Chapter 3
MELODIE
Katie plops down in front of the coffee table, a box of crayons in hand. I place several paper sheets across the wooden surface—she’s already coloring it, and I know the sheets won’t stay in place for long. I have to break the news to Rhett, but his coffee table won’t survive his daughter.
She flips the crayon box upside down, spilling all the contents onto the table while she laughs. I squat next to her, stroking her well-brushed hair. Today, she’s in a French braid so tightly done no strands escape. I am impressed.
“Who did your hair, sweetie?” I ask her, and she’s probably going to say it was her mother. Even when I get here before nine, sometimes even around eight, I never met the woman. She must work a lot.
My cheeks warm when I think about that, a strange, hot feeling curling in my stomach.
No, I refuse to accept I’m feeling jealousy.
There’s no way. I was never, ever, the jealous girl.
Quite the opposite—I made fun of my friends who were because I would never stick around a guy who made me feel insecure.
How the tables have turned. Rhett is not even my man. We have nothing but the boss-employee relationship. I have zero right to feel like this for him.
“Daddy,” she replies with a smile, gripping the red crayon in her fist. “It’s pretty, right?”
“So pretty.” My brows shoot up. Rhett has been doing her hair? No way. Today has to be an exception. “Yesterday you were in pigtails. Who did those?”
“Daddy too.”
I am flabbergasted that a man like Rhett does her hair. He’s larger than a door, all muscles and a gloomy face, and I can’t imagine those thick fingers of his working through Katie’s hair. Tightening a French braid like the one she wears. He must be so strong. I’m surprised he didn’t hurt her.
A flame starts low in my belly. I clamp my thighs together.
The idea of Rhett’s thick fingers working on something else pops in my head, and I force it away.
Nope. Should not be thinking of the boss’ thick fingers parting my legs, teasing my inner thigh, pushing my panties off...
A drop of sweat runs down my spine, making me shiver.
I clear my throat and watch Katie draw for a minute. She’s working on a big house and the sun. “Can you believe I haven’t met your mommy yet?”
Katie’s face changes. She tucks her lower lip between her teeth. “Mommy doesn’t want me. She was never home. Then her boyfriend said he doesn’t like kids, so she dropped me here.”
My eyes go round. Shit, if that’s true, and not only her way of seeing things, that’s fucked up.
“I’m sure your mom has a reason,” I say, because that’s what we’re supposed to tell kids, right? Katie doesn’t seem convinced, just shrugging once before focusing on her drawing. “I thought your mom and dad lived together.”
She shakes her head. “Met Daddy some days ago.”
Just because they don’t live together, it doesn’t mean Rhett doesn’t have someone.
More than that, it doesn’t mean I should care.
Single or not, he’s still much older than I am, and I swore off older men for a reason.
They’re too much work. There’s always a lot of history, and exes, and children, and lessons they learned with life. No, it changes nothing.
“Mel,” Katie calls in that childish whimper she uses when she wants something.
“What is it, sweetie?”
“Can I eat that... that thing that the bunny eats in the cartoon?” And she picks up an orange crayon and pretends to munch on it.
I chuckle. “Of course. Your daddy has been showing you Bugs Bunny, uh?” As a response, she just laughs, and I make my way to the kitchen.
Rhett has stocked in vegetables, but the carrots are all thick as my arm.
I pick one up and take it to the counter.
After washing it, I find myself a cutting board and a knife.
The carrot is too big for Katie to hold, even worse if she’s going to bite into it.
I’ll cut a piece so she can chew on it, then I’ll cook the rest to make it an easy snack.
“Daddy!” she calls out, and I hear Rhett’s rough voice asking her questions.
The two keep it low and I miss what they’re saying.
But I’m so distracted, mesmerized by how rough his voice is and the sweet way he treats his kid, that I don’t notice the tip of the knife is too close to my finger until it slashes me.
The burn is instant, surprising, and I yelp, letting the knife drop with a thud.
Blood bubbles up from the wound, and I grip my hand and glare at the cut.
How stupid of me. How could I get so distracted and cut myself like this?
I could have chopped my finger off. And because of what?
Because I was thinking of a man I can’t have?
“Everything alright?” His voice sounds close, and I snap my attention to the doorway, seeing him standing there. Not for long. Rhett sees the red on my hand and closes the space between us. “You cut yourself.” A statement, not a question.
“It’s nothing,” I insist, but he turns on the water.
“Put it there,” he orders, and my body just obeys.
It’s the strangest thing, my hand moving on its own and the cold water washing the blood away.
Rhett turns and leaves the kitchen, his heavy steps clomping away, then back to me.
He brings a first aid kit along, propping it on the counter next to us.
I’m impressed he has something like this.
Once, I cut myself while hanging out with my ex, and he didn’t even have band-aids.
He used to say real men don’t need shit like that.
His words, not mine. And it’s obvious he’s wrong.
If there’s one real man out there, it’s Rhett, no doubt.
He stands next to me, and his body is so huge it creates a shadow, blotting out the light.
He’s a bit intimidating. I keep my eyes down, watching the red water become pink.
Rhett curls his fingers around my wrist. It sends a jolt up my arm, and he stops.
I sneak a glance at him and notice the hairs on his arm have stood up, just like mine.
Did he feel this too? The knot in my throat grows tighter.
Rhett pulls my wrist out of the water, taps a clean towel on the wound, then presses a cotton pad to the cut until he staunches the bleeding.
It’s a good thing he says nothing. My heart beats too loud for me to hear anything else.
He wraps some gauze around my finger, then finishes it with tape.
I gape at his work, impressed at how well done it is.
There’s so much I want to ask. Why does he know first aid?
Why does he work from home? What does he do for a living?
What is his relation to Katie’s mother? But I look up at him and he still hasn’t let my hand go, and his eyes are on me, burning me to the spot.
My stomach flips and turns, and I can only think of his fingers burning my skin. And how I have to crane my neck back to look at him. Rhett’s stubble is longer today, and I wonder what it feels like to have him kissing the inside of my thigh, scraping the skin, making it burn so good...
He lets go as if he had been electrified. My arm grows icy, but I hold back from touching him. Rhett takes a full step back, his shoulder bumping into the fridge. He doesn’t look like he noticed it.
“You weren’t supposed to cook,” he says, and his voice sounds even rougher than usual.
“She wanted a snack,” I say, feeling pathetic. Will he scold me for doing something that’s not part of my tasks? And why does that sound so appealing?
He shakes his head once. “I’ll take care of it.” And he steps back and motions for the living room. With my cheeks burning, I exit the kitchen.
What a nice image I gave him. I wasn’t supposed to cook and once I did, I almost cut a finger off. He must think I’m a silly girl. This is so stupid. I shouldn’t let myself get lost in this.
This is so not happening. For one hundred reasons.