Page 18 of I Wish You Were Mine

This. This right here is why I have to keep those boundaries clear.

Katie is my girl. I don’t need any others. Which means I need to keep my guard up and my head down.

four

. . .

Maren

Ray of Fucking Sunshine

After the kitchen is clean,I head downstairs to change the laundry.

Today was a good day—a great day, actually—which was just topped off by a great meal. Tuck is one hell of a cook. Katie is an absolute love bug. It’s only my first day, but I already have a gut feeling I’m going to enjoy this job.

Now it’s time to finish my paper and study for an upcoming exam, but my legs feel like lead weights as I climb the steps to my apartment. Compared to the chaos of Tuck and Katie’s kitchen, my place is depressingly quiet. A boulder of exhaustion rolls over me.

An hour ago, I was wired. Scratch that. I was on freakingfire. Tuck’s huge, capable hands were on me, and the burst of energy that gave me—let’s be real, the burst of desire too—had me breaking out cheers I haven’t done since college.

I have no idea how the energy between Tuck and me went from cold to... definitelynotcold in the space of a single day. Maybe it was his random acts of kindness? Or how freaking cute he is with Katie? All I know is the switch happened quicklywhile I wasn’t watching. Then he’s touching me, tossing me into the air like I weigh no more than a feather, and I’m buzzing.

Up until today, I genuinely believed men like Tuck didn’t exist. I’ve never met a man who cooks, much less one who is openly caring and considerate. Meeting Tuck is turning out to be a mind fuck.

Taking off my bra, I shiver at the memory of his fingers digging into my sides. Maybe it’s because he’s so damn big, but I’m not sure I’ve ever felt safer with a guy. He clearly has no stunt experience, but I wasn’t worried about him dropping or hurting me.

I pull on my favorite T-shirt. The paper-thin fabric catches on my nipples, electrifying the throb between my legs. It’s been there ever since Tuck walked into the kitchen earlier tonight, looking like an especially delicious mafia don with his tattoos peeking out of his crisp white button-up. The expertly tailored slacks didn’t hurt either. His ass is a delight. So are his thighs, which are literally the size of tree trunks.

The man is a snack. Scratch that, he’s the whole damn meal.

I find myself returning to the question of his love life. How the hell is he still single? Mom said he had a bad breakup with his ex-wife. Maybe he’s still scarred from his previous relationship. Or maybe he only wants to screw around with all the women lining up for him.

I’d line up too, if I weren’t his nanny.

I pad out to my little kitchen and pour myself a giant glass of water. Then I sit at the table and open my laptop. I take one look at my paper, and I immediately decide to study for my exam instead.

I open a Google doc of notes from my most recent class. Pages and pages and pages. I take great notes. If only I could absorb any of the material I took those notes on, or make myself care more.

I shove my hands into my hair and rest my elbows on the table. I know I’m frustrated because I tried teaching—you know, only the thing I’m going to school for—and hated it. The kids were cute and most were wonderful to have in class. But some were definitely tougher to connect with. A couple were downright violent, leaving me with bruises and a cut on my cheek.

The days were long. And the parents? God, they could be awful. The administration did what it could to support us teachers, but it wasn’t nearly enough. There wasn’t enough of anything to go around—time, money, patience.Space. Our classroom was a trailer in a parking lot off the cafeteria. The air conditioning didn’t work half the time, and the roof leaked when it rained.

It was exhausting and under-appreciated work that paid like shit, and I knew less than a week in that I didn’t want to do it forever.

But becoming a teacher was always my plan. Theonlyplan. Mom has always pushed for me to end up in education. It’s what she would’ve done if she went to college.

If I don’t teach, then what?

I do what I always do when I, well, don’t know what the hell to do.

I FaceTime my parents.

Dad picks up on the first ring. “Number one!” he says, smiling into the camera.

I grin. It’s an old joke: I’m my parents’ firstborn, yes, but there are no numbers after me as I’m an only child.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Aw, honey, you sound tired.” Mom’s face appears beside Dad’s. “Everything okay?”

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