Page 6 of Filthy Rich Temptation

Christ, if she onlyknewwhat kind of mess I had brewing…

I grab the cloth from her hand, careful to minimise any more contact. ‘I’ve got this.’

Only I don’t…

‘And like I said, Maggie will deal with the cleaning, Sadie.’ I finish rinsing the cloth and toss it in the sink. ‘Not you.’

And what the hell was with all the ‘ies’ in his house now. Sadie. Lottie. Maggie. Daddy. I choke on my coffee, and she sends me an arched brow.

‘Did I make it too strong?’

‘Nope. It’s all good.’

It’s me that’s not.

She moves away, but her expression remains sceptical. The frown between her brows deepening as she butters and cuts the toast into perfect little triangles. I rub the back of my neck.

Just a couple of months, that’s all it is. She’ll find her feet, move into her own place, and I’ll go back to being the highly respected, extremely single, zero-self-control-required bachelor I was before.

Easy.

I take another giant sip and stare stoically at the floor, and not the bare shoulder that’s making my mouth wetter than the coffee.

Easy, my arse.

‘I’d best get to work.’

Stunning blue eyes hit mine. ‘But it’s a Saturday?’

I’m already halfway across the kitchen. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

And I’m definitely that.

Wicked and perverted and in need of the coldest shower known to man…

‘Wicked Uncle Feo!’ Lottie calls after me and I swear I hear Sadie stifle a laugh. ‘Wicked! Wicked! Wicked!’

Yeah kid, and don’t I know it.

* * *

Sadie

I slide the plate of toast to Lottie, weighing up whether to talk her down from using her new favourite word on repeat. But you say something in front of a kid, you’re always going to risk it catching on. And I’m sure Theo will take it in his stride. Won’t he?

I watch him leave. Sloping off like some shirtless Greek tragedy in nothing more than those black boxer briefs and I know I’m drooling. My logical head screams,Inappropriate, forbidden, he broke you once and he’s gifting you sanctuary now.

But the woman inside me?

She’s already fanning herself with a piece of toast and praying she can make it through the next hour without making the same mistake eighteen-year-old her made.

‘Uncle Theo isn’t wicked,’ I say under my breath. ‘Mummy is. And Mummy needs to get this place cleaned up before Maggie arrives…’

I scan the toddler debris which seems to have reached into every corner of Theo’s vast, open-plan space – bright pops of chaos against the monochrome backdrop – and press my palm to my head. No wonder the man saw it as a full-on invasion.

‘Time to do better at containment, kiddo.’

Impossible, much?