my nipples were standing at attention before, then he definitely knows now.
Reluctantly I meet his dark gaze. Oh, he knew. He definitely knew.
“Your job isn’t to be best friends with Paige,” he says.
“Right,” I say, even though I don’t know where he’s going with this.
“Your job with her is the same as it is with the kitten. Keep her alive and keep her out of my hair. That’s what you’re getting paid to do. Understand?”
In both the before and after of my life, I believed in the value of family. I always knew my father loved me. And cared for me. And when he was gone, when I was cold and lonely and afraid, I knew it was because I no longer had a family. “But she’s your niece.”
“I’m not a parent. I’m a businessman. And in the business world, she’s what we call a liability. Something I’m required to pay. An expense. A loan. The wrong side of the balance sheet.”
My breath sucks in. “She’s a child.”
His gaze flicks down to where my arms cover my breasts. “So were you, not that long ago.”
For the first time I’m aware of him as more than a shadow shouting in the rain, as more than my new employer. I become aware of him as a man. And he’s aware of me as a woman. There’s a form of power in that mutual understanding.
There are years between us. How old is he? Some number greater than thirty, for sure. The hard planes of his face are strong, mature. His eyes are world weary. I would almost expect there to be gray in his hair for how jaded he appears, but instead there’s a lush black.
Too many years for a potential relationship, even if he were interested in rain-soaked nannies and I were interested in cold-blooded men. But the spark runs between us anyway, our bodies giving way to chemistry when our minds should know better.
I need to end this awareness, this mutual interest, the physicality of standing here while both of us are cold and shivering, our clothes clinging to our skin. “Good night,” I say, but the word comes out low and smoke-filled, as if I meant it to be tempting.
I’ve never meant to be tempting in my life.
He does not answer me with words. Instead he closes the door in my face.
CHAPTER THREE
I wake up at six a.m. to an overcast day and texts from Noah. His face appears next to his words, that lazy grin, his dirty blond hair. The kitten stretches beside me and mews, clearly interested in finding more milk for the day.
How was the flight? Did you meet the family?
Shana covered your shift yesterday. Pissed off a bunch of your regulars.
Are you ready to come home yet?
At least my waterlogged cell phone continues to work.
Noah was placed in my last foster home before me. He took me under his wing. Taught me the unspoken rules. Snuck food from the kitchen when I was punished and made to go without dinner. He’s my best friend in the world, and I hate disappointing him.
Met the uncle, I swipe into my phone. Seems kinda strict.
We know all about strict. The foster home we shared was built on ever-shifting rules that we would inevitably fail. It was cold and uncomfortable and filled with fleas—but it was a roof over our heads and questionable food on a plate each evening.
He texts back right away. Miss you already.
Guilt sits heavy in my stomach. He didn’t want me to sign this contract, but I couldn’t keep working shifts at the diner and the grocery store forever. I barely earned enough to cover my share of the rent, much less what it would take to go to college.
Only three percent of kids who age out of the foster care system ever get a college degree. I’m going to be in that three percent even if it kills me.
I’m going to trade in this one year for a new future.
This job will change my life.
Assuming I keep it. That seems uncertain based on the way Beau Rochester spoke last night.
Leaving the kitten in bed, I shower quickly and step out of the room with my hair still wet. I don’t have to count the doors to know which one belongs to the child. Paige. That’s her name. Paige Rochester. The door is open, and there’s an argument in progress.
“It’s twenty degrees outside,” says a low voice I recognize as Beau. “You can’t walk around in