorry.”

  She’s buttoning up her coat. Her fingers still.

  “Don’t go,” I say. “The kids need you. I’ll…” I close my eyes, exhausted. “I’ll try harder. With them. With you, Tay. I swear I’ll try.”

  She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak for so long I’m sure I blew it. Didn’t manage to convince her to change her mind.

  To give me another chance.

  Not even sure what I’m promising her. To talk to the kids? To be more polite to her? Not to want her? Not to touch her?

  Finally she turns around to face me. “You will come eat breakfast with us,” she says, and I frown. “And dinner. You will play with your kids. And you will tell me about Emma.”

  Is she serious? “Look…”

  “That’s the deal.” Her gaze is direct, determined. “And if it’s not enough, you’ll go see a therapist.”

  God, she is serious.

  And I have no choice. I can’t let her go. I can’t… can’t fucking think of anything, except that if she goes, I’ll sink somewhere so deep and dark I won’t ever find the way out—and I don’t care about myself, but what about my kids?

  “Fine,” I say hoarsely, my head swimming. “It’s a deal.”

  She nods once, holding my gaze, as if searching for a different confirmation.

  Then she takes off her coat, hangs it on the hook again, and tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. A tiny golden earring glints there. “Have a nice day, Matt.”

  And waits.

  As if expecting something.

  She has been saying this sort of thing every morning, as I left to work. Have a good day, Matt. Goodbye, Matt. Take care.

  “Take care,” I say slowly, and see her shoulders relax, her gaze soften.

  She nods again, and smiles.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Octavia

  The kids are mostly quiet during the day. Tired, would be my guess, from a bad night and explosive morning. Cole starts whining and getting cranky as the afternoon wears on. Mary manages to break a plate loaded with cookies and then cries a little, but after I hug her for a bit she settles back down.

  Poor kids. Mary tells me she misses her granny, and I make a mental note to ask Matt to call her. It wasn’t in the stipulations of our deal, but I made that one up on the fly and didn’t have the time to think of anything better.

  I sit down on the carpet, lean back against the sofa with a book of fairytales, and gather the kids close to me to read them their favorite stories. Cole likes Jack and the Beanstalk, Mary prefers Sleeping Beauty because the girl in the pictures looks like her.

  I read to them and think of Matt. Of my conditions and his expression when he realized I meant them.

  Did he realize this is as much about his kids as it is for him? He thinks I haven’t noticed how unsteady he’s been in the past days—not eating anything solid, not sleeping. In his line of work, that could prove dangerous, and no matter what I keep telling myself I should do, I can’t help it.

  I worry about him.

  Although I’m puzzled with the mixed signals he keeps sending me. This hot and cold routine is confusing as hell. It was clear he wanted me this morning when he touched me, when I felt how hard he was.

  And I want him, too, but that’s out of the question. Lusting after him is a mistake. I work for him, for God’s sake, and he’s probably already regretting everything that took place today.

  I wonder how long ago his wife died. Cole is three, so it can�
�t be longer than that. I wonder if she haunts his dreams.

  “Tati! Read!” Cole shoves Jack and the Beanstalk into my hands, and lies back again, cuddling his favorite stuffed animal to his side. It’s a faded blue bunny with one ear missing, called Hook.

  “We already read that,” Mary pouts.

  “Read!” Cole insists.

  It doesn’t matter, anyway. I can’t sleep with Matt, even if he wants it. Even if we both want it. How can I look after his kids afterward? How can I look at myself in the mirror?

  How frigging awkward. And embarrassing. Though I can’t stop thinking about it, about how it would be to actually run my hands over his naked body, feel every ridge and plane of that ripped chest, stroke a path down to his—

  The key turns in the lock, and I gasp. I hide my flushed face behind the book as the door swings open.

  No use fantasizing about Matt Hansen’s naked body. For now, I have my hands full. I have to teach him how to be a human being again. You’d think he grew up with animals in the jungle. Feral.

  Maybe he wasn’t always like that. It’s as if he has forgotten how to interact with other humans.

  The sensation strikes me again as he enters, broad shoulders hunched, hair falling in his eyes, dark beard hiding the rest of his face, that feeling that a savage beast has stepped into the house—dangerous, angry. Confused and lost.

  A shiver wracks me.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  The children stop talking and watch, too, as he hangs his keys on the hook, powerful muscles moving in his back under the thin, oil-streaked T-shirt. My gaze drops to his ass, snug in his soft jeans, and I swallow hard.

  God, that’s one tight, spectacular ass.

  Another wave of heat washes over me. I force my gaze away from his butt as he turns and shoves that fall of dark hair out of his eyes.

  He pauses there, taking us in, and familiar pain flashes through his eyes. They’re so expressive when he lowers his walls even for a moment. So beautiful.

  Giving myself a shake, I close the book. “Dinner time,” I say brightly.

  He blinks, paling a little, and I wonder if it’s because he’s skipped lunch, or if he’s remembering another woman saying these words to him.

  How can I ever compete with a ghost?

  And who says you are? I scold myself as I pick Cole up and tug Mary with me, heading to the kitchen, keeping my gaze off this damaged, sexy man-bear who’s gotten under my skin without even trying.

  How pathetic is that? He’s fascinating. He’s irritating, but also captivating.

  A guy who’s been harsh and rude every step of the way, who lashes out instead of talking things out, who’s turned his pain and sorrow into a knife and swipes with it at anyone who steps too close.

  A guy who can’t remember how to open up. How to hold his kids. How to control his strength, or his words.

  A guy who looks adorably confused and scared as I wait for him to sit at the kitchen table and then deposit Cole onto his lap.

  “Here.” I put Cole’s plate in front of them. “Help him eat.”

  Cole stares up at his dad’s bearded face, eyes going round, mouth trembling, and I make myself go sit across from them, beside Mary.

  His dad’s face isn’t much better. His brows are knitted. He looks from the little boy on his knee to the plastic plate and kiddie fork on the table.

  “Holy shit,” he mutters, closing his eyes briefly, and I’m sorry I’m making him do this before he’s even had a bite.

  “I hope you like it,” I say quietly, and tuck a napkin over Mary’s dress. I smile down at her. “You like my mac and cheese, don’t you?”

  Mary nods, mouth already full. “It’s different from what Grandma makes, but I like it.”

  “I put broccoli in it,” I mouth at Matt.

  He chokes. He starts to cough, a flush rising to his cheekbones.

  Cole laughs, stabbing at his macaroni with his fork, making a mess.

  Mary giggles.

  Matt wipes at his eyes, one-handedly, looks down at his son, and his gaze softens again. His mouth pulls into a reluctant, faint smile when Cole lets out another peal of laughter and bangs his fork in his plate.

  Mary reaches across the table and pulls on the plate. Cole grabs it, hauls it back. Mary laughs, her eyes flicking to her dad, as if afraid he’d get angry.

  Matt puts his large hand over Cole’s small one and guides the fork into the plate. Cole quietens again, looks up at his dad.

  Then down at the plate.

  He grins, showing all his little teeth.

  Matt’s brow furrows as he helps Cole snag some macaroni, then lets go, letting his son bring the fork up to eat. There’s a gleam of something new in his gaze now.

  Something like awe.

  And joy.

  Aww God. Imagining Matt reconnecting with his kids and seeing it are two different things. My heart is melting as I watch it happen before my eyes. It’s so cute, so touching. Nobody could remain unmoved, no matter what else has gone down between us.

  If I felt nothing, I’d have a heart of stone.

  “How was your day?” I ask later, with the kids settled in the living room watching cartoons on TV.

  I should be heading home, but I’m strangely reluctant to go. After all, if he’s to talk to me about anything, including his late wife, I’d have to be around, right?

  This is how I complicate my life.

  He’s quiet, looking at his children, and I think he won’t answer me. Maybe it has already been too much effort, being sociable for one evening.

  Man, he looks haggard. His face looks thin, even with the beard. He barely touched his food at the table, and how is it that I’m more worried about him not eating than his kids?

  Maybe I should just go.

  “Tay,” he says.

  Just that, and I know I’m not going anywhere. “What is it?”

  “Do you think I can win them back?”

  He doesn’t say who, but he’s looking at his kids, so it’s easy to guess.

  “You never lost them. They need you.”

  He seems to be chewing on something. “I know what you’re thinking. That they’d be better off with their grandma. That it was cruel to take them away.”

  “No, I don’t think that.” And I mean it. “I think you should call their grandma, have her visit you, or go visit her—but you are their dad, and they’ve known you all their short lives. You’ve always been there.”

  “They are afraid of me.”

  “Maybe so, but they also look up to you and depend on you. Show them that they can also have fun with you, be open with you, be vulnerable with you. Let them love you.”

  He rubs at his eyes, and my heart twists again.

  “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

  And I can’t help it. I smile.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Matt

  Dark dreams draw me under, again and again, suffocating clutches of nightmares that won’t let me rest. I wake up drenched in cold sweat, my teeth gritting, my legs tangled up in the covers, until I give up on sleep and roll out of bed.

  That’s routine. Stumbling into the bathroom to take a piss and splash my face with cold water, trying to chase the clinging cobwebs of the dreams from my mind. Stumbling back out to grab a T-shirt and down the stairs to the kitchen. Deciding if it’s late enough for booze or early enough for coffee.

  The sky outside is a deep blue. Over the houses and trees, the sky is lightening, silver and gold shooting through the east.

  Damn. Coffee it is.

  I start the coffee machine and scratch at my beard. I should trim it.

  Or braid it like Viking warriors did.

  Or just fucking leave it. Who the hell cares? I’m just so damn tired all the time. I thought moving out here would cure me of it, of this weariness, this constant exhaustion.

  But that hasn’t happened. My work is not harder than it was in St. Louis. I’d worked in a garage there, too, once
I managed to get out of my funk enough to drag myself out of the house every day. And yet I feel like a truck ran me over.

  I open the cupboard, grab a random mug, fill it up with black, bitter coffee and stagger out to the porch.

  It’s probably chilly, so early in the morning. I never feel it. I never feel anything after waking up, my brain still struggling to decide what is real and what isn’t.

  Emma’s hand in mine. Her cheek cold as she was laid into the ground. Her voice still whispering in my ear.

  Hell. I brace one hand on the porch pillar, dizzy. Wait until the ground steadies. Until the urge to howl subsides.

  The sea of grass around the house sways, the tips of the weeds silver in the gray light.

  I should do something about it. Borrow a lawn mower. Cut it before I get into trouble.

  And then a snort escapes me. Get into trouble, really? Who the fuck cares?

  The houses down the street are still dark. It’s quiet. My pulse is way too loud in my ears.

  I think I feel ghostly hands slip around my hips, faint laughter in the air.

  My eyes sting.

  Dammit… how can I ever let you go?

  I open the door for Octavia and manage a greeting before retreating upstairs to shower and dress for another long-ass day. I pull on pants and a shirt, shove my feet into my boots and sit on the bed for a few minutes, spaced out.

  It’s one of those days, where time seems to have slowed down and I’m sinking down into the mud faster than I can swim. My air is running out.

  There’s a tremor in my hand when I lift it to shove my hair out of my face.

  I remember Cole’s laughter as he perched on my knee last night. Mary’s giggles.

  Octavia’s smile.

  Clenching my jaw, I get up and head back downstairs. Thank fuck she hasn’t made good on her promise to make me talk about anything much yet, or do more than eat dinner with the kids last night.

  I’m supposed to have breakfast with them, but somehow, despite being up from the ass- crack of dawn, I’m running late.

  “Matt!” Octavia calls from the kitchen.

  Right on cue.