She swung around, the light flush on her cheeks, the sheer joy in her expression making him feel like a jerk. But when she opened her mouth, he raised his palm to stop her.
"No unnecessary conversation, though. And no sneaking into my bedroom uninvited."
She nodded, the gratitude in her eyes so transparent he wasn't quite able to tell her a cute jabber mouth had no business working for a man like him. A man whose bite was a heck of a lot worse than his bark.
Not your problem. She wants this job, she can have it. Then, when she runs screaming, Jonathan can pick up the pieces.
"I'm going to sleep," he said, his throat scratchy from all the unnecessary talking. "Don't wake me up. When I want to eat again, I'll let you know."
She bobbed her head, and the escaped tendrils bounced on her shoulders.
A new jolt of unwanted arousal pierced the exhaustion. And he wondered what the hell he was thinking, letting anyone invade his sanctuary. Especially a woman who made him ache.
But he refused to dwell on the decision as he trudged up the stairs, the anxiety that had tied his stomach into knots blissfully absent for the first time in over ten years.
***
Tatum watched his new boss make his way up the wide staircase, the nerves finally releasing their stranglehold on his ribs. His gaze roamed over Mr Pearce's muscular shoulders, drifted down past the criss-cross of scars on his back and tattoos scrawled across his shoulders and arms.
How had he survived the trauma? And what could he do to make things better for himself? Because surely that was all this was—this deep well of compassion, which felt like so much more than a desire not to mess up his new job?