Page 80 of Boss of Me
Gunner laughs, nuzzling my hair with his cheek as Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major starts playing.
I trace the ridges of muscle on his chest, working up the nerve to broach one of the topics that’s been on my mind since that morning. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.” He sounds wary.
“What happened with your previous housekeeper?”
I feel his body tense beneath me.
After a few seconds, he says tightly, “Why are you asking about her?”
“I’m just curious. You said it didn’t work out. I’d like to know why so I don’t repeat any of her mistakes,” I say half jokingly.
He’s not amused. “She didn’t have the right temperament for the job. So I fired her.”
“I see.” But Idon’tsee. Not without specific details, which he’s clearly unwilling to share. “Your mother said your housekeepers are getting younger and younger. How old was my predecessor?”
He hesitates. “Twenty-seven.”
I run a finger down his chest. “Was she pretty?”
“Dammit, Marlowe,” he growls in frustration. “I didn’t sleep with her, if that’s what you’re wondering. I told you last night that I don’t fool around with my employees, and I meant it. You’re the only exception I’ve ever made.”
His anger makes me feel guilty for doubting him. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I guess I let your mother’s words get under my skin.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” he says darkly. “She thrives on exploiting people’s fears and insecurities. It’s her lifeblood.”
I recognize the bitterness in his voice. It reminds me of my own tangled feelings toward my mother. “Is that why you two aren’t close? Because she’s cold and spiteful?”
“Isn’t that reason enough?”
I can tell it’s a sore subject for him, just as it is for me. I should probably drop it, but I want to get to know him better. I want to know what makes him tick, what drives him, what excites him, what scares him.
And secretly, I want to know if I could ever make him happy.
“So what’s the story with you and your mother?” I gently probe. “What else poisoned your relationship?”
He’s silent for so long I think he won’t answer. When he finally does, his voice is so low I can barely hear him.
“She thinks I’m too much like my father, and she resents me for it.”
I draw a musical note on his skin. “How are you and your father alike?”
There’s another long pause. “We’re both hardheaded. Ruthlessly ambitious. Single-minded.” His voice lowers. “Restless.”
The last word has me tilting my head back to look at him. But he’s staring into the fire, his face brooding and unreadable.
I lay my palm against his hard pec, feeling the rigid tension in his body. “How old were you when your parents divorced?”
“Fifteen.”
I stroke his heated skin. “That must have been very difficult for you and your brother.”
He gives a barely perceptible nod.
Getting him to open up is like pulling teeth. But I’m a very determined woman. “What happened after the divorce?”
His jaw ticks. “Mom pulled Maverick and me out of school and took us to Dallas.”
