He turned his head to find Ko staring at him. Her eyes unblinking.
He’d be joining her soon.
And maybe…just maybe…they’d be a family after all.
CHAPTERTWO
Summer Summers sucked a cock.Once. She had to. She’d needed a ride. From that moment on, she’d sworn—she’d never have sex again—not unless she wanted to. So, Mr. Wagner was plain out of luck.
She one hundred percentdid notwant to have sex with him. Not in the kitchen. Not in the laundry room. Not in the playroom. And while her ancient Toyota Corolla hatchback may be a rolling rust bucket with more missing pieces than a puzzle with a hole in the box, for now, it still ran.
Which meant she didn’t need a ride either.
Besides, she had nowhere to go. As a full-time nanny to their two young children, she lived with the Wagners. Had for the last nine months. Ever since Mrs. Wagner had gone back to work after Penelope was born.
As the governor of Montana, Marla Wagner spent half her time in Helena, leaving her husband at home to oversee the Silver Buckle Ranch. Laughable. John Wagner knew as much about cattle ranching and horse breeding as Summer did.
Absolutely nothing.
Garret Hedlund ran the ranch. Old, grizzled, and meaner than a cornered cougar, he had no use for the people who lived in the big house. Mrs. Wagner being the sole exception. Cornered or not, she was meaner than he was, her bite sharper than a rattlesnake’s. Deadlier too.
If she ever found out her husband propositioned Summer on the regular…
She shuddered, and John moved in fast. “Are you cold, sweetheart?” Her grip tightening on the potential weapon clutched in her fist, she took two steps back, and her spine hit the counter next to the farm sink.
His meaty palms landing on her biceps, one on each side, he rubbed her arms up and down like he meant to warm her. Unnecessary. She had three layers of clothes on. A defensive move on her part.
“No, I’m good.” She resisted the urge to smash him over the head with the glass in her hand, and biting back the angry words hovering on the edge of her tongue, she took advantage of her short stature by ducking under his arm to make her getaway.
Under normal circumstances, she didn’t wander too far from her room without one of the kids on her hip. Easier to evade John’s unwelcome advances when she had a baby buffer between them.
But distracted by the horror of the events unfolding in Boston, she hadn’t eaten enough at dinner. And after giving the children their baths, putting them to bed, and singing a couple of lullabies, a sugar low meant she needed to get something into her quick.
Cursing her hypoglycemia, she skirted the island on trembling legs, putting the wide barrier between them while she chugged her juice as fast as possible. Despite her condition, she wasn’t allowed food or beverages on the second floor. Otherwise, she would’ve had a drawer full of Ritz Crackers and a case of liquid sugar on hand in case of emergency.
No snacks or drinks allowed outside of the kitchen or dining room. A Mrs. Wagner rule no one dared to break lest they be caught and summoned to her office. One of the many spaces in the big house off-limits to Summer and the rest of the staff.
“Sweetheart, we’ve talked about this.” Stubby fingers caressing over the smooth surface of the white granite between them, John started a slow prowl toward her. “I can make your stay here so much more pleasant. A young girl like you, in the prime of her life, don’t you want to have nice things?”
“I already told you. I’m not interested in having sex with you. And I have everything I need.” She put her glass down hard, the last inch of liquid sloshing up the side with the force of her release. Closest to the exit, she backed away, one step at a time, keeping her eyes on the threat in case he decided to charge.
A grizzly bear in two-hundred-dollar designer jeans, John was slow and meandering until he got it in mind to chase. Usually after a couple of scotch on the rocks. Then he was raw power and lightning speed.
Summer had only been caught once. The result? A groped breast for her and a bruised shin for him. She’d managed to escape, and he’d apologized the morning after. Blamed the alcohol. His wife’s absence. The drudgery of ranch life.
What a load of crap.
He’d been trying to get into her pants since she’d arrived. Subtle at first, he’d feigned an interest in her and the children. Found opportunities to be in the same room. Stood too close. Dropped barely veiled sexual innuendos.
Three months ago, he’d abandoned any sort of pretext, and flat-out stated his intentions.
He wanted to fuck her.
She’d declined, and if she didn’t need the money and the roof over her head, she would’ve run for the hills. Unfortunately, as terrible as the pay was after her agency took half, she wasn’t qualified to do anything else.
Heck, technically, she wasn’t even qualified to be a nanny, but she loved the Wagner kids, and she’d stayed. But limit reached. Enough was enough. First thing tomorrow morning, she’d send an email to the owner of the nanny-for-hire agency she worked for and put in a request for a transfer.
With the holidays looming, she probably wouldn’t find another family in need of a nanny before the new year, so until then, she just had to be more careful. And maybe hide a juice box under her bathroom sink. At the back. Behind the toilet paper. One small carton. Who would know?
