My house is quiet, and I find the kitchen empty when I walk in. The telly’s on in the family room but the volume is low. I make my way around the dining table, towards Layla’s crib when I spot Billie, sleeping soundly on my sofa, Layla cradled against her chest.
Fucking hell.
Every inappropriate thought I had yesterday about my best mate’s twenty-two-year-old sister, invades my brain in a steady rush, and as ashamed as I should feel, I don’t.
Not only is Billie Wild hot, cute, bright, interesting, and funny but she’s also kind and caring, and did I mention as hot as all fucking fuck? I feel zero shame in thinking any of those things. I also have absolutely no fucking clue what to do with any of it. Offering her a job, one that involves her moving into the flat above my garage, taking care of my daughter, and spending the better part of her day, every day, in or around me, probably wasn’t my brightest idea. But she’d been talking on the phone to some dick who was obviously into her, and drunk me got a bee in his fucking bonnet about it and thought, “Ya know what’d be a good idea? Offering her a job and moving her in.”
Again, this is why I shouldn’t drink.
Layla shifts slightly, and I watch as Billie's palm instantly rubs her back in an attempt to soothe her. Billie licks her lips, and my dick twitches at the exact same moment her eyes flutter open and land on me. They widen before she blinks them closed for a long moment. When she opens them again, they’re cast down at my bare feet, where they linger a second before travelling up the length of my legs. They settle on my torso, and I realise that I’m still holding my T-shirt in my hand and am, in fact, naked from the waist up.
Her tongue flicks out, and she licks her lips again before dragging her top teeth over the bottom one and holding it hostage, trapped inside that perfect little mouth of hers.
I can’t help but smile as her eyes glide appreciatively over my ink-covered abs and chest, and when they finally meet mine, I hold her gaze and hope she doesn’t cast hers back down. I’m pretty fucking sure that my hard-on will be more than apparent as it strains against my boxers and sweats.
She blinks bleary eyes at me a couple of times before giving me a small smile and saying, “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I fell asleep. I’d never normally—shit! How unprofessional—”
“Bamm—”
“. . . of me. I can’t believe I did that.”
“Bamm. It’s fine. I do it all the time. Sleeping on my chest is Layla’s favourite thing, and I’m sure yours is much softer and more comfortable.” I nod, slicing my eyes to, and quickly away from, her chest where Layla currently sleeps.
“I know, but you’re . . . I mean, I don’t mean my chest is more comfortable than yours because I’m sure yours is very comfortable, but, yeah, you’re her dad, you’re allowed to fall asleep. This is my job. Imagine if you went out on stage and fell asleep?”
I smile at her comparison, at how flustered she’s getting and how she just confirmed that she’d taken the job drunk me offered her. “Stop stressing, Bamm. Seriously, this gig got landed on you out of the blue. If anyone’s irresponsible here, it’s me. Like you said, I’m her dad. I drank too much yesterday and left everyone else to take care of Layla.”
I watch her eyes dart back down to my chest, and she swallows. I quickly pull my T-shirt over my head, not because I don’t want her looking at me but because I like it when she does.
Too much.
I like her eyes on me. I like the fact my bare chest affects her, and as much as I like the way my body reacts to all of that, it also scares the ever-loving shit out of me.
I steer my thoughts, and in turn, the conversation towards Layla. “How’s she been?”
“She’s been great,” Billie responds with a smile aimed at the top of Layla’s head. She rubs at her back again before kissing her temple, and my insides warm at the affectionate move.
“She’s such a good baby, Max. So content. You’ve done an amazing job, considering all the disruption she’s had in her little life.”
I take a moment to bask in her praise. I’ve heard it from others, but for some reason Billie’s approval of how I care for my daughter is important to me. Before I can thank her, the oven timer goes off.
“Wendy made a lasagna earlier. I put it in on low since I wasn’t sure what time you’d wake up but thought you might be hungry when you did.”
“You met Wendy?”
“Oh yes.” She gives a nod and a small laugh.
“She’s quite a character, right?”
“She sure is. I think that’s why I fell asleep, her talking wore me out.”
“Don’t ever tell her this, but sometimes I pretend to be asleep just so she shuts up.”
“Does it work?” she asks with a smile.
“Fuck no. The woman never stops talking.”
She giggles. And fuck me, it reaches every part of my body. I even feel a sense of pride that I did that. I made her laugh.
We both smile as we stare at each other.
This is easy, that’s what it is. Everything with Billie is easy and such a stark contrast from the strain that existed between Whitney and me. Strained, tense, and forced, and yet I was totally oblivious to it . . . Or maybe I just chose to ignore it, as desperate as I was for us to work.
“Come and take your daughter. I set the timer to go off fifteen minutes before the lasagna will be ready to remind me to put the garlic bread in.”
I move forward with a little too much force, not expecting Billie to sit up or for my fingers to brush across each of her tits as I lift Layla from her. Our eyes meet, and we both still for the longest few seconds of my life. I stand up straight, moving Layla against me, my racing heart calming as I breathe her in. She smells like Layla, with a hint of Billie’s fresh citrusy smell mixed in. I may take in another breath … an extra deep breath.
I step back, allowing Billie the space she needs to stand up.
“I’ll just go put the garlic bread in. Do you want a salad to go with it? Wendy said there was plenty in the fridge to make one.”
Standing in front of me, I take in every inch of Billie Wild, from the pink, black, and grey fluffy socks on her feet, her freckled cheeks flushed pink, to her hair, the colour of everything autumn piled on top of her head in an untidy mess … which is all kinds of sexy in that just been fucked kind of way.
I clear my throat and meet her eyes.
“Salad sounds good. There should be some fresh parmesan in the fridge too.”
She gives a small nod then turns and heads towards the kitchen. I watch her leave, parts of her I actually don’t take my eyes off. She’s wearing khaki green-coloured sweats that showcase her perfect arse and tiny waist, a cropped black sweatshirt hangs off one shoulder, giving me a quick glimpse of a tattoo on her back that I’d gotten a glimpse of yesterday. I force my attention away from her arse, and stare down at my hardwood floor because this is Billie. Cal's little sister. Pete and Lainy’s daughter. Little Billie.
“What the fuck am I doing?” I stare up at the ceiling and ask anyone who might care to respond and pass judgment.
Layla squeezes her hands into fists, stretches her arms up into the air, and pulls her knees up to her chest. “Wha’d’ya reckon, bug, is Daddy a terrible person? If anyone ever checks your arse out the way I just checked out Bamm’s, I’d gouge their fuc—fluffing eyes out. Then I’d shove them down their throat.”
Her little face screws up, and she gives a small cry before opening her eyes and staring up at me.
She smiles, making everything right in the world, and for now, I forgive myself for checking out Billie’s arse and other parts, as well as all of the other inappropriate thoughts I’ve had about her.
“Ow! Shit!” I hear Billie swear from the kitchen.
I move in that direction and ask, “You okay? Anything you need me to do?” It’s then that I remember Billie has her hand in a cast. She manages so well with it that I’ve barely noticed it’s there.
“I’m fine,
just burnt my thumb putting the bread in the oven.”
“You sure you can manage with that thing on your hand?”
She turns and faces me as I move towards the table. Her good hand goes to her hip and her chin tips up.
“I’ve managed just fine all day,” she responds with attitude. Eyebrows raised and looking at me as though she’s about to go into battle.
It would be impressive if there weren’t faint yellow bruises still shadowing her face.
I’m hit with a wave of nausea then absolute blind fucking rage when I think about what that dick in America did to her.
“Yellow’s not a colour I like seeing you wear, Bamm,” I tell her.
She frowns.
“Good job that fucker’s dead; otherwise, I’d be hunting him down.”
Her fingertips move to her face, brushing across her cheek. My jaw aches, and pain shoots through my temple as I grind my teeth together.
She’s so little, why would someone ever want to hurt her? I kiss Layla’s head and close my eyes in an attempt to calm myself the fuck down. I was pissed off and angry when Cal told me what had happened to her, but now, reconnecting and getting to know the beautiful woman Billie has grown up to be, I just want to hurt the prick responsible.
I look up and meet Billie’s grey-blue stare.
She holds up her hand that’s in the cast. “I’m nearly healed now. If anything, it’s my ribs that still give me the most pain. This thing’s just a nuisance, and my bruises are mostly faded.” She shrugs and shakes her head.
I move Layla to the crook of my arm. “And what about up here?” I point at my temple with the index finger of my free hand. “He put his fucking hands on you. He pointed a fucking . . .” I look all around my kitchen as I try to rein in the overwhelming anger I’m feeling. “He pointed a gun at you, Bamm. I mean, what the fuck? How do you move on from that?”
“What d’ya want me to do, Max? If I keep reliving the fear I felt that night, it just means he’s won. He’s dead, I’m alive, and I intend living my best life not thinking about him.”
“I’m just . . . I’m not okay with it. His hands on you. Him hurting you.”
“Me neither, but I won’t let it rule or ruin my life.”
I want to kiss her. I want to hold her in my arms and kiss her mouth and her bruised cheeks and jaw. “You are so fucking brave.”
“I’m not brave, I’m just . . . I don’t know. I’m just a girl trying to live her life.”
We watch each other. I take a step forward at the same time she does, at that exact moment the oven timer goes off again.
“The bread’s ready, and I’ve not even started the salad.”
“Fuck the salad,” I say while taking another step towards her.
“Sit, I’ll get you a plate and get this served up before it burns.” She turns away from me.
While she collects plates and cutlery, I put Layla into her swing chair and turn it on, so it sways and rocks her gently. When I head back to the table, there's only one place been set.
“What’s this?” I gesture towards the plate and cutlery.
“Your plate,” she replies while staring into the oven. “Can you lift this out? I’m worried I might drop it.”
“Where’s yours?”
She turns and looks my way, tosses me the oven gloves, and asks, “What?”
“Your plate?” I question.
Her brows pull down as she looks at the table and then back at me. “This is your dinner, not mine,” she explains.
“You’re not eating?”
The wave of disappointment at the thought of eating alone is more painful than it should be as it washes over me. I watch her as she scratches at the bare skin on the shoulder exposed by her sweatshirt.
“Have you eaten already?”
“No. I just wasn’t sure—”
“Bamm, you're in my house, it’s dinner time, you eat. Get a plate, I’ll get the lasagna and garlic bread out of the oven. There’s wine in the fridge if you want some.”
She stares at me a moment before asking, “You sure?”
“Get a fucking plate and sit your arse down.” She gives me a smile so big I feel it in my chest and all the way down to my balls.
We move around each other in my kitchen as I retrieve the food from the oven, and Billie grabs her own plate and two wine glasses. It feels good having her in my space. I like it more than I probably should.
“It’s red?” She turns and questions from the open door of the fridge.
“Yeah.”
“You chill your red?”
“Yeah. I don’t like my red at room temperature, especially with food.”
She closes the fridge door, her smile beaming at me from across the room as she moves towards my way. “I drink my red chilled too. It’s a habit I picked up in California. Room temp was way too warm for me, and I totally agree, if you’re drinking it with food, it has to be chilled.” She pauses beside where I’m standing behind my chair at the table. “Especially if the food’s spicy. I’ve just not met anyone else in this country who drinks it like this.”
That thing happens again. Along with the silence that says so very much, there’s that thing I can’t quite explain. It’s like a pull, a little arc of electricity that bounces between us, attempting to reel us in and draw us closer together.
I reach out and take the bottle from her. Our fingertips touch, but neither of us pulls away. She stares up, I stare down. I want to kiss her so fucking bad I visualise how it will go, heads slanting, mouths crashing, tongues teasing and tangling. I can almost taste her, feel the softness of her lips . . .
Almost.
But I don’t move. I won’t. I can’t. I don’t want to ruin what we have. And I care too much to involve her in the shit I have going on in my life. Billie’s been through enough, and the last thing she needs is to become entangled in my drama.
So, instead of kissing her, I reach for the back of her chair and pull it out. “After you.” I gesture with my head to her chair.
She blinks, and I feel the breath she releases against my cheek as I move past her. Her shoulders slump slightly, and I wonder for a moment if she wanted me to kiss her as badly as I wanted to deliver that kiss. Did her shoulders slump in relief or disappointment?
We eat dinner, drink wine, and talk and talk. We laugh, and we talk some more.
Her music tastes are eclectic, everything from Roy Orbison to Eminem, who she believes the world will one day recognise as being as crucial to the English language for his words as Shakespeare, to Carnage, Marley Layton being one of her childhood crushes … I’m not jealous, to Ed Sheeran and Billie Eilish. She also plays the guitar. I actually gave her first lesson back when she was a kid.
Her favourite city is London, and Melbourne is a close second. As for films, oddly enough, she hates musicals, except for Grease. She loves horror, and her favourite film ever—she has a few—but three of them are the different versions of A Star Is Born. And according to “Billie Law,” which apparently is most definitely a thing, they technically only count as one. When a Man Loves a Woman is her other choice since Andy Garcia is another of her first ever crushes . . . I lied. I’m jealous! E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial is her third favourite film choice.
We even spoke about politics. She’s a left-wing Nationalist with some right-wing views, explaining that if you live in a country, you should adapt and respect the culture and laws. Work hard, pay your taxes, contribute. Born to an English dad and American mum, she’s spent a lot of time in both countries but considers herself English. And religion: she believes in good and evil and that we all have the right to love whomever we want to love.
We cover all of the subjects. Billie has strong opinions on almost every one of them, and her arguments for her views or against mine are expressed eloquently. So much so that I found myself seeing her point of view on the few things we didn’t agree on … except how hot she thinks Marley Layton is.
It’s after midnight when I w
atch her from my back door as she makes her way across my gravelled driveway to her flat above the garage. She turns and waves as she reaches her front door, and I wave back and watch her go through it.
Since she came into my life, Billie Wild has been the owner of a piece of my heart. She’s the first newborn I ever held. I’ve collected her from school and babysat her and Kenzie when Cal and Mel took a much-needed night out shortly after Billie came to live with them. I taught her how to drive a quad when she was about eleven and we were all staying down at Jay’s place on the edge of the New Forest. I showed her how to swing a golf club when we were all on holiday one year in Portugal. Until the age of thirteen or fourteen, she was an integral part of my life and features heavily in most of my memories from those times.
Tonight, though, not only did we create memories that will forever be etched on my very soul, but she left my house, crossed my driveway, and went through her front door in possession of more, so much more. A more significant piece of my heart, a different part that contains a different kind of love. The grown-up type that involves wants, needs and desires the like of which I’ve never felt for any other woman, and there’s nothing I can do, nowhere I can go with any of it.
Billie is a ripe, juicy, very forbidden fruit, but what I feel for her is far too important to me to involve her in the shitshow of my life.
Billie
I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to. God did I want him to. And I thought he was going to, was sure he would. Until he didn’t. Why didn’t he? Am I imagining what’s happening between us? I might be nowhere near as experienced as Max Young, but I know enough about men to be aware of heated stares, lingering touches, and when someone's out-and-out flirting with me. I also didn’t miss the hard-on he was packing when I woke up on his sofa this afternoon.
All the Forbidden Things Page 17