As I hold the coffee out, my fingers brush his knuckles. Rough callouses scrape my skin, making my pulse jump. A heavy, soaking throb starts in my pussy.
He takes the mug, but his hand engulfs mine, holding the cup—and me—longer than he needs to. "Sugar?" I whisper.
"Black," he says, his voice dropping an octave. He sips, eyes locked on my face. "Like my soul, right, Sunshine?"
The nickname mocks me, but the gravel in his tone makes my toes curl. "I didn't say that." I hug my own mug to my chest.
"You didn't have to. Written all over your face." He steps back, giving me room to breathe, though the kitchen still feels too small. He leans against the island, crossing his ankles. "Maddie will be up in ten. She likes pancakes."
"I can make pancakes," I say, irritation piercing the lust. "I'm a nanny, Shane. I know how to feed a child."
He raises an eyebrow. "You're an artist who needed a job. Don't confuse the two." He wants to provoke me. I see the challenge in his dark eyes. "I can be both," I say, setting my mug down with a definitive clack. "I'll make the pancakes. You go… put a shirt on. Or don't. But stop staring at me like I’m going to steal the silverware."
Something flickers in his eyes. "I'm not worried about the silverware, Bianca." He tests the weight of my name on his tongue. "I'm watching to make sure you don't burn my house down."
"I have excellent fire safety skills."
"We'll see." He pushes off the island, draining half his coffee in one gulp. "Pancakes. Blueberries are in the fridge. Don't make a mess."
He walks out, the muscles of his back shifting under his skin. I watch him go until he disappears up the stairs. I let out a breath, leaning back against the counter. My pulse races. This man is going to be the death of me. Or the ruin of me. Probably both.
By the time Maddie bounds into the kitchen, sweet cream batter and sizzling butter scent the air. "Bee!" she squeals, launching herself at my legs. I laugh. Maddie is a beam of pure light—dark curls, solemn gray eyes, and an energy that, for the first time, seems to be breaking through her natural reserve.
"Good morning, monster," I say, ruffling her hair. "Hungry?"
"Starving! Daddy says I eat like a bear."
"A grizzly bear," Shane corrects as he re-enters. He’s dressed now in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that clings like a second skin. Heavy motorcycle boots thud against the floor. He looks ready for war. He walks over to Maddie and kisses the top of her head. The tenderness makes my chest ache, a stark contrast to the hard, unyielding man who cornered me ten minutes ago.
"Eat up, Mads," he says gently. Then he looks at me, warmth vanishing. "I'll be in the garage. Keep the doors locked."
"Specific threat?" I ask, flipping a pancake.
Shane’s jaw tightens. "The threat is whatever I say it is. Just lock the damn doors."
"Language," Maddie chirps around a mouthful of blueberries.
Shane sighs, glancing at the ceiling. "Sorry, peanut. Lock the doors." He fixes me with a hard stare. "Don't go outside the perimeter. If you need anything from town, write a list. I'll get it later."
"I have a car," I point out.
"Your car is a death trap on these roads," he says flatly. "And I don't want you driving down the mountain alone today."
"Why?"
He invades my space again. Soap and leather fill my nose. "Because I said so. You work for me, Bianca. Those are the terms. You stay here, where I know you're safe."
"Safe from what?" I wield the spatula like a weapon.
He stares down at me. "From everything." He walks out the back door. The lock clicks loudly behind him.
"Can we paint today?" Maddie asks.
I look at the closed door, pulse thrumming in my neck. He didn't just give an order. He staked a claim. "Yes," I say to Maddie. "We can paint."
The day passes in a blur of primary colors. We cover the kitchen floor in newspaper. Maddie slaps colors together with reckless abandon while I show her how to mix green. Peaceful. But I feel him. Through the window, I see him moving between the house and the detached garage. He chops wood, the rhythmic thwack of the axe echoing against the trees. I catch myself watching the way his shirt strains across his back. The focused brutality of his movements decimates the logs.
Around two o'clock, Maddie goes to her room for some quiet time with her books. The house falls silent. I scrub a stubborn spot of red acrylic off the floor when the back door opens. A gust of cold wind swirls in, carrying the smell of snow and exhaust. Shane stomps his boots on the mat. Grease stains his hands and dirt smears his forehead. He brings the cold in with him. He stops when he sees me on my hands and knees.
