Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
My daughter, my sweet, wonderful daughter, found joy in most things. How that happened when I was a self-confessed miserable bastard, and her mother was an angry bitch was anyone’s guess. Regardless, I treasured that joy, wished I could hold it in my hands if only to make sure nothing in this world touched it, took it away.
“Hi!” Clara greeted, slightly breathless as she opened the door.
My eyes darted down to my daughter, my body tense, on alert as I looked for any signs that she wasn’t feeling good, that she might collapse, might die right in front of me.
Her cheeks were pink, flushed. Her lips formed a wide smile, and she was visibly breathing hard. Although it could’ve just been normal childhood excitement, my mouth went dry.
I didn’t know what normal was anymore. Every change in her demeanor, every sniffle or sigh was a harbinger of doom.
I wondered if that would ever fade away. I doubted it. Not that I gave a shit. I’d deal with that for a lifetime if I got to watch Clara grow through it all.
“Well, hello.” I could feel the smile in the feminine voice. Not something I would’ve noticed or cared about, but it was so fucking warm, so fucking genuine it shot through my thickened skin.
After another probing glance to my daughter, I looked up at the last candidate.
Hannah Morgan. Twenty-four years old.
The youngest of the lot. I’d hesitated to even give her the interview because of her age, doubting I could trust someone so young with my daughter. But she was almost done with nursing school, had excellent references, and was the only one who was okay with the live-in option.
I didn’t love the thought of a stranger living in my house. In fact, I abhorred it. But it was the only thing that made real sense with Clara’s upcoming transplant. She would need to quarantine at home for sixty days. In an ideal world, I’d be with her every moment. But this was not an ideal world. Despite all the help we’d gotten from the community and having good insurance, her medical bills were piling up. As much as I hated it, I’d eventually have to get back to work. And though my family would jump at it, I couldn’t lean on them to take care of Clara during her quarantine; they’d essentially have to give up their whole life, isolate themselves. So hiring someone, giving them the information up front, was the only option.
Hannah’s medical knowledge was a huge mark in her favor. I needed someone who would know what to look out for, who could properly take care of Clara.
Meeting eyes with Hannah Morgan, there was no way this woman—this fucking girl—was living at my house.
Because my cock jumped to attention at her sparkling evergreen gaze. My ice-cold insides turned lukewarm in response to her smile, the tendrils of chocolate-brown hair escaping what I guessed was supposed to be a sensible bun. She cracked something in me, just standing on my front porch, smiling.
Not because of the way she smiled at me. But the way she smiled at my daughter. With warmth, sincerity.
“You’re pretty,” Clara remarked.
She wasn’t just pretty. She was fucking showstopping. A heart-shaped face, full lips, a sprinkling of freckles across her delicate nose. Irresistible.
She was short, shorter than me by a lot. Petite curves that made me want to punch through a fucking wall.
“Why, thank you,” Hannah replied, giving my daughter her full attention. “So are you. Gorgeous, really. I love your shirt.”
“Thanks.” Clara looked down at her Nirvana shirt. “I’m gonna be honest. I don’t listen to them a bunch, but I wear it because my dad likes the band.” She tilted her head at me in a gesture that was so like a teenager, it socked me in the stomach.
Fuck. I hoped I’d get the opportunity to witness her as a surly teenager. I prayed for it.
When evergreen eyes darted to me almost playfully, my body shuddered. I was frozen in place, shocked at my body’s response to this woman.
“Your dad has good taste.” Though she was speaking to Clara, Hannah was looking at me. “Kurt Cobain was a poet of his generation.”
“Which couldn’t have been your generation. I doubt you know anything but songs painted on T-shirts at Target,” I half barked at her.
Though I was lacking in social skills, even I understood that growling at her without so much as a greeting was bad. Very bad. But she pissed me off. By existing, by being so fucking stunning, for shifting my thoughts away from what was most important: my daughter. Her needs. Mine meant nothing. I shouldn’t even have fucking needs at that point in my life.
Hannah didn’t look overly offended by my gruff tone and lack of decorum; she tilted her head to regard me, a sly smile forming on her plump, pink lips.