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There’s something in the way her lashes curve over her eyes, the way her lips part that has me fucking breathless. She’s not looking at me, but I can’t look away.
Fuck me with a rusty fork. I can’t help myself when she’s right in front of me. My dick is hard and my skin prickling all over. I want her.
With my kids at my sides, at the kitchen table, on the night she’s leaving us.
Jesus Christ, Matt.
And you, dick. Down. Haven’t we been over all the reasons why this won’t be happening again? Why it was the mother of all bad ideas in the first place—and look where it’s led us. To Octavia leaving.
Easier said than done. Then again, what’s new?
The dinner has gone to ashes in my mouth. I put my fork down, unaccountably depressed. “So… is this like the last supper? Farewell dinner and cake?”
She laughs, covering her mouth with her hand.
It wasn’t meant to be funny. What’s funny about it? I’m asking in all seriousness, and I hate how tight my chest is. Because I fucked up badly, and I know it.
Still… Reasons, Matt. You know it’s for the best that she goes. You knew it’d be for the best if she’d never set foot inside the house, but you let her in anyway.
Like I said. Can’t help myself.
Can’t now, and couldn’t then.
Dammit.
The kids take their slice of cake to eat in front of the TV, squabbling about which program to watch. I can see them from where I’m sitting in the kitchen, their little heads bent together as they fight over the remote control.
I grin.
Strong-willed, cute little shits.
Reminding me so much of their mom.
And not only. It hits me as I look back at Octavia. It hits me every time just how much she reminds me of Emma.
Which is sick. Which is why I said no to her the first time—and the second, and the third. Why I told her not to wear dresses, like Emma liked to do. Not to be around my kids, act like their mom.
It scared me. I can’t replace Emma. Can’t let myself fall for a girl because she reminds me of my dead wife.
But she’s not a mirror image of Emma, is she? The more I get to know her, the more different she seems, in so many fucking ways. She’s more innocent, more fragile. Emma was tough like nails, tougher than she should have been at that age.
Octavia is softer, sweeter. More fragile. Easier to break. I can’t bear to be the one to break her.
My chest squeezes again. What the fuck am I thinking?
There’s a thick slice of cake on my plate, a pretty girl across from me, and I just… can’t do this.
Needing to punch something to feel better, or stop thinking, I push my chair back and prepare to storm out, find my poison and drink it up.
“Matt.”
Her soft voice stops me in my tracks. I sit back down. “What?”
“You said… you said your kids have the best nanny already.” Her eyes seem too bright. I can’t read her expression.
“That’s right.”
She pokes at her cake. A frown draws her brows together, then fades. A smile flits over her mouth and is gone.
