Bad Things (Tristan & Danika #1) (2 page)

Jerry nodded, giving me a grateful smile.
 
“You’re the best, Danika.
 
I owe you.”

He sure did.
 
I looked at Tristan, who was giving me that playful smile of his, as though we hadn’t just barely met.
 

“You’re a sassy little thing.
 
I like that,” he murmured, just as Bev and her boys rounded the corner that led from the garage and into the main living area.
 

Ivan and Mat caught sight of me and the dogs swarming at my heels and rushed me with huge whoops.
 
Ivan was an unabashedly diabolical eight-year-old, and Mat was a precocious six-year-old, and the two of them combined were more than a handful, but I loved them to
pieces
.

Mat went straight for a tackle to my midsection, while Ivan caught the biggest dog, Mango, in a bear hug.
 
Mango was a tan-colored bloodhound.
 
She was nine years old and left a trail of slobber in her wake.
 
She was a terrible guard dog.
 
We were all convinced that if the place was robbed she’d just see it as an opportunity to lick more faces.

Mat squeezed my waist so hard that he drew a little grunt out of me.
 
The second biggest dog, Dot, took exception to the rough handling.
 
He growled menacingly at the six-year old.
 
He was a big black Belgian Shepherd, and none of us had any doubts that he was a good guard dog.
 
A little too good, in fact.
 
He’d taken to being my own personal protector, even against the other inhabitants of the house, and that included the boys.
 

I shushed Dot, hugging Mat back.
 
He was a skinny blond kid with gorgeous blue eyes.

“You said you’d make us cookies when we got back!” Mat told me excitedly.
 

I nodded.
 
“Okay.
 
You gonna help me make them, or you want to go play while I cook?”
 

“Play!” he shouted.
 
I didn’t know if it was Mat, or being six, but the boy had a serious volume control issue.
 
It just made me laugh.
 

“Okay.
 
I bet you’ll be able to smell when they’re done.”

“Yes!” he shouted, even louder, then took off for his room.
 

Ivan straightened, looking around at all of the adults and pursing his lips.
 
He had light brown hair, was tall for his age, and had soft brown eyes like his dad.
 
He was a funny kid.
 
He had moments of being a shameless brat, but just as many moments of absolute charm.
 
“I want to play, too, Danika, but I’ll help you if you really, really need me to.”

I smiled at him.
 
“I got it covered, buddy.
 
You go on and play.”

He took off, never saying a word to his dad or to Tristan.
 
Typical eight-year-old, only paying attention to the one making cookies.

Beverly and I shared a look.
 
She gave her boys a laughing eye roll before heading the same way they’d gone, towards her bedroom.
 
She’d barely spared Tristan a glance.
 
It wasn’t a good sign.
 

“Jerry, a word,” she called out, still moving toward her room.
 
It didn’t bode well.

He swore under his breath, but followed her.

I headed over to the kitchen.
 
I felt Tristan following me.
 

The house was set up with an open floor plan.
 
It was huge, but the entryway, living room, dining room, kitchen, and family room all shared one massive space, so it was a straight shot into the kitchen once I got around the giant L-shaped sofa that dominated the living room.

The house was a strange combination of shabby chic, leaning way further in the direction of shabby.
 
Beverley was very successful as a worker’s compensation attorney, and she came from a rich family, so money wasn’t an issue when it came to the house.
 
It was colossal, and in one of the nicest gated communities in Vegas, but the house was lined with outdoor carpeting and the furniture was in desperate need of an update.
 
The only saving grace in the house was the spectacular artwork that she collected.
 
Words couldn’t even express how much I appreciated her fine eye for upcoming artists, but they were the
only
saving grace when it came to the house’s aesthetics.
 

I understood why she didn’t update a lot of it.
 
New carpet would be ruined in just a few weeks by her unruly dogs and crazy kids, and the dark green leather sofa had the entire back gnawed off.
 
I couldn’t imagine a new sofa wouldn’t receive the same treatment.

I had to unlock the latch that had been installed on the side of the refrigerator before I opened it.
 
Mango liked to eat sticks of butter when it wasn’t latched tight…

I pulled out a plastic tube that was filled with chocolate chip cookie dough.
 
I heard a clear, disappointed groan behind me.
 

I turned to look at Tristan, arching a brow at him.
 
“What?
 
You don’t like chocolate chip?”

He shook his head at me, still showing off one dangerous dimple in a half smile.
 
I really wished he’d put those dimples away.
 
They were counter-productive to my peace of mind.
 

“You’re joking, right?” he asked pointedly.

I had no idea what he was talking about.
 
“Um, about what?”

“Cookie dough out of a plastic tube?
 
Pre-made?”

I shrugged.
 
“It’s easy and fast, and they taste fine.”

He shook his head again.
 
“Show me to your baking supplies.
 
I can’t stand by and watch this.”

I scowled at him.
 
“You’re bossy for an out-of-work houseguest,” I told him.
 

“I have a job.
 
Several actually.
 
But yeah, I’m bossy.
 
Now show me to your flour.”

I kept scowling, but I was walking from the kitchen and into the walk-in pantry while I did it.
 
I waved a hand at the area that kind of held the baking supplies.
 
The pantry was hardly well organized, so he would probably have to dig around to get everything he needed for cookies.
 

I left him to it, going back into the kitchen to pre-heat the oven and grease a cookie sheet.
 
I put out a large mixing bowl, measuring cups, and any other incidentals I thought he might need for baking.
 
It was the least I could do if he was actually going to do the baking.
 

I shrugged out of my sweatshirt, suddenly warm.
 
It was a hundred and ten degrees outside, but you wouldn’t know it by the way I normally froze inside of the A/C’d to death house.
 
It wasn’t normal for me to get so warm inside for no reason at all.
 

I was wearing a thin white tank and sitting on the counter when Tristan strolled back into the kitchen, his arms full of baking supplies.
 

He set them on the counter near the mixing bowl, lining them up neatly.
 
His biceps bulged with the smallest movement.
 
It was fascinating.
 

“Salt?” he asked me, his brow raised.

I blinked, trying to process what he’d said.
 

I pointed behind me after a few awkward moments.

He moved towards me without a word, and I saw my folly then.
 
The cupboard I’d pointed to was directly behind me.
 
I should have just grabbed it for him.

He didn’t seem to mind, moving uncomfortably close to me to reach behind me.
 
His upper chest got so close to my face that I could smell him.
 
He smelled divine, so divine that I closed my eyes for a second to take it in.
 

He had to reach up, so his hip grazed my inner thigh as he shamelessly moved between my legs to get closer.
 

I gasped.

“Sorry,” he said, backing up, the salt in his hand.
 
I saw his eyes flick briefly down my body before he turned away, setting the salt beside the other ingredients.
 

“So you’re the nanny, huh?
 
You are
not
what I pictured when Jerry said he had a live-in nanny.”

I glared at his back.
 
“What did you picture?”

“I don’t really know.
 
I didn’t have a clear picture in my head.
 
I just wasn’t expecting someone like
you
.”
 
He turned his head to flick me another unreadable glance.
     

I gave him a very unfriendly look, offended, and a little wounded.
 
“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing bad.
 
Quit giving me evil eyes.
 
Nannies just don’t usually look like you.
 
You’re like what Hollywood would cast to be a nanny to add sex appeal to a movie.
 
You’re sexy.
 
Really sexy.
 
Don’t play coy.
 
You know you’re gorgeous.”

I stopped glaring, but I was wary of the compliments.
 

“Relax, okay?” he said, studying my face.
 
“I’m not hitting on you, and I won’t.
 
What are you, like eighteen?
 
Way too young for me.
 
I’m just stating facts.
 
Normally women don’t appreciate other women as hot as you underfoot.”

I was glaring again.
 
“I’m twenty-one, and Bev is my best friend.
 
I’ve been working for them for two years.”

He threw up his hands, giving me an apologetic smile.
 
“Sorry.
 
I’m not trying to be a dick.
 
It just surprised me that you were the nanny Jerry was telling me about.
 
He gave me no hints that you were, well, hot.”

“How old are
you
?” I asked him, still smarting from the too young comment.

“Twenty-six.”

“That’s not that old,” I told him.

“I know.
 
Just too old to be dating eighteen-year olds, or even twenty-one year olds.
 
Frankly, though, I’m bad with women my own age, too, when it comes to relationships, which is why I don’t do them.”

I couldn’t help it.
 
I had to ask.
 
“So what do you do?”

“Hookups.
 
Brief, casual hookups.
 
How about you?”

I shook my head, pursing my lips at him.
 
I couldn’t quite believe that we had jumped to this already.
 
He was a man to be careful of, to be sure.
 
“I do relationships.
 
No exceptions.
 
Never had a casual hookup in my life.”

He sighed, measuring some flour into the mixing bowl.
 
“Well, I guess that makes things less complicated.
 
We’ll be friends, then.”
 
He shot me a sidelong smile that was downright irresistible.
 
I thought that this was one of the strangest conversations I’d ever had, being that we had just met.
 
Only, it didn’t feel like we’d just met.
 
He spoke to me like he’d known me forever, and it was hard to refuse anything he said in that low voice of his.
 

I nodded, giving him my own, rather begrudging smile.
 
“Okay, friends, since we’ll be living under the same roof for the next week.”

“Okay, then.
 
My first job as your friend will be to show you how to make the best chocolate chip cookies in the world.”

CHAPTER TWO

Tristan walked me through every step of the cookie making process, and I pretended to pay attention, but that attention kept wandering to his spectacular arms while he worked.
 
I barely kept my composure when he used the mixer, and I watched his ripped arms vibrate with the movement of it.
 

“Did you catch that, Danika?” he asked me with a smile.

I shook myself out of it, looking at his face.
 
“Huh?”
 

He shook his head at me, his smile widening.
 
I found my eyes focusing on the shadow of a beard lining his jaw.
 
I’d never found the unshaven look so attractive before.
 

“You’re a little troublemaker,” he told me matter-of-factly, going back to his cookie dough.
 

“
Me
?” I asked, and I wasn’t sad when he didn’t respond.
 
We didn’t need to get into a conversation about Trouble.
 

He spooned little balls of his dough onto the cookie sheet very precisely.
 
He slid the pan into the oven, setting the timer.

“Do you like to go out?” he asked me as he washed his hands.

I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off his hands.
 
“Go out?”

He dried his hands and approached me, stopping just short of my legs.
 
“Yeah.
 
Go out.
 
Like to bars and clubs and parties.
 
What do you like to do for fun?”