Tatum spun round, spatula in hand, to find Andrew Pearce standing on the other side of the kitchen counter, his bare chest—the planes of solid muscle and lean sinew, not to mention the array of scars gleaming in the daylight—dissolving his thigh muscles, while those arresting blue eyes glared at him as if he wanted to murder him.

Okay, that’s not good.

He had hoped his new boss might have calmed down at least a bit since their meet-not-at-all-cute in his bedroom.

“Making you some of my mum’s blueberry pancakes,” he offered, trying to keep his voice even.

The tense muscle in Andrew’s cheek started to twitch.

“By way of apology. For earlier,” Tatum added.

He couldn’t lose this job. He needed it or he’d have to return to his family in London an abject failure… But as Andrew continued to glare at Tatum, it wasn’t the thought of his older Sisters’ superior looks that were causing him anxiety. It was the sight of the scars—nicks and cuts, white against the tanned skin. And the echo of the harrowing cries and shouts from his nightmares. And of course, the thick scent of Mr Pearce’s pheromones filling the room and making his nether regions wet.

He’d always been a natural nurturer. Hadn’t his mum and his three older sisters despaired when he was little at all the injured creatures he’d brought home to tend—turning their already space-challenged, house into even more of a zoo? Being the only omega even a recessive one in a house filled with Alphas even if they were females was never easy but it was always fun.

He’d made a home for those poor, damaged wild things until they were well enough to leave again.

Just like them, Andrew Pearce had wounds which needed tending.

“Let me say this in words of one syllable, so you’ll understand me,” he ground out, the flexing muscle in his cheek making Tatum very concerned he was about to crack a tooth. “I want you out of my place and out of my life. I don’t need or want a Girl Friday or housekeeper. Or any other kind of ‘girl’ for that matter. Nor do I want breakfast.”

Tatum suddenly giggled, then flushed red and looked down at the floor muffling his giggles behind his hand. “Girl! If only you knew Mr Pearce”

His skin heated, no doubt making the blush visible from space, as he recalled the sight of his arousal lifting the bed sheet. He might not need a Girl Friday, especially him, but to say he didn’t want any kind of girl was an obvious lie. Although I’m definitely not a girl though, I’m not allowed to enlighten him just yet.

He wasn’t about to call him on it, though. Because that would send totally the wrong message—employee-wise—but when Andrew’s stomach growled loudly, Tatum said, “I think perhaps your tummy has other ideas, breakfast-wise.” And stifled another giggle.

“You’re not listening to me…” he began again in that “he who shall be obeyed” tone, which Tatum was sure struck fear into all his employees. “Get the hell out of—”

He cut him off. “At least let me serve you the pancakes before I go.” Tatum gave him one of his friendliest smiles.

Andrew’s dark brows lowered ominously over those startling blue eyes, and Tatum got the definite sense Andrew Pearce wasn’t used to being interrupted.

Way to go, Tatum. You’ve really outdone yourself this time, first impressions–wise.