Chapter 2
JAX
I retreat to my office after the interview, needing distance
from whatever the hell just happened in there. Melody Brooks
has been in my house for exactly four hours, and she's already
managed to turn my perfectly ordered world upside down.
My phone buzzes with a text from Brandy Chen, my
business manager and the closest thing I have to a friend these
days. He's been running the day-to-day operations of Kane
Records since I retreated from public life three years ago.
Brandy: Rosa says you hired someone. Finally. Want me
to run a background check?
Me: Already done.
Brandy: And?
Me: Clean. Mostly.
Brandy: "Mostly" is my favorite kind of clean.
Interesting. Keep me posted.
I silence my phone and turn back to the monitors.
Brandy's nosiness is legendary, but it comes from a good place.
He's been covering my ass in board meetings and keeping the
business running while I've been playing hermit.
Which reminds me—I need to review those quarterly
reports before tomorrow's conference call.
But first, I need to watch my daughter's new nanny and
decide if she is worth hiring permanently.
Through the bank of security monitors discreetly
mounted behind my desk, I watch Melody Brooks navigate
what should be a battlefield—Emma's bedtime routine. The
woman moves through my house like she belongs here, which
is goddamn impossible considering she's been here less than
four hours.
She's not what I expected. Not even close.
The agency photo didn't do her justice, couldn't capture
the way she moves with unconscious sensuality, all curves and
confidence wrapped in an elementary school teacher's cardigan.
Auburn hair that catches the light like burnished copper, green
eyes that seem to see straight through my carefully constructed
walls. When she looked at me during the interview, it felt like
she was reading my fucking soul.
And that body—Jesus Christ. The woman's built like a
fifties pinup girl, all soft curves and dangerous temptation. The
way her jeans hug her ass. I've spent the last three years avoiding
temptation, keeping my dick in check and my emotions locked
down. The last thing I need is some curvy kindergarten teacher
making me remember what it feels like to want something I
can't control.
On the monitor, she's turning bedtime into some kind
of game. She's got Emma giggling—actually giggling—while
they act out the story she's reading. I can see them both
animated, Emma's hands moving as she gestures at something
in the book, Melody sitting cross-legged on Emma's bed like
she's six years old herself.
Whatever they're discussing, Emma's completely
engaged. She's got that serious expression she gets when
processing new information, but there's lightness in her
posture I haven't seen in months. When's the last time I've seen
her smile like that?
Melody leans forward, saying something that makes
Emma's face shift slightly—more thoughtful, maybe a little
sad. Then Melody's expression softens with what looks like
genuine compassion, not the professional sympathy I've seen
from therapists and previous nannies.
They're having a real conversation. Not the stilted
exchanges Emma usually has with adults, but an actual back-
and-forth. Emma nods solemnly, like she's filing away whatever
wisdom Melody's sharing.
Then Emma says something that makes Melody smile?—
a real smile, not the polite professional one she gave me earlier.
Emma hesitates, then adds something quietly, and Melody
throws her head back and laughs.
Emma's giggle joins hers, and something in my chest
cracks open. When's the last time I heard her laugh like that?
When's the last time anyone in this house laughed like that?
She's good with Emma—I'll give her that. Natural in a
way that can't be faked. But that doesn't mean she'll stay. They
never do. Emma will get attached, start trusting, and then
Melody Brooks will realize that working for a reclusive bastard
with more money than social skills isn't worth the hassle.
I watch as Melody tucks Emma in with what looks like
natural maternal instinct, her movements gentle and
unhurried. She smooths Emma's hair back with careful fingers,
and Emma's body language suggests she's actually relaxed—not
the rigid tension she usually carries during bedtime routines.
Then Emma says something that makes Melody lean
closer, and I can see her face soften with compassion. She
touches Emma's chest, right over her heart, and whatever she's
saying makes Emma's eyes fill with tears—but not sad tears.
They're the kind of tears that come from someone finally
understanding something important.
Emma's mouth moves, and I can read her lips well
enough to catch the words: "I love you, Miss Melody."
The words hit me real hard. Emma doesn't say that. She
doesn't trust people enough to say that. But here's this woman,
this stranger, who's managed to crack through my daughter's
defenses in a matter of hours.
My phone buzzes with the first of what will
undoubtedly be a dozen business calls. Stock prices, merger
discussions, artist contracts—the empire I've built to keep
myself occupied while avoiding actual human connection.
"Jax, we've got a problem with the mixing on the new
Marcel album," Brandy Chen's voice cuts through my
brooding. "The levels are all wrong on track seven, and she's
threatening to take it to Sterling Records if we don't fix it."
"Tell her we'll remix it," I say, only half listening. On the
monitor, I watch as Melody tucks Emma in with what looks
like natural maternal instinct, her movements gentle and
unhurried. "Whatever she wants."
"That's going to cost us another ten grand in studio
Time."
"Then we'll pay it. Is that all?"
"Actually, Alex wanted to talk to you about the new
A the last thing he needs
is Sterling drama. Though knowing Alex, he'd probably see it
as a challenge rather than a threat.
After I hang up and turn back to the monitors.
Melody's still sitting with Emma, reading what looks like another story. Emma's eyes are drooping, but she's fighting sleep like she always does, her small hands gesturing as she responds to whatever Melody's saying.
My phone rings once more—probably Liz Rodriguez
calling to scream about the mixing issues herself. But I ignore
it, watching as Melody switches off the lights and heads
downstairs.
She stops in the kitchen, and I switch to the cameras
there. She's exploring, opening cabinets and checking the
contents of the refrigerator with the focused attention of
someone planning a meal. When she finds Rosa's coffee stash,
she examines the bag and nods approvingly, then starts pulling
ingredients from the pantry.
What the hell is she doing? It's almost nine o'clock at
Night.
But then I remember—she mentioned during the
interview that she makes elaborate breakfasts when she's
stressed. Apparently, surviving her first day with Emma and me
qualifies as stressful.
I should go to bed. I should stop watching her move
around my kitchen like she owns it. I should definitely stop
noticing the way her ass looks in those jeans when she bends
over to check the lower cabinets.
This woman is going to be trouble. I can feel it in my
bones.
The question is: what kind of trouble?
I wake up at five-thirty, same as always, to the sound of
my phone buzzing with overnight emails from Tokyo and
London. The global music industry never sleeps, and neither
do I—at least not well. Three hours of restless sleep punctuated
by dreams I don't want to analyze.
The scent hits me the moment I reach the kitchen.
Something rich and buttery, with hints of vanilla and
cinnamon that make my mouth water and my stomach clench
with an unfamiliar sensation. When's the last time this house
smelled like actual food instead of Rosa's simple, efficient
Meals?
I round the corner and stop dead.
Melody Brooks is standing at my stove, humming
something soft and melodic under her breath. She's wearing
yoga pants that hug every dangerous curve and a fitted tank top
that shows off her cleavage. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun
with loose strands framing her face, and she's swaying slightly
to whatever song is playing in her head.
36Damn. She looks like she belongs in my kitchen, like
she's been making breakfast here for years instead of hours.
"Morning," she says without turning around, somehow
sensing my presence. "Coffee's fresh. I made extra."
She gestures toward the counter where a steaming mug
sits next to what looks like a professional-grade French press.
The woman brought her own coffee equipment. Who does
That?
"You're up early," I manage, trying not to stare at the way
her ass moves when she reaches for something in the upper
Cabinet.
"Couldn't sleep. New place, new routine." She glances