She’s nervous and defiant. Strange and enticing. Worth maybe five seconds before I kick her to the curb.
Sure, she’s given me a hard-on, but not any patience. When I posted my ad, I expected serious offers. “Wrong job, lady. I need mornings, evenings, sometimes in between. This won’t work with your schedule.”
I twist my arm behind me, reaching for the door, ready to step back into my shop and slam it shut.
Then Red shows me how insane she really is.
She grabs my goddamned work shirt. She’s got to stand on her tippy toes to reach my collar, rocking forward from the motion, just enough to leave a soft invisible kiss of warm breath on my neck. An inch closer, and she’d plow her hips right into the hard-on I mentioned, big and tense and seething.
Fuck me seven ways. I don’t need this.
“An interview, Marshal. Five minutes of your time. That’s all I’m asking,” she says, her little fists twisting the fabric of my shirt. “I’m just a student in the lab. Not full time. They aren’t even paying me yet.”
I’m growling when I grab her wrists several seconds too late. It’s not like me to hesitate. “Three minutes. In the house. Start talking now.”
She’s ballsy for a broad, coming here like this, using my first name. To Port Eagle, I’m either Castoff or Mr. Howard. Both said with equal derision.
Her courage is worth something – at least a sixty second litany telling her why she needs to get fucking lost if she’s got any common sense.
I’ll pretend to hear her out and then get her gone.
A minute later, we’re in my kitchen. That’s where I finally remember to get my hands off her.
Doesn’t stop the ache below my waist. I stand behind the table, feigning setting breakfast plates for Mia, hoping Red doesn’t see what she’s done to me.
Her eyes dart around my place. I wonder what happened to the spitfire who marched her way in here only seconds ago, wonder why she’s so quiet. “What’s wrong? Clock’s ticking.”
She shakes her head, startled, pouring those bright green eyes into mine. “Nothing. It’s just…so normal.”
“What were you expecting? A cave with cougar skulls?” My hands slap the table so hard she jumps. “Start talking, sweetness. No time for games. What makes you think you’re remotely qualified for this job when you already upset my little girl?”
“You told me she usually cries. When I took her blood, she didn’t. Don’t I get a little credit for keeping her cheeks dry?”
I stare through her, letting my gaze do the talking. Very, very little.
“I’m a good listener,” she continues. “Young at heart. Responsible. I’ve taken every job I’ve ever had seriously. Never been disciplined once.”
There’s a first time for everything. The dangerous ache in my balls strengths when I think about her and discipline in the same sentence.
It isn’t fucking good for me.
I turn, throwing a fresh pot of water on the stove for oatmeal. Mia will be down here any minute. Red plows through her life experience, which isn’t much.
High school honor roll. Charity work in Cancun. Three years of college. Something about a sick mother.
I can’t believe I haven’t fallen back asleep by the time I decide to stop half-listening.
Hardly surprising for a girl in this town who looks like she’s barely old enough to drink. The girl trails off while I’m digging in the fruit basket for a few bananas to slice up, Mia’s favorite add-in.
“Oh, and I’m going to be an aunt. Good chance I’ll be helping my sister-in-law after the baby comes. Taking care of people is what I do, just like helping my sick mom. I mentioned that. Same reason I’m going into lab work. I’d love more experience with kids.”
I’m less impressed with this resume by the second. “Looks like we’re done here,” I say, throwing the banana slices and nuts on top of the oatmeal in a bowl, which I lay down in front of Mia’s seat.
“Wait, that’s it?” She’s got her arms folded when I turn.
“What else were you expecting? I can’t hire a kid fresh out of college who’s got half her day booked with more important shit. Let me save us both some time. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s wasting mine, and bringing you in here was a big –“
“Daddyyyy!” Mia’s squeal cuts in mid-sentence, but it’s not what interrupts me.
It’s the blur of tawny fur flying across the room a split second before my oatmeal hits the floor. Our cat, Whiskey, scurries off as my little girl stops. She doubles over, wide eyed and laughing. And who can blame her, knowing how many times I’ve tried to train that fucking hairball to stay off the table?
If he wasn’t her favorite, sometimes, I swear…
“You’re right. I’m sorry I wasted your time.” Red blinks at the mess. Her boots thump across the floor. Then I hear the hinges squeal as she pulls open the screen door, ready to leave this insanity behind.