Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
He turns, his hand still holding the freezer door open, but he angles the lower half of his body away from me. “Yes?”
“Is this…towel yours?”
The question feels incomplete, and I hesitate. I’m almost afraid to ask what I really want to know: Did you get this towel for me?
It’s a presumptuous question—too presumptuous to make landfall, so I keep it locked up.
But then he straightens up, letting the freezer door close, and turns fully toward me.
“No,” he says, pausing for a moment before adding, “I got a few for you. I wanted it to feel like your home. Is the color okay?”
His words knock the air out of me. I try to fight off the smile tugging at my lips, but it’s a losing battle.
It’s stupid to be this excited about a towel. A towel. But it’s big, soft, and exactly what I needed.
“It’s perfect,” I say, and this time I actually leave, heading to the shower.
Once inside, I set the towel on the rack and turn on the water. Steam fills the space quickly, but as I step in, I can’t tell if the water is heating me up—or if it’s the other way around.
I finish the veggie sausage Tyler left for me, rinse the plate, and set it in the dishwasher just as the front door creaks open.
He steps inside, pausing—maybe to kick off his shoes—but then his footsteps fade into the distance. Did he go upstairs or…downstairs?
A few seconds later, the sound of footfalls resumes, and then he pads down the hall. Finally, he steps into the kitchen.
“The sausage was great,” I chirp. First, because it was, and second, because I don’t need to quiz my boss about what he just did after dropping off the kids.
“Good,” he says, his tone even, his voice deep. His movements are effortless now, unlike in the garage. It’s like he’s in control again as he pushes a hand through his messy hair and then reaches into the cupboard. He takes out a bag of coffee and waggles it in my direction. “Want some?”
I shake my head. “I’m naturally caffeinated,” I reply.
“Good trait in a nanny,” he says with a faint smile.
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
He sets to work making the coffee, and I know I should excuse myself, especially since I’m on duty this afternoon while he heads to the arena. But before I leave, I say, “The towel was lovely. Really thoughtful. I only had a couple of towels, and they definitely weren’t that nice. Mine probably came from the discount bin, and yours are…I don’t know—do they even make thousand-thread-count towels? Are towels measured like that, or is that just for sheets?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up as he turns and faces me. “Would you like new sheets too?”
“Oh my god, no. I wasn’t saying that. My sheets are fine. You don’t have to get me anything else,” I ramble, a flush creeping up my neck.
“I want you to be comfortable here,” he says, his tone soft but deliberate.
I’d be comfortable with you coming downstairs at night and ripping the sheets off me.
A wave of heat rushes through my chest at the inappropriate thought. I quickly shake it away. “You really don’t have to get me sheets,” I say, trying to sound casual.
He’s quiet for a moment as he measures the coffee, then licks his lips before speaking. “What if I want to?”
He pulls a mug from the cupboard and makes a show of plunking it onto the counter.
My breath catches. It’s that mug—the one I got him. The one that says: Sorry About Your St. Bernard Ex, But Here’s to Better Dogs Ahead.
His smile says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
But does he know how turned on I am because of a mug?
Except…it’s not the mug. It’s him. The man who’s spoiling me.
“Nice mug,” I say, trying for nonchalant.
“What mug? I have no idea what you mean,” he replies, his grin mischievous. The grin of a man who remembers the Night of a 1001 Confessions.
And as much as I want to stay, I leave. I rush downstairs to cool off because I’m less than twenty-four hours into my new job, and I already want to proposition my boss again.
I’ll splash water on my face, settle down, and work on some skating routines for Jasmine, Luna, and the other kids I coach. I’ll do my morning yoga. I’ll see my friends.
I stop in my tracks. A pink paper shopping bag with cute little handles sits in front of the door. I snatch it up and peer inside.
There are sheets. Pretty light blue sheets, and the label says they’re five hundred-thread count. I know nothing about thread counts, but something tugs at my brain. A question. I google it, and the Internet tells me that while there are thousand-thread-count sheets, five hundred is the best.