I know the timing sucks. He’s a single Dad with a young baby and a looming divorce, but there’s no denying the attraction between us. I should take a step back, but I’m not sure if I have the will power, or the inclination to do that.
We polished off almost two bottles of red tonight. My brain is wine-drunk and my body bone-tired, so despite my overthinking mind being in overdrive, once I snuggle down under the duvet, in the freshly made bed, Wendy put the clean sheets on earlier, and with an ache down low in my belly and a pain in my chest, I fall asleep.
Despite the wine-induced coma, I’m awake bright and early, determined to start today professionally. Max and I haven’t discussed yet what he wants or expects from me as Layla’s nanny, but I’m assuming he’ll want me there most of the day.
I shower and wash my hair then realise I don’t have a hairdryer with me. I message Mel and ask if she can arrange to have everything from my room, and all of the boxes of my stuff from her garage sent over.
I’ve not really got a lot of options with regards to what I can wear. I even had to wash my knickers out in the shower yesterday morning, so they’d dry in time for me to wear today.
I pull on the jeans I wore Sunday, an old-band T-shirt Mel packed for me, a long cardigan, and my converse. I pull my still damp hair up into a messy bun, brush my face with BB cream, swipe my lips with a tinted balm, grab my keys and phone, and head out the door.
It’s freezing, especially with wet hair, so I hurry towards Max’s back door, but it’s not until I reach the door that I notice the car sitting in the drive.
The back door’s unlocked, and I suddenly feel unsure as to whether I should go around to the front and knock or just let myself in. Because Max gave me a key and the code, I opt to let myself in.
When I enter the kitchen, the sound of a breakfast television show fills the air, and there is a woman around the same age as Wendy, feeding Layla. My steps falter as she looks up and smiles.
“Billie!” She says my name on an exhale, and I immediately recognise her as Karen Young, Max’s mum. “Look at you all grown up.”
I feel heat creep up my neck and know for a fact it’ll be staining my cheeks pink.
“Karen, hey, how are you?” I move in and kiss her cheek before brushing my lips across Layla’s head. Her big eyes track my movements as I unwrap my scarf and hang it over the back of a chair.
“I’m good, it’s been such a long time since I saw you last. You forget other people’s children grow up.”
“Well, I got older, but I’m not sure I grew much. I inherited my dad’s short-arse genes.”
“Well, you know what they say about small things. Is your hair wet? Did you walk across that drive with wet hair? You’ll catch your death of cold wandering around like that.”
My hand instinctively moves up to the damp hair piled on top of my head. “I don’t have a dryer. Mel’s sending the rest of my stuff over—” I stop, wondering if Max has told his mum yet that I’m moving into his flat. She doesn’t appear shocked to see me, so I assume he has and carry on. “Max did tell you I’ve moved into the flat, didn’t he?”
“Yes, love. Great idea. You’re exactly what these two need. Perfect.” Her blue eyes shine as she looks up at me.
“Well, it was all a bit last minute. I came for lunch on Sunday and haven’t been home since. Mel brought me some fresh clothes and toiletries yesterday but not a hairdryer. The rest of my stuff will hopefully get sent today.”
“Upstairs, second door to the right of the landing, there’s a dryer in the en suite, it’s a good one. That’s the room I stay in, so I bought it and just leave it here.”
I nod. “Thanks, I won’t be long, I’ll just nip up and dry it,” I tell her.
“No rush,” she calls out as I head towards the stairs.
I tip my head upside down and blast it with the dryer, and five minutes later I twist it back up into a bun and wind my curly scrunchy around it. I have a lot of hair, and now that it’s dry, it’s harder to contain, but I manage to capture most of it.
“Get real, Billie Wild. It doesn’t matter how you look, he’s not into you. He likes supermodels with legs as long as your entire body.” I give myself a wink. “But . . . it doesn’t hurt to stay positive, you never know, stranger things have happened. Play it cool and unaffected.” I nod at my reflection, head out onto the landing . . . and abruptly stop in my tracks.
Max.
Shirtless.
Again.
Jeans that sit low on his hips. Abs, ink, chest, arms, abs, ink, chest and all the rest that is him walks towards me barefoot while rubbing at his dripping-wet hair with a towel held in one hand and his T-shirt in the other.
Can this man not get dressed before he leaves his bedroom?
I hope not.
He wraps the towel around the back of his neck, the ends hanging over his chest.
Nipples . . . is the word on the tip of my tongue, and that’s exactly where I wish his were. Instead, I stare at them through the ink covering his chest. One emerges through the shading of some kind of tribal design, and the other sits beneath the tail feathers of a bird of prey type creature. A mythical Firebird maybe?
“Bamm?”
I smell him just before I look up and realise he’s right in front of me. A rivulet of water runs right through the centre of his chest, past the beak of the bird inked there, and then down, down to his belly button. My eyes shamelessly follow its path.
“Bamm?” he repeats my name slowly, as if it’s a question.
When did Bamm become my name?
Huh, who the fuck am I kidding? He could call me Salad or HeeHaw, and I’d still answer. I’d rather he didn’t, but if he did, I would.
My whorey eyes slice to meet his bemused expression. He’s trimmed his beard. His jaw isn’t smooth, it’s still covered in dark stubble, but I can see his lips more clearly now. My eyes flick to the indent right in the middle of his chin, along his jaw, up to meet his gaze. Eyes, almost the colour of a bird of prey’s greet me.
“Is that a hawk or a Firebird?” I ask, tipping my chin in the direction of his ink-covered pec.
I watch as he looks down at the tattoo.
“Firebird,” he replies gruffly.
“Cool. I saw the ballet years back when I was still at school. Isn’t she supposed to be orange?”
“Possibly, but I don’t like colour in my tattoos.”
“Me neither, but I have no choice, I’m allergic.”
“Allergic?”
He moves a little closer. The only light is the muted rays of early morning sun attempting to shine through the large arched window at the end of the landing. A myriad of fragrances invades my senses: mint, something earthy mixed with a hint of citrus, and man. Hot as fuck man to be very specific.
“Nickle,” I croak. “Certain colours contain nickel, I’m allergic to nickel. I could insist on vegan ink or just avoid reds and oranges, but rather than take a chance, I just stick to black.”
He nods. He’s so close I can feel his breath float across my cheek and smell the minty freshness of it.
“What’s the one on your back?” he asks.
I frown. How the fuck does he know I have a tattoo on my back?
“The top you had on yesterday, it was hanging off your shoulder, and I saw it,” he explains.
“Oh. It’s a lotus flower. I had a really shitty one done in Thailand when I was there with Cal and Melissa years ago. It was supposed to be a lily, but it didn’t look like anything much, and I hated it. Drew, my, erm, friend who I worked with in the States is covered in ink. He had a friend in San Diego with a studio, and he booked me in with him to have it covered. The new one takes up my whole shoulder blade and curls over my shoulder. I love how it looks now,” I witter on, over-explaining.
His eyes travel from my face to my shoulder and across my chest, and he takes in my T-shirt and smirks. “Carnage? You’re such a little fangirl.”
I shrug. “Unashamedly so. One of th
e greatest bands Britain has ever produced. Layton and McCarthy are up there as one of the world’s best song writing duos.”
“You know they own our label? Their agency reps the band?”
“Of course I do. I’ve met Marley a couple of time . . . and when I say met, I mean I was introduced to him but lost all and any ability to speak, breathe, pretty much every cognitive behaviour I possess. To be honest, I just stood there, but I was only fourteen. I’d handle things much better if the opportunity ever arose again.”
I wouldn’t. I’d totally lose my shit, but I’d never admit to that.
“I’ll have to see what I can arrange.” He licks his lips.
I stare at them. I’m scared to step back because I’m not sure how much landing there is behind me before the stairs start, and the last thing I need to be doing on the first official day of my new job is to go arse over tit down the stairs backwards with his mum here to witness the unfortunate event.
“That would be life-changing. Thank you.”
Max gives a small you’re-welcome type of nod before asking, “Why are you over here so early?”
Right, time to get professional.
“Well, I, we haven’t discussed anything regarding my role, so I wasn’t really sure what time you expected me. I thought too early would be better than too late. I didn’t realise your mum was going to be here though.”
“Me neither.”
“You did need . . . I mean, if you don’t need me—”
“No, yeah, I do. Need you, I mean . . .” He smiles and shakes his head. “Let’s get a coffee and talk about exactly what I’ll need from you.” His eyes flick to my mouth as he says the last bit.
I didn't imagine that. They definitely did.
“Okay,” I agree. “Coffee will be good. I struggle without it in the morning.”
He tilts his face up towards the ceiling before casting those hawk-like eyes my way. “Shit, there’s no coffee machine in the flat, is there? We took it out at the weekend and put it in the studio. I’ll order you one online this morning.”
“No, it’s fine. I can get my own. If you don’t mind, there are a few things I’d like to get, you know, to make it more mine . . . if that’s okay with you, of course?”
“Course it is, but I’m more than happy to get you anything you need. The place has central heating, Wi-Fi, a smart TV, built-in Bluetooth sound system. The kitchen should be fully kitted out with everything else you might need . . . except a coffee machine, of course.”
“Well, once I get one, I’ll be all set.”
“I’ll order you one this morning.”
“No need. I’ll get my own.”
He huffs. “Bamm, consider it a perk of the job.”
“Wow, you’re a punny bloke. Cracking Dad jokes so early.”
He frowns before leaning into the glass and timber panel that surrounds the top of the staircase. “Dad jokes?”
“Coffee machine, perk of the job. I see what you did there, or was at least trying to. Best stick to music, Max, leave the comedy to those who are naturally funny.”
He rolls his eyes as he folds his arms across his chest. “I am funny. I wasn’t trying to be funny then but, yeah, I can be funny.”
He frowns, looking a bit upset that I’d not think him funny. I would ask if I’ve hurt his feelings and if he needs a cuddle, but he’s my boss, and that might be considered a tad inappropriate.
“Don’t worry about a coffee machine, I’ll get you one. Anything else you need?”
“Just my clothes, which I’ve messaged Mel about, and I need to sort out a car.”
His dark brows pull down into a deeper frown. “Car?” he asks.
“Yeah, metal box, engine, four wheels . . .”
“Full of it this morning, Bamm, you always this much of an arsehole before coffee?” he asks, his brows getting even more of a workout as they rise towards his hairline.
“Yes,” I answer honestly. “But I do need to get a car. I sold mine years ago before I left for college.”
“Why’d you need a car?”
“Because I need one. What if I want to leave the house or take Layla out somewhere?”
“If you leave the house with Layla, then Micky will take you. You don’t go anywhere with Layla without Micky or one of his boys being with you.”
I’m not sure how I feel about that, does he not trust me?
“I’d never . . .” I start, sounding obviously affronted.
“It’s not about you, Bamm. I trust you with my daughter. It’s the paps and the psycho’s I don’t trust. You go anywhere outside of this house with Layla, you go with security, and they’ll be driving you in one of my cars.”
Fair enough.
“Well, I’m assuming I’ll get a day off, what about when I want to go out on my own? I’ll need a car then.”
“Take mine.”
“What? I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. I’ve got two Land Rovers and a Merc in the garage, what’s the point of you buying another car that’ll just sit on the drive? I’ll talk to Gaynor and get you added to the insurance. You know what? You might need security yourself for a little while. The press are nosy, they’re gonna try and get to me through you. I don’t want you driving while that lot are chasing you. I want you safe.”
He wants me safe.
My cheeks burn . . . and maybe some other parts of me.
I’ve had cameras shoved in my face most of my life. I’ve been in a car, driving with Mel when a photographer followed us on the back of a motorbike. He came up the side of the car and tried to take photos of her as she drove with Kenzie and me in the back. She was terrified, and I think Kenz and I picked up on her fear and started crying. That was years ago though.
Are the press still really so interested in the band?
I give him a quick nod. “Okay,” I agree.
“Okay, now let's go get some coffee.”
We spend the morning going over what Max expects of me. He’s very laid back about everything, I’m happy with everything he expects, but when he tells me what the position pays, I have to object.
“Max, no. I don’t expect special treatment. That’s double the average wage for a live-in nanny in London.”
“Bamm, argue all you like. Living in London is expensive, I won’t be comfortable paying you any less.”
He laces his fingers together behind his head and leans back in the kitchen chair opposite mine. Stretching his legs out in front of him, he raises his brows, and stares at me, apparently waiting on a response. All the while, I take in his lean frame, ink-covered arms, stubble-covered chin and jaw, and those impressive eyes of his. The ache I went to sleep with down low in my belly last night is still there. If anything, I’m even more hyperaware of it while in his presence.
I cross my legs under the table, enjoying the friction between them the movement creates, and lean my elbows on the table. I rest my chin in my hand and study him right back. It’s weird being around Max so casually. I kinda know him, but I don’t. He’s known me all of my life, but he doesn’t really know me at all, and yet I still feel entirely at ease and comfortable in his presence.
I note his eyebrows are still raised and realise he’s waiting on a response. I don’t need his money. If I didn’t want to, I don’t actually need to work. I’m wealthy in my own right. My parents left me a decent inheritance, plus, they were well insured. Cal has handled my money since they died and has used his people to invest it wisely. Even in the current economic climate, I’m set for life. I definitely don’t need Max paying me double the going rate for a nannying position.
I try a different tact. “You need to deduct my rent out of that amount then.”
“No, I don’t. It’s a benefit of the job—”
“Max . . .”
He smiles. “Look at you getting all pissed off. I’d forgotten about that red-headed temper of yours.”
I blow out a breath, or a huff, and feeling frustrated, I get up from t
he table and move to the fridge. Pulling a bottle of water out, I turn back to face him, and before I can say anything, he chimes in with, “That’ll be five quid, please.”
“What?”
“The water. You wanna do things your way, fine. That’ll be five quid every time you take a bottle of water from my fridge.”
I look from him to the bottle. “You need to stop buying these, they’re killing the wildlife in our oceans and polluting our planet.”
“I don’t buy them. They’ve been sitting in there for months. The fridge is plumbed in. I get my water from the dispenser and pour it straight into a glass or refill my drink bottle.”
“How much do you charge for a glass of water?”
“A quid, usually. For you, three quid.”
“You’re a dick,” I tell him.
“I’m well aware of that. I’m still paying you the amount I said though.”
“Fine, I’ll just spend it on Layla.”
“I’ll also be adding an allowance for things you might need to get her.”
I throw the bottle of water at him. Gritting my teeth as a dull pain shoots through my side. His reaction is on point, and he catches it with one hand just as the alarm sounds for the gate.
Max moves towards the back door, and I quickly check on Layla who, after spending two hours wide awake lying under her baby gym earlier, is now sleeping soundly, and then follow Max.
My brother is outside in the monster-sized pickup truck he had imported from America a couple of years back. The thing is a beast, and how he navigates it through the busy, narrow streets of London, I have no idea.
I watch as Max and Cal go through their manly backslap-handshake routine before Cal comes over and kisses the top of my head. “Missed ya, kid. How’s it going, he looking after you?”
“It’s only been a day, but going good so far.”
My brother nods. “I’ve got all your shit in the back of The Beast.”
“My shit? That’s everything I own in the world.” I attempt to sound offended.
Max is opening up the lid on the truck’s tray as I speak. “This is it?” he questions.
“I was living in someone else's house, so all I had there were my clothes and a few personal bits and pieces.”
All the Forbidden Things Page 18