Chapter Two
Two
“I’on trust nobody that makes Mary Poppins look like Lizzy Borden.”
Von
“F uck. You have got to be shittin’ me.”
I read over the paper in my hand two more times, and I still can’t believe what I’m looking at.
No, correction. I can completely believe this. It’s Sheree, after all. And my ex-wife has nothing but bitterness and time on her hands to pull this bullshit.
Tossing the petition for modification of our divorce on my desk, I snatch up my cell and dial a number I know by heart now. Shit, it’s listed in my Favorites because I’ve used it so often over the last year.
Ten minutes later, I end the call, and some of my anger and, yes, panic, has subsided.
According to Ronald Waller, my divorce attorney, Sheree filing the modification petition doesn’t mean shit if she can’t prove there have been significant changes in my circumstances from those repeatedly hashed out in the original decree. And last I checked, those “circumstances” remain the same. I owned my tattoo shop before we even met one another. But for some reason, she believes the five years we were married, plus the two weeks she helped me out by working the front desk when my employee up and quit, affords her fifty percent of my shit. Hell, I even paid her for those two weeks.
Leaning back in my battered leather chair, I link my fingers behind my head, blowing out a long breath. It’s only twelve thirty, and I’m tired as hell. That’s the usual result of anything having to do with Sheree. She’s fucking exhausting.
A knock on the door echoes in the office, and seconds later, my employee and best friend, Michelle Carter, pokes her head inside.
“Aye, I didn’t say come in.” I lower my arms, scowling at her. “What if I’d been in here fucking?”
She walks in, closing the door behind her. Crossing the room, she drops into the armchair in front of my desk. “This is you we’re talking about. While I or Jah might get some dick and pussy up in here, that ain’t you.” She arches a pierced eyebrow. “Besides, are you forgetting I know what it sounds like when you fuck? Shit was too quiet in here for that.”
Yeah, Chelle and I have a past. But that was years ago. When I brought her into the shop as an artist, we’d cooled on that. I don’t shit where I eat. Ever. Not only is it bad business, but it’s messy as hell. And contrary to how tattoo shops are portrayed on reality TV, King Tattoos is drama free.
“What do you want?”
That’s the great thing about best friends. They don’t get their feelings hurt when you’re rude. It’s practically a prerequisite for friendship with me.
“Nothing.” She shrugs, stretching her lightly muscled, heavily inked arms above her head. More tattoos peek above the round neckline of her white tank top. “My one o’clock canceled, so I’m free until three. And I already have that piece drawn up. So I came in here to see what you got going on.”
Instead of answering, I pick up the petition and toss it toward the edge of the desk. Chelle picks it up and scans it. A sneer curls the corner of her mouth, and when she lifts her head, disgust gleams in her dark brown eyes.
“She just doesn’t stop, does she?” Chelle drops the paper back on the desk, sucking her teeth. “She already gets spousal support. But she’s not going to be satisfied until she can take everything from you.” She claps her hands together in the prayer position and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Lord, if I’m ever a bitter bitch, please just strike me down and put me out of my misery.” In spite of the anger still seething in my gut, I chuckle. “Seriously, though. You know Sheree only wants to get her hands on this shop because she knows how much you love it. Especially since you were awarded primary physical custody of Gia. She doesn’t have anything but space and opportunity to fuck with you.”
“Yeah, I know.” I drag a hand over my stitch braids then down my face. My beard scratches my skin, and I’m reminded that it’s past time for a line up. “But this isn’t going to work. I’ll still have to go through the pain-in-the-ass hearing, wasting time I could be getting money, but she’ll have to try again.”
“And she will,” Chelle mutters.
She’s not wrong. What’s the saying? The person you divorce isn’t the one you married. I’m living proof of that. The woman I met and fell in love with ten years ago is not the same Sheree who dragged me through hell and back in our divorce. I don’t know that person. And don’t want to.
“Forget her. Sheree gon’ keep Sheree-ing. Ain’t shit we can do about it right now.” Chelle reaches into her pocket and removes her ever-present pack of spearmint gum. Unwrapping it, she eyes me. “When’s your next tattoo?”
“Three. But I have an interview before then at...” I pick up my cell and touch the screen. “Well, damn. In about ten minutes.”
She frowns, popping in the piece of gum. “Interview for what? A new artist? You didn’t mention bringing someone in.”
“Nah, it’s for a nanny position. I haven’t found a reliable one since Ms. Anne left. I can’t keep going through all these babysitters. Gia needs stability.”
Frustration trips through me, and I clench my jaw against it. Not like I begrudge our longtime nanny the opportunity to be with her grandchildren in Florida. Ms. Anne had been with us since Gia was two—for five years—and she’d become family. So even though we miss her, Gia especially, Ms. Anne deserves to be with her daughter, son-in-law and their children. Still, it’s been almost a month, and I haven’t found anyone to replace her long-term. I’m damn near desperate.
“Well, make sure whoever you hire knows how to cook. No one bakes banana nut bread like Ms. A, but we need someone who comes close.”
“I’m glad your priorities are straight when it comes to my daughter’s childcare.”
“Now, you know lil’ G’s my heart.”
Chelle might’ve been teasing about the banana nut bread—well, not really—but she does love my little girl, considers Gia one of her five nieces. Which was another problem with Sheree. She hadn’t wanted “one of my hoes” around our daughter—her words, definitely not mine. My ex-wife couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that there was nothing but friendship between me and Chelle. I loved Sheree, but I wasn’t getting rid of a relationship that had been around longer than her, or letting go of a dope-ass artist for her petty jealousy. Particularly since I’d never given her a reason to be jealous.
Yeah, the joke was on me.
I pick up my phone again, looking for the email that has the information regarding the person I’m interviewing. She’s late. Technically, she still has seven minutes until one thirty. But I’m of the school of thought, if you’re on time, you’re ten minutes late.
Glancing up at Chelle, I snort. “And yet, I don’t see you volunteering to babysit.”
Chelle raises her hand, studies her short, red-painted nails. “If you want me to cancel appointments so I can hang with my niece, then I’m all for it. But I don’t do that for free.”
“There’s something wrong with you,” I mutter.
She cackles, and a knock sounds at my office door. Unlike Chelle, the person on the other side waits until I invite them to enter.
“Yeah,” I call out.
A moment later, Malcolm, the front desk employee, opens the door. “Hey, you have a woman out here who says she has a nanny interview with you.”
“Aight. Here I come.”
Four minutes to spare.
Shoving back my chair, I stand and round the desk. Chelle rises, too, and follows me out of the room. I toss her a look over my shoulder, but she smiles. Shaking my head, I don’t tell her to mind the business that pays her. Not like she’s going to listen anyway.
We pass the open area with six large cubicles, where the murmur of voices and the whir of tattoo machines punctuate the air. I employ five tattoo artists, and each of them are damn good at what they do. Every one of them has a style they specialize in—Chelle is a beast at black-and-gray portraits, and not many can get with Zion when it comes to new school—and I’m thankful to have them in my shop. They’re the reason the schedule stays booked months out, and clients come from all over the country to King Tattoos to get ink.
I head down the hallway, reaching the open entrance that leads to the lobby. As soon as I pass through, my gaze falls on the woman standing at the front desk. She turns to look at me, and I frown. There has to be some mistake.
I’m supposed to be meeting Aaliyah Montgomery for the nanny position, not fucking Pollyanna. I let my gaze run over the short woman who looks like an escapee from a Disney movie. My scowl deepens. Okay, maybe she possesses long, thick, dark hair, thicker curves and a beautiful pecan complexion instead of blond pigtails, freckles and pale skin...
Aw, fuck. Correct that.
On closer inspection, actual freckles scatter across the bridge of her nose and upper cheekbones like cinnamon sprinkled across buttered toast.
Nope.
Innocence radiates from her. She wears it like the tattoos that cover my body—inked in and permanent. And it disturbs the hell out of me. All I know is it—she—has no business here. Not in my shop. Shit, not in Chicago. For her safety, she needs to return to whatever small town with singing birds and domestic-prone mice she came from.
“Hi.” A hesitant smile curves her mouth, and I pretend not to notice that those full, dick-tease lips don’t fit her angelic appearance. Those lips are all sin and destruction. “I’m Aaliyah Montgomery. Are you Von Howard?”
She extends her hand toward me, and I drop my gaze to it, staring. After a moment, she lowers her arm back to her side, and that smile trembles, but she holds on to it. Uncertainty flickers in her eyes. Eyes that remind me of the sweet and delicious toffee Gia and I get every time we visit Navy Pier.
Yeah, I’m being rude as fuck, but I need her gone. It’s a damn near primal urge to usher her out the front door and lock it behind her—an urge I can’t explain.
“Yeah, I’m Von.” I dip my chin, sliding my hands into my front pockets. “You’re here to interview for the nanny job?”
I already know the answer—I’ve read her email and résumé several times, and both include her name. Still, a tiny glimmer of hope rises that this is a mistake. That she’s supposed to be at the deli next door, interviewing there. Not a place that’s too rough, too coarse, too...much for her. And no, she wouldn’t be watching Gia here, but this is my world, one that I rule. And I reiterate, she doesn’t belong here.
“Yes,” she says, her smile brightening. Aaand she has dimples. Fuck . “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Howard. And thank you for the interview.”
“Von. And I wouldn’t thank me just yet.”
I turn, heading back the way I came, leaving her to follow. Hoping she doesn’t.
“Hi. Oh wow. Your tattoos are gorgeous,” Aaliyah says behind me, and for a second, I think she’s talking to me.
My chest tightens at the delight in her voice. Again, inexplicable. As is the pleasure that trickles through me before I shut that shit down. Delight, my ass. She seems more like the type to cross the street to avoid someone covered in ink than the kind to admire it.
I glance over my shoulder, the sharp retort ready. But then I notice her gaze fixed on Chelle, not me. And that’s not fucking disappointment prickling my skin. It’s not, goddammit.
It’s another mark against Aaliyah Montgomery.
“Thanks.” Chelle beams. Beams . My best friend is one of those people who needs to know you for six months before she even has a whole conversation with you. The only exception was Gia. But not many people can meet a Disney princess and not melt. Except me. I want no part of this. Of her. “Aaliyah, right? I’m Michelle. Most people call me Chelle.”
And by “most people” she means the five or six people she actually likes.
I stare at my friend. Who is this person right now?
“Yes, Aaliyah. It’s awesome to meet you, Chelle.”
Awesome . What’re we at fucking band camp? I don’t look over my shoulder again, but I can hear the smile in Aaliyah’s voice. Can mentally see those dimples in her cheeks.
“Same. Are you from around here?” Chelle asks.
Not with that warm, honeyed accent.
“No, I—”
“Last time I checked, this was my interview. Ms. Montgomery, this way.”
I walk away, and the clack of her modest heels echoes in the hallway behind me. Reaching my office, I open the door and allow her to step through first. When I enter and close the door, it’s in Chelle’s grinning face.
I don’t know what’s up with her, but she can have it on the other side of the door.
Crossing the room to my desk, I glance at Aaliyah, who stands in the middle of the room, her hands clasped in front of her. Does she even realize how her fingers twist, exposing her nerves? Probably not. And asshole that I am, I stare down at them, making her aware. Following the direction of my gaze, she dips her head, and her slim shoulders stiffen as her arms drop to her sides.
“Have a seat.” I wave toward one of the two armchairs and sink in my own seat.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “And please, call me Aaliyah.”
I frown, recalling that I did formally address her. But we don’t need to be on a first-name basis; she won’t be around long enough. The only reason I insisted she call me Von is because...
Shit, I don’t know why I told her to do it.
That seems to be my mantra in the less than ten minutes I’ve been in her company. I don’t know why .
Another mark against her.
Yeah, it’s unfair of me to be so biased against her, but I can’t find it within myself to give a fuck. She bothers me. And I don’t— dammit .
I refuse to think or say it again.
Aaliyah fidgets in the chair before she stills. Tugging her shoulders back, she visibly controls her body, and my frown deepens. Not at the rigidity in her frame—well, not only that. It’s the composed, damn near blank expression that covers her face, darkens her eyes to a deep brown. The difference between now and a minute ago is like a heavy door being slammed shut on a bright, clear day.
Someone only closes down completely like that with practice.
I should know.
The question of why Pollyanna would need to adopt that particular form of self-defense drops into the grab bag with all the other ones I have about Aaliyah Montgomery. And not one of them have to do with whether she would be a good fit for Gia.
Leaning back in my chair, I move the mouse, and my laptop screen blinks to life. Quickly typing in my password, I navigate to my inbox and pull up the email with her info and résumé.
“Where’re you from? It’s not here.” Not my intended first question, but it’ll do.
She shakes her head, her wavy hair moving with the motion. And damn if my gaze doesn’t follow the sway and swing of the thick strands.
Sheree would hate her on sight. Aaliyah’s too fresh-faced, too pretty. My ex-wife couldn’t stand not being the best-looking woman in the room, being the center of attention. Knowing how Sheree would feel is almost enough to make me change my mind about hiring Aaliyah. Good thing I care more about my baby girl’s well-being than aggravating my ex.
“No, I’m from Alabama. I just moved to Chicago a couple of weeks ago.”
“For family?”
“For school. I started taking classes at the University of Chicago.”
I frown. “How old are you?”
Again, rude as hell. If my mother was here, she would’ve popped me in the back of the head for asking a woman her age. But shit, I want to know. With the freckles, wide eyes that turn down at the corners and slightly rounded cheeks, she could be anywhere from nineteen to twenty-five.
“Twenty-four.”
Not jailbait young, but she’s ten years my junior.
I’m guessing there’s a story behind her just starting college at her age when most have graduated, but it’s not my concern. Especially since I won’t be seeing her in about ten minutes—the amount of time it’ll take me to finish this interview and show her the door.
“So you’re about to be a full-time college student, and you’ll still have time to be a full-time nanny?” I don’t try to hide my skepticism.
“Yes.” She leans forward, and her face warms slightly, losing some of that guarded stoicism. “The agency said your daughter is seven years old, so I’m assuming she’s in school. Most of my classes are during the morning and early afternoon. And the one that isn’t is an online class, and I can handle that course load after I get off work. Or after your daughter goes to bed since your job description included a couple of late nights during the week.”
“And you don’t think that will be too much?”
Again, she shakes her head, and this time I swear a delicate, fruity scent permeates the air. Her shampoo? Or maybe my imagination, fucking with me.
“Not at all. I’m used to juggling several different schedules and agendas.” That too-lush-for-her-own-good mouth tightens. Have no business noticing that, but I do. “Going to school and working for you won’t be a conflict.”
“Uh-huh.” I stroke a hand down my beard, studying her. Have I said she bothers me? It’s like an itch in a place I can’t quite reach. “I’m a little surprised Angel Care hired you,” I say, mentioning the name of the nanny service I contracted. “Your résumé is pretty light on work history. Babysitting, Sunday school and children’s church ain’t exactly the experience for a position like this.”
“I understand that on paper it may look like my experience is slim—”
“More than looks like, ma. It is.”
Her eyes narrow, and flame licks my skin. Maybe she’s not so Pollyanna, after all.
Nope. Again, not my business. I deliberately snuff out that flash of heat until there’s nothing left but smoke.
“That doesn’t mean I haven’t spent the last ten years around children. As you can see under the responsibilities section, I didn’t just watch over them but taught and tutored them as well. And those were multiple children at one time.”
“Yeah, I peeped that. My argument still stands. Teaching some kid about Noah’s ark doesn’t instill much confidence that you can care for my daughter, though.”
Hell, Gia can be a handful. She’s sweet, but she’s also a daddy’s girl, and I freely admit to spoiling her a little. Aaliyah Montgomery doesn’t look like she could wrangle a fly much less an active seven-year-old.
“That’s understandable.” She pauses, inhales an audible breath. Her head tilts to the side, and the full weight of that unwavering stare settles on me. And for the first time, she appears older than her years. “Can I ask you a question?” I spread my hands wide, gesturing for her to ask it. “You made up your mind about not giving me the job before this interview, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” Why lie?
“Will you tell me why?”
I roll my chair forward, propping my forearms on the desk. “Because you don’t belong here,” I say, not sugarcoating shit. “I want to roll you up in Bubble Wrap and ship you back to wherever you came from. You don’t look like you can withstand a Chicago winter, much less life outside of whatever small town you left. I can’t trust that kind of inexperience. Damn sure can’t trust my kid with it.”
Not gon’ lie. I half expect her to bust out in tears. Another thing that’s a strike against her—and they keep adding up. My mouth is reckless as fuck, and anyone around me with thin skin is asking for their feelings to be hurt. I’ve never been savage—well, not with someone who didn’t deserve it—but blunt to a fault? Yeah. And I don’t plan on changing.
“It’s your decision to not offer me this job, and I have no problem with that. What I do have an issue with is you judging me before even officially meeting me.”
She inhales, and when she releases it seconds later, it’s not tears glistening in her eyes. It’s anger. The sight rocks through me like a punch to the chest. Like a stroke to my cock. Fury shouldn’t sit right on her angelic features, but for some reason it fits. As if a missing puzzle piece has been found and fixed into place. And fuck if I don’t find it fascinating.
“You don’t know anything about me, and you haven’t tried to find out. So whether you believe I belong here or not doesn’t matter. It’s what I believe that does. And I know you’re not the first or only person who’s tried to discount me or put me into a box that’s comfortable for them. I also know that proving you and them wrong has become my favorite pastime.”
An unwanted flicker of admiration sparks in my chest, as does curiosity. Who were these other people that supposedly discounted her? Did her move here having anything to do with proving them wrong?
Again—not. My. Fucking. Business.
She rises, smoothing her skirt over her full hips and thick thighs. And my gaze lingers on those curves, how the material hugs them, before I give myself a mental shake and lift my regard to her face. She might’ve come in here dressed like a nun, but that body... Shit, it’s all sinner.
“Thank you for your time,” she says with a nod then spins on her ugly heels, walking toward the door. Dismissing me.
And as I silently study her—the strands of her hair brushing the middle of her shoulder blades, the slim back, flared hips and goddamn beautiful ass—it’s like someone dragged back a curtain, and the thing that has been nagging me becomes crystal clear.
Now I get why she bothers me.
Part of me sneers at this kind of innocence. And the other half? The other half wants to sully it. Corrupt it. Dirty it so she’s unrecognizable.
Stain that smooth brown skin until she can’t wash me away.
Aaliyah opens the door and walks out, not glancing behind her. Only then do I scrub a hand down my face, tugging on my beard. And now that my office is no longer infused with the delicate scent of peaches and vanilla, I can admit the truth to myself.
It isn’t only her inexperience that would’ve made her a bad fit for the nanny position. There’s also the fact that I might’ve ended up fucking the help.
Yup. It’s for the best that she walked out.
Now if I can just convince my dick of that.