Not because of the way she smiled at me. But the way she smiled at my daughter. With warmth, sincerity.
“You’re pretty,” Clara remarked.
She wasn’t just pretty. She was fucking showstopping. A heart-shaped face, full lips, a sprinkling of freckles across her delicate nose. Irresistible.
She was short, shorter than me by a lot. Petite curves that made me want to punch through a fucking wall.
“Why, thank you,” Hannah replied, giving my daughter her full attention. “So are you. Gorgeous, really. I love your shirt.”
“Thanks.” Clara looked down at her Nirvana shirt. “I’m gonna be honest. I don’t listen to them a bunch, but I wear it because my dad likes the band.” She tilted her head at me in a gesture that was so like a teenager, it socked me in the stomach.
Fuck. I hoped I’d get the opportunity to witness her as a surly teenager. I prayed for it.
When evergreen eyes darted to me almost playfully, my body shuddered. I was frozen in place, shocked at my body’s response to this woman.
“Your dad has good taste.” Though she was speaking to Clara, Hannah was looking at me. “Kurt Cobain was a poet of his generation.”
“Which couldn’t have been your generation. I doubt you know anything but songs painted on T-shirts at Target,” I half barked at her.
Though I was lacking in social skills, even I understood that growling at her without so much as a greeting was bad. Very bad. But she pissed me off. By existing, by being so fucking stunning, for shifting my thoughts away from what was most important: my daughter. Her needs. Mine meant nothing. I shouldn’t evenhavefucking needs at that point in my life.
Hannah didn’t look overly offended by my gruff tone and lack of decorum; she tilted her head to regard me, a sly smile forming on her plump, pink lips.
“Try me,” she challenged, waggling her eyebrows.
My cock twitched again as my body mistook her meaning. I found myself wanting to do just that. Try her. Taste her.
“Ask me to name any song offIncesticide,” she prompted.
I forced my eyebrows to stay where they were. I was surprised. Hannah Morgan knew Nirvana. And she was a fucking siren, calling to me with her playful gaze, the parting of her lips, the wisps of hair falling around her face. What would it look like tumbling down her back? Wrapped around my fist?
I cleared my throat loudly.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I was a grown fucking man, in the presence of mydaughter,interviewing this woman—barely a woman—for a job. I was not a teenage boy, a slave to fucking testosterone.
“Nirvana trivia is not going to be a part of the interview questions,” I said tightly. “I’m Beau.”
I didn’t want to make contact with her, but I felt handcuffed by social graces. Children watched, imitated, and fuck it if having Clara forced me to be a polite goddamn person.
Her hand was tiny, dainty, clasped in mine. Again, my entire body reacted to her warm touch, to her holding eye contact, to that sly smile, to the flush in her high cheekbones.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Shaw,” she said, keeping her eyes on me.
Mr. Shaw.
I imagined her calling me that. On her knees.
Jesus fucking Christ. I let go of her hand like it was charged.
She didn’t seem to notice, which was good since Clara was done letting the adults talk, pulling Hannah into our living room slash makeshift interview space.
That gave me a perfect view of Hannah Morgan’s pert, round, peach-shaped ass.
I took a deep breath, thinking of baseball, hospital machines, and chopping raw chicken.
My cock calmed enough to be able to walk into my living room, where Clara was getting Hannah settled, offering refreshments as she had with the other women.
