Claim Me, Cowboy. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Three

      Danielle had slept fitfully last night. And, of course, she hadn’t actually left her room once she had been put there. But early the next morning there had been a delivery. And the signature they had asked for was hers. And then the packages had started to come in, like a Christmas parade without the wrapping.

      Teams of men carried the boxes up the stairs. They had assembled a crib, a chair, and then unpacked various baby accoutrements that Danielle hadn’t even known existed. How could she? She certainly hadn’t expected to end up caring for a baby.

      When her mother had breezed back into her life alone and pregnant—after Danielle had experienced just two carefree years where she had her own space and wasn’t caring for anyone—Danielle had put all of her focus into caring for the other woman. Into arranging state health insurance so the prenatal care and hospital bill for the delivery wouldn’t deter her mother from actually taking care of herself and the baby.

      And then, when her mother had abandoned Danielle and Riley...that was when Danielle had realized her brother was likely going to be her responsibility. She had involved Child Services not long after that.

      There had been two choices. Either Riley could go into foster care or Danielle could take some appropriate parenting classes and become a temporary guardian.

      So she had.

      But she had been struggling to keep their heads above water, and it was too close to the way she had grown up. She wanted more than that for Riley. Wanted more than that for both of them. Now it wasn’t just her. It was him. And a part-time job as a cashier had never been all that lucrative. But with Riley to take care of, and her mother completely out of the picture, staying afloat on a cashier’s pay was impossible.

      She had done her best trading babysitting time with a woman in her building who also had a baby and nobody else to depend on. But inevitably there were schedule clashes, and after missing a few too many shifts, Danielle had lost her job.

      Which was when she had gotten her first warning from Child Services.

      Well, she had a job now.

      And, apparently, a full nursery.

      Joshua was refreshingly nowhere to be seen, which made dealing with her new circumstances much easier. Without him looming over her, being in his house felt a lot like being in the world’s fanciest vacation rental. At least, the fanciest vacation rental she could imagine.

      She had a baby monitor in her pocket, one that would allow her to hear when Riley woke up. A baby monitor that provided her with more freedom than she’d had since Riley had been born. But, she supposed, in her old apartment a monitor would have been a moot point considering there wasn’t anywhere she could go and not hear the baby cry.

      But in this massive house, having Riley take his nap in the bedroom—in the new crib, his first crib—would have meant she couldn’t have also run down to the kitchen to grab snacks. But she had the baby monitor. A baby monitor that vibrated. Which meant she could also listen to music.

      She had the same ancient MP3 player her mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday years ago, but Danielle had learned early to hold on to everything she had, because she didn’t know when something else would come along. And in the case of frills like her MP3 player, nothing else had ever come along.

      Of course, that meant her music was as old as her technology. But really, music hadn’t been as good since she was sixteen anyway.

      She shook her hips slightly, walking through the kitchen, singing about how what didn’t kill her would only make her stronger. Digging through cabinets, she came up with a package of Pop-Tarts. Pop-Tarts!

      Her mother had never bought those. They were too expensive. And while Danielle had definitely indulged herself when she had moved out, that hadn’t lasted. Because they were too expensive.

      Joshua had strawberry. And some kind of mixed berry with bright blue frosting. She decided she would eat one of each to ascertain which was best.

      Then she decided to eat one more of each. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She had a feeling the hunger wasn’t a new development. She had a feeling she had been hungry for days. Weeks even.

      Suddenly, sitting on the plush couch in his living area, shoving toaster pastries into her mouth, she felt a whole lot like crying in relief. Because she and Riley were warm; they were safe. And there was hope. Finally, an end point in sight to the long, slow grind of poverty she had existed in for her entire life.

      It seemed too good to be true, really. That she had managed to jump ahead in her life like this. That she was really managing to get herself out of that hole without prostituting herself.

      Okay, so some people might argue this agreement with Joshua was prostituting herself, a little bit. But it wasn’t like she was going to have sex with him.

      She nearly choked on her Pop-Tart at the thought. And she lingered a little too long on what it might be like to get close to a man like Joshua. To any man, really. The way her mother had behaved all of her life had put Danielle off men. Or, more specifically, she supposed it was the way men had behaved toward Danielle’s mother that had put her off.

      As far as Danielle could tell, relationships were a whole lot of exposing yourself to pain, deciding you were going to depend on somebody and then having that person leave you high and dry.

      No, thank you.

      But she supposed she could see how somebody might lose their mind enough to take that risk. Especially when the person responsible for the mind loss had eyes that were blue like Joshua’s. She leaned back against the couch, her hand falling slack, the Pop-Tart dangling from her fingertips.

      Yesterday there had been the faint shadow of golden stubble across that strong face and jaw, his eyes glittering with irritation. Which she supposed shouldn’t be a bonus, shouldn’t be appealing. Except his irritation made her want to rise to the unspoken challenge. To try to turn that spark into something else. Turn that irritation into something more...

      “Are you eating my Pop-Tarts?”

      The voice cut through the music and she jumped, flinging the toaster pastry into the air. She ripped her headphones out of her ears and turned around to see Joshua, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his eyebrows flat on his forehead, his expression unreadable.

      “You said whatever was in your house was mine to use,” she squeaked. “And a warning would’ve been good. You just about made me jump out of my skin. Which was maybe your plan all along. If you wanted to make me into a skin suit.”

      “That’s ridiculous. I would not fit into your skin.”

      She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Well, it’s a figure of speech, isn’t it?”

      “Is it?” he asked.

      “Yes. Everybody knows what that means. It means that I think you might be a serial killer.”

      “You don’t