Caveman: A Single Dad Next Door Romance Page 3

  God.

  “That’s a pity,” I whisper, deciding to cut my losses and go back home. I just need to rest a little, cool down, and maybe inspiration will hit, and I will magically know what to do.

  Adjusting the strap of my purse on my shoulder, I turn blindly to go and promptly trip over my own feet.

  Man, I just can’t catch a break these days, can I?

  But I don’t hit the floor. An arm like a steel band is wrapped around my waist, and that scent of spicy male musk is everywhere.

  My heart is hammering. I sag in his hold, my legs like rubber.

  Without a word, he sets me down on my feet and pulls the strap of my purse back up on my shoulder, a strangely intimate, gentle gesture.

  Then he bends over to gather the small bag he dropped while saving my ass from meeting the linoleum, and the reality of what just happened hits me.

  Matthew Hansen caught me.

  And I can’t catch my breath. My heart is galloping a thousand miles an hour.

  He watches me a few moments longer, as if making sure I’m not about to topple over again, those dark eyes strangely mesmerizing.

  Then he rolls one massive shoulder in a shrug and starts walking once more toward the door.

  “Thank you,” I finally find the presence of mind to call after him and take a step in his direction.

  But by then he’s already gone.

  Trudging back home, kicking off my shoes the moment I pass through the door, I head straight for the bathroom, only to find it occupied.

  “Gigi!” I bang on the door. “I need to shower.”

  “Five minutes!” she yells back.

  Gigi’s five minutes usually last two hours. The house is otherwise empty, Mom and Merc not answering when I call out their names.

  With a sigh, I walk back out and sit on the steps of the porch, trying to find my calm center.

  Something will come up, I tell myself. An opening in one of the stores. I tend to panic easily, lose my patience when things aren’t going my way.

  Which means I spent most of my childhood and teenage years raging and waging war with the world. Things rarely went our way—what with Mom losing her job time and again, with Merc getting sick all the time and Gigi going through a shoplifting phase that had Mom in tears.

  And as for me… I had my phases, too. Like that day when I left home and started walking along the highway, not knowing or caring where I was going.

  Or when I took Mom’s decrepit car and drove into a wall. I’d been going real slow, thank God. I came out of it just fine—but the car was a total loss. No idea how that is possible, but there you go.

  Back then I really wanted to escape. From the bullying, the hopeless trudge of everyday routine.

  And now the mere thought of leaving has me breaking out in hives.

  Funny how we change over the years. How our priorities change, our perspective shifts. The idea of not being here when my family needs me is unthinkable. The idea of not being present to look after them, to keep an eye on them, to watch my brother and sister grow into adults, finish school, find their way…

  I rub my bare arms. The sun is sinking low over the roofs and trees, and the breeze is drying the sweat on my back, cooling me down.

  Someone is walking down the sidewalk. He stops a few feet away from me.

  “Hey, I know you,” he says, and smiles.

  The sun is behind him, lighting up his brown curls, casting his handsome face in shadow. “I’m not sure…” I start even as I realize that he does look familiar.

  “Today. At the drugstore.” He shoves his hands in his pant pockets and tilts his head to the side. “I was waiting in line, and I saw you.”

  “Right.” I nod and look down at my hands, grinning. “You have a good memory.”

  “Not really. But it’s easy to remember a pretty girl like you.”

  I glance up at him, surprised at the rush of pleasure and the heat flooding my cheeks. “Thanks.”

  Hey, every girl likes to hear she’s pretty now and then, right? Especially after years spent wearing frigging braces and being called names.

  Yeah, Zipper Lips wasn’t the worst of my nicknames back then. Things improved since I removed the metal from my mouth, but I’m still the ugly duckling in this story.

  “You live here?” He parks his hip against the open gate and nods at the house behind me.

  “No, I just like sitting on the front steps of strangers’ houses.” I tuck my hair behind my ears, wipe the sweat off my nose. “What are you doing around here?”

  He shoots me an easy grin. “I know how it looks.”

  Does he? And that would be…?

  I laugh. “Like you’re stalking me?”

  It slowly dawns on me, even with my sunbaked brain, that I’d never seen him before today. The coincidence of meeting him twice in the same afternoon is kind of strange.

  “Well…” His grin widens. He turns and points down the street, at Mr. Collins’s small brown house. “I’m your new neighbor.”

  Seriously? I realize I’m gaping and shut my mouth before a fly wanders in. “That’s, um… that’s nice.”

  “Nice? That’s all I get?”

  Even I can figure out when a guy is flirting with me, and he certainly is. His tone is light and teasing, that grin he’s wearing lighting up his eyes.

  You could do worse, a smug little voice in my mind quips, because he is cute. And anyway, what’s the harm in flirting with a handsome guy?

  Not like there’s anyone else in my life. I’m eighteen, but I’ve never had a boyfriend. Not unless you count Cameron when we were eight, who drew hearts on my notebooks and held my hand during break.

  And how sad is it that I think that’s the sweetest thing a guy has ever done for me?

  Sad, Octavia. Real sad and embarrassing.

  “Waiting for someone? A boyfriend?” He looks at the street as if expecting a car to arrive and a guy to come and sweep me off my feet.

  Wait, is he a mind reader?

  No, Tati. A guy flirting with you would be interested in knowing about any competition.

  Ah. There’s none.

  “I’m just waiting for my sister to stop hogging the bathroom.” I wave vaguely at the house behind me. “It’s too warm to wait inside.”

  “Yeah.” He rocks on his heels. “Definitely cooler out here.”

  He’s well-dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a gray T-shirt that fits him perfectly. Good quality clothes, and a pair of shiny new black loafers, that somehow don’t look too nerdy or over the top, but classy.

  Yeah, he sure is handsome, and it feels good to be hit on by him. Besides, let’s face it, Matt Hansen’s cold and generally rude behavior hasn’t helped my shaky confidence any.

  It occurs to me it’s my turn to say something, to keep the conversation going, but for some reason now all I can think of is Matt Hansen, his strong arm around my waist, preventing me from falling on my face inside the drugstore, and my heart trips.

  “Well, I’ll be going, then,” he says, and I glance up, not realizing I’d looked away. He’s smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Leave you to your thoughts.”

  “No, I…” Crap, why am I wasting the chance to talk with a hot guy who is being so nice to me? “I’m sorry. It was great meeting you.”

  His eyes flash. He takes the path in two strides and lifts my hand to his mouth. “Pleasure is all mine,” he purrs and brushes his lips over my overheated skin.

  My mouth falls open. Nobody has ever done this to me before. It’s like a scene right out of a movie.

  And again I have no words.

  “My name’s Adam. Adam Cash. At your service.”

  Charming. That’s what he is. Very charming. He could seem ridiculous, or pretentious doing this stuff, but I can’t help a smile.

  He does look a bit smug as he releases my hand and steps back, but I guess he’s earned it. I’m still smiling when he waves and walks down the street, in the direction of the ho
use he pointed out before.

  And then I jerk when Gigi says from behind me, “Who’s that hunk?”

  Chapter Five

  Matt

  When I skipped town with my kids, I didn’t factor in the sad fact I can’t cook to save my life. Didn’t factor anything in, in fact. Didn’t think. Couldn’t. I just had to go.

  In any case, we made it this far, and I’ll be damned before I let us die of starvation. I took stock of the situation on the first day, and made a sort of plan. It wasn’t a complicated one.

  My cooking skills being close to nil, I thought I’d rely on takeout and delivery. Loads of people do that, right?

  Only problem with choosing a town based on its small size and lack of fame is that there are no takeout or delivery places except for the pizzeria, and we’ve already had pizza four times this week.

  Good thing is that Cole doesn’t seem fed up with it yet. However, Mary has already declared she can’t see another slice of it ever in her life.

  What do you know, my daughter is a goddamn diva.

  As for myself, I couldn’t care less what I put in my mouth. Pizza, steak, salad, bread, mud. It all tastes like ashes.

  But since Mary had a ragey fit earlier on today about the pizza leftovers I took out of the fridge, and since I still haven’t figured out how to get into her good graces, a problem that for some reason keeps penetrating through the dark fog in my mind with an urgency most things in my life lately don’t seem to have, well…

  Here we are, in one of the town’s two diners—the one with the Christmas lights in the windows, as Mary demanded, not the other, boring one—sitting around a table and waiting for our order.

  Mary asked for a burger and fries.

  Cole asked for pizza.

  It almost made me smile.

  Almost, because sitting here, in this cluttered, dim space with the voices and laughter of other customers and the smell of food in the air, even the Christmas lights on the window that enchanted my little daughter—they remind me of her.

  Emma.

  Mary probably doesn’t remember the diner we used to go to for dinner sometimes back when. She can’t be remembering any of it. She was too young.

  Those damn Christmas lights.

  I shouldn’t have let Mary convince me to choose this diner. My vision is going blurry and my throat tight, and my heart is booming way too fast and loud in my chest.

  And then I see her.

  The nanny. The girl I didn’t hire.

  Octavia.

  She’s just entered the diner with three more people, laughing and talking loudly, her dark hair gleaming like polished wood in the dim lights, her smile bright. I don’t even see her companions. She burns like a flame.

  I turn away and keep my head low as they move inside and take a table not far from ours. Cole is fussing with a teddy bear he’s dragged along, and Mary is sipping at her pop with an air of intense concentration. I notice for the first time tonight that she’s tied a red ribbon in her hair. The knot is crooked, and her hair is tangled.

  Fuck.

  I’m hit with remorse so sharp I hiss. I don’t think of shit like that. Brushing my daughter’s hair, tying ribbons in it. Making sure her red dress is clean and ironed. That Cole’s face is clean and his hands not grubby when he stuffs his thumb into his mouth.

  Does he always do that? Should I make sure he stops? Will he get crooked teeth?

  Does he even have a pacifier somewhere?

  I can’t do this.

  I have to do this.

  Oh fuck.

  “Mary,” I say and my voice sounds strangled in my own ears, “keep an eye on Cole.”

  “Where are you going?” Cole asks in a small voice, and it twists the knots in my chest even tighter.

  “To the bathroom,” I say while I get up, my surroundings weaving and dipping as I do.

  Mary is watching me carefully. She gives a tight nod.

  Why were they both watching me like that? Do they think I’ll bail on them, leave them alone in an unknown town?

  Shaking my head, I stride to the back of the shop, lock myself up in the tiny bathroom and lean back against the wall, struggling to breathe, my hands clenched into fists, my head tilted back.

  I never cried. When Emma fell sick. When she died. I couldn’t. It’s as if I had no tears. But since then my breathing gets funny sometimes. My lungs just won’t co-operate, won’t do their goddamn job of sucking air.

  I don’t know what this is, but when it happens, I need a moment alone to work through it. To re-learn how to breathe. How to exist in this spinning eddy that makes no sense to me anymore.

  Slowly the room rights itself, the black dots fade from my vision and my chest expands again. I suck in oxygen, relieved I’m not dying.

  Mostly.

  I shove that thought right back down where it belongs and splash some cold water on my face. Goddammit, maybe the kids were right to be afraid when I got up. I wonder what they saw in my eyes.

  But no. I don’t wanna die. You don’t fucking wanna die, Matt Hansen. Get over yourself. You’re almost thirty, not some angsty teenager, and this ain’t some late-night drama on TV.

  It’s just that sometimes… sometimes I’m not sure I wanna live.

  Christ.

  I flex my left hand, testing the stiffness of my fingers, rub at my wrist, then force myself to stop.

  And…. this is my cue to leave this fucking bathroom and these dark thoughts from spinning me in circles so tight I’ll trip over my own mind.

  I come out to find someone crouched between my kids, slender arms folded on the tabletop, laughing.

  It’s a girl. That girl.

  Again.

  She shouldn’t be here. Can’t be. She reminds me of so much.

  “You.” I point a finger at her. “Go.”

  She stands up, the smile slipping from her pretty face. “Well, hello to you, too. I was just saying hi to your kids. Cole here was crying.”

  I shake my head and tug on my beard, anger warming my neck. “I said, go.”

  “Has nobody taught you any manners?” she whispers, a flush on her cheeks, her blue eyes glittering. She lifts her chin in that way of hers I’d observed the first time we met, challenging. “I was just looking out for your kids.”

  “Daddy is looking for a nanny,” Mary pipes up.

  Traitor.

  I shouldn’t be glaring at a five-year-old for telling the truth, dammit.

  “So you lied. You haven’t found a nanny yet,” Octavia whispers, her eyes glittering. “Why did you have to lie?”

  I clench my jaw and my hands curl into firsts. This seems to be their natural state. “We’re done here.”

  “I don’t want the job, okay?” Octavia says, and I wince. I’ve been trying not to remember her name, because it makes her real. “But Cole’s diaper is soiled. Let me take him to the back to change him.”

  “And my dress is wrinkled,” Mary says, but in a small voice, instead of the high-pitched whine that she uses when she’s acting up.

  My breathing does that rattling thing again. I unclench my hands. Clench them again.

  “Daddy…” Mary starts.

  “No,” I say. “We’re fine. We don’t need anyone.”

  Then I sit down in my chair, hoping that outward I look calm and composed, not like I’m about to go into some murderous fit—or worse, like I’m about to fucking break in two.

  Which is how I feel.

  But she doesn’t seem to notice. She puts her hands on her hips, and my gaze is drawn to her narrow waist, the curve of her tits above it.

  “You’re lying,” she says quietly but clearly, and it’s a kick to my guts.

  How she hit the nail on the head.

  How she guessed.

  Everything about me and my life right now is a lie.

  Seemingly unaware of the blow she delivered, she sends the kids a quick smile, then she shoots me one last look.

  Then, shaking her head, a dark,
shiny strand of hair coming loose and teasing her neck, she walks away.

  I watch as she goes. She’s short but willowy. So determined and trying so hard.

  Reminding me of… of so much that I…

  She’s gone, back to the table with her friends, and I’m sitting there, staring at nothing, wrapped up in darkness that doesn’t come from the world outside but from inside. So deep inside I can’t even feel the hole through which it seeps like a filthy oil spill, filling me, becoming part of me.

  If she knew… fuck, she’d be glad I sent her away.

  Besides, I don’t need her. I don’t need her help, or anyone’s.

  Yeah, fucking lies.

  It’s all I have left.

  Chapter Six

  Octavia

  ‘Jasper’s Garage’ says the rusty sign that’s swinging on creaking hinges overhead. A bitter smell of car oil hangs in the warm air, incongruously mixed with the scent of fresh coffee. A man is laughing inside the dim interior, the sound rising over the clang of metal and the rumbling of an engine.

  Last time I asked here if they were hiring, a couple of weeks ago when I first started looking, the mechanics catcalled and whistled, and the owner’s only son, Ross, our school’s bully and my own very personal nemesis, leered at me until my face burned and I wanted to scream.

  But I’m literally at the end of my rope, the end of the road. The edge of my world. There’s nothing beyond this shop besides the highway east and west, and further north the much bigger town of Springfield.

  Though it’s not hard to find places bigger than Destiny.

  When I was a kid it felt like a whole country, unexplored and huge. Nowadays it feels no larger than a barn, and no less boring.

  No less empty.

  If it wasn’t for my family… they fill up all the emptiness, make this small place worth living in.

  God, I need to leave, make something of my life. But I’ll come back. I’ll always come back. No road could take me away for long.

  “Looking for something, sista?” asks a deep voice, and I jerk backward.