They are storm-gray, cold and flat. Until they land on me.
When our eyes lock, the air leaves my lungs in a rush. My diaphragm spasms. A jolt, hot and electric, arcs through my body, starting in my chest and shooting straight down to the apex of my thighs. A physical blow. A recognition.
Oh.
My soul doesn't whisper; it screams. It’s a terrifying, primal acknowledgment that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with biology. My nipples harden instantly against the wool of my sweater, an ache blooming deep in my belly.
He stares at me, unblinking. His nostrils flare slightly, and I swear he’s scenting the air, smelling the sudden spike in my pheromones.
His gaze drops. He rakes over me, not with politeness, but with a heavy, tactile weight. He looks at my boots, my jeans, the curve of my hips, the swell of my breasts hidden under the sweater. He lingers there. I feel exposed, as if he’s stripped the wool away and is looking at bare skin.
"Who are you?" His voice is a low rumble, like rocks grinding together deep underground. It vibrates in my bones.
“I’m here for the nanny position,” I say. My voice wants to shake, but I force it to stay level, meeting his cold, predatory gaze with every ounce of grit I have left. “And before you tell me I don’t belong here, Sergeant, know that I’ve spent the last three years staring at concrete walls and starving for my art. A big man with a scowl and a leather vest doesn’t even make the top ten of things that scare me.”
His eyes narrow. The storm in them darkens. He takes a step toward me, and I fight the urge to step back. Not out of fear—though I should be afraid—but because the magnetic pull toward him is so strong it’s dizzying. I need distance to keep my sanity.
"Nanny," he repeats, the word tasting like poison. "I told Tristan to take that damn ad down."
"Tristan?" I manage.
"My brother." He steps closer. He towers over me. He has to be at least six-four, maybe six-five. I’m five-seven, not exactly small, but he makes me feel delicate. Fragile. "You're not what I asked for."
My spine stiffens. The insult cuts through the haze of lust. "Excuse me? You don't even know my qualifications. I have a degree in?—"
"I don't care about your degree," he interrupts, his voice dropping an octave. He’s close now. Too close. I can smell him—hot skin, cedar, old sweat, and something inherently masculine that makes my mouth water. "I asked for a standard helper. Old. Boring."
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, dragging over my body again. "You're not boring."
The statement isn't a compliment; it's an accusation.
"I need the job," I say, trying to sound professional, though my pulse thrashes against my throat. "I’m good with kids. I’m reliable. And I’m here."
He scoffs, a harsh sound. "You have no idea where you are, do you, sweetheart?"
The pet name is mocking, but it curls inside my stomach, warm and heavy. "I'm in Grizzly Peak. I know the reputation."
"Reputation," he echoes. He shifts the axe in his hand. The muscles in his forearm flex, ropey and hard. "You think you know? You drive your little yellow toy up here, looking like..." He trails off, his eyes locking on my hair, then my face. "Looking like trouble."
"I'm not trouble," I lie. I am trouble. I’m a mess. But I’m a determined mess. "I’m an artist. I’m just trying to make rent."
"An artist," he deadpans. "Great. Just what we need. Finger paints and feelings."
"Hey," I snap, stepping forward. My anger flares, bright and hot, matching his surliness. "I don't do finger paints. And I don't need your attitude. Do you need someone to watch your kid or not? Because from the looks of this place—" I gesture vaguely at the pile of unchopped wood and the general air of masculine chaos "—you’re barely keeping it together."
His jaw tightens. A dangerous light flares in his eyes. I pushed him. I poked the bear.
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. The wind howls through the trees, but neither of us looks away. The tension snaps like a live wire. My body reacts to his aggression in the most inappropriate way possible.
I’m wet. Drenched. I can feel the heat dripping between my thighs, the heavy throb of my pulse in my core as my pussy pulses, already begging for the violence I see in his eyes. I want him to stop looking at me like an intruder and start looking at me like prey.
God, Bianca, get a grip.
"Daddy?"
The small voice breaks the spell.
Shane—I assume this is Shane—doesn't flinch, but his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. The aggression doesn't leave his face, but it shifts, becoming protective.
