Redeem Me (Beckett Brothers #2)

11. Ivy

Chapter Eleven

IVY

The following evening, Caelon swans into the dining room with a bottle of red wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. He places them on the table between us. Things are looking up. I haven’t had a drink since that night at the bar and the prospect of one tonight, amongst other things, has me salivating.

Given that it’s Friday, I gather he’s going to put the kids to bed, which means I have the night off and I have every intention of using my free time wisely.

I’ve had an itch brewing for weeks. And living with Mr Tortured is doing nothing to take the edge off. In fact, it’s exacerbating it. Smelling his cologne wafting through the corridors, watching the strong but gentle way he interacts with his kids. And don’t get me started on that pornographic tattoo I glimpsed in the kitchen yesterday.

I need to get out, let off some steam, get sexually sated, and then maybe I won’t ruin my panties every time he walks into the room.

‘Daddy!’ Owen and Orla both jump from their seats and run to Caelon, whose biceps flex as he pulls them into his arms.

What is it about single dads that is so freaking hot?

‘Hi guys, did you have a good day?’ He kisses their foreheads, then ushers them back into their seats and uncorks the bottle.

‘If I recall correctly, whiskey is your preferred tipple,’ his lips quirk like he’s biting back a smirk, ‘but Liz is cooking steak tonight. This will pair perfectly with it.’ He pours it into the two glasses without waiting for my response. It’s the first time he’s referenced that night in such a casual way.

‘Steak sounds fabulous.’ My stomach rumbles in response.

‘No, it doesn’t. It sounds gross,’ Orla pipes up from my right, fiddling with her fork. She’s barely let me out of her sight since I moved in. The poor pet is probably terrified I’ll leave, given that’s what every other nanny seems to have done. What did Caelon do to them that was so bad?

‘Don’t worry, Liz is making you chicken goujons.’ Caelon slides into the seat opposite me. His finger traces the elegant stem of his wine glass as his heated eyes flit to mine. I force my gaze to Owen, who’s sitting beside him, opposite Orla, with that teddy under his arm again. I’ve offered to wash it fifty times since I moved in, but he’s point-blank refused to part with it.

‘Can we go to the beach tomorrow, Ivy?’ Orla blinks at me like a puppy.

‘Of course we can.’ I glance out of the window. Irish weather is notoriously unpredictable, but the forecast is promised fine for the weekend. ‘We’ll pack a picnic and some buckets and spades. It’ll be so much fun.’

‘Can I come?’ Owen asks in a small voice. ‘I wanna jump in the waves.’

‘Absolutely! I love wave jumping.’ Progress, at last. It’s the first time I haven’t had to coerce him into doing something fun with me.

I lift my glass from the table and put it to my lips. The wine is rich and fruity, and probably costs more than my weekly wage, which is ridiculously generous. It hits my taste buds, and it’s a battle not to moan out my appreciation. With any luck, the alcohol might dull the hypersensitive awareness I perpetually experience around Caelon.

‘Can you manage both of them at the beach?’ Caelon’s concerned eyes catch mine.

‘I’ve been minding kids way wilder than these two for years,’ I laugh.

‘It might be dangerous,’ he muses, rubbing a thumb over his lower lip. ‘The tide is strong round here.’ He takes three large mouthfuls of wine, and I wonder if he, too, is trying to dull the sharp sting of electricity between us.

‘It’ll be fine. I’ll hold each of them by the hand and we’ll jump the waves together. We won’t go deeper than their waists, I promise.’

The man is obsessed with keeping his kids from danger, which I get, given what happened to his wife, but they need to live a little too. Wrapping them in cotton wool won’t help them. They need a childhood filled with fun and carefree laughter, not to be mollycoddled at home.

‘Take Samuel with you,’ Caelon says. It’s not a request.

‘Or you could come, Dad.’ Owen’s little face lights up like a beacon. It’s so rare he smiles, just like his father. How could anyone refuse him?

Caelon’s features furrow. ‘I don’t think so, buddy.’

‘Why not?’ Owen is like a dog with a bone.

‘Can we go to the ice-cream parlour on the way home?’ Orla licks her lips, as if she can already taste the sugar.

I raise my eyes to Caelon’s. ‘Go on, it’ll be fun.’ And it’ll be another excuse to get an eyeful of that panty destroying tattoo.

‘Fun?’ he scoffs. ‘I’m trying to run a business, oversee a multimillion-euro hotel restoration project, and keep this family together. I don’t have time for fun.’

‘Perhaps you should make time. After all, you manage to find time for other types of “fun”.’ I press my thighs together as memories of the bar bombard me for the millionth time.

‘Just because I can’t bring you home doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun.’

‘Do you even know the meaning of the word, Tortured?’

So much for the wine dulling that crackling tension between us. Caelon’s pupils blaze and his shoulders stiffen. Oh, he’s definitely getting the same flashbacks. He inhales deeply and blows out a long, deep breath.

Has he had anyone else since I moved in?

Or has he been wanking himself senseless like me?

Orla and Owen stare at each other wide-eyed, and the room falls eerily silent.

I hold my breath.

‘Fine,’ he says with forced joviality. ‘Let’s all go to the beach tomorrow. It’ll be so much fun .’

‘Wonderful. Speaking of fun, seeing as you’re here to put the kids to bed, I’m going out later.’ I lean back in my chair and swirl the wine around my glass.

‘Look! A rabbit!’ Orla exclaims, pointing to the open patio doors before dashing out into the evening sun. Owen is on her heels and the two of them speed across the lawn.

Caelon’s expression is thunderous. ‘Absolutely not.’ His tone leaves no room for debate.

‘Excuse me?’ I thought he’d have been pleased at the reprieve from the weirdness between us.

‘I said no.’ His black eyes blaze. ‘You’re not going out tonight. ’

‘You’re not my father.’ Though, I wouldn’t be averse to calling him daddy, especially if he did that thing to me again…

‘No, I’m not your father. I’m your boss. And you’re needed here tonight.’ He grits his teeth.

‘But on Fridays you said you like to…’ I swat a hand towards the kids, who are still searching for a rabbit that’s long bolted. If I had any sense, I’d do the same. Because the man in front of me is glowering at me like he’s dreaming up ways to punish me.

‘Not every Friday.’ He places his glass on the table and folds his arms across his chest. ‘There’s no way you’re going out to get laid tonight. No fucking way.’ His eyes are cold, but I sense a blazing inferno behind his steely front.

‘Who said anything about getting laid?’ Anyone with an iota of sense would get up and leave the table right now. Instead, I’m egging him on, calling him out on his bullshit. ‘But if I want to, what’s it got to do with you, anyway?’

‘If I can’t have you, you can be damned fucking sure no one else is going to. Not while you work for me, at least.’

I should be horrified. I should be outraged. But no, my Caelon-sabotaged-vagina is positively preening.

So much for Tranquil.

We’re both tortured, because this thing can never happen between us, but tell that to my vagina because she didn’t receive the memo.

No, she glimpsed a neon-green radiant light.

And now she’s intent on driving us all the way to Dickville, even if the road is narrow, winding and entirely uphill.