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)
I smile, but not because of the shirt or the good game, or even because of Miles’s faith in us. It’s because Sabrina figured out my kid. Parker’s not an easy puzzle to crack—he’s bright, curious, and a little too serious for his age sometimes. But she tried, and it seems she delivered.
It’s late, and I’m the only one up. I grab an apple from the counter and crunch into it, taking a moment to breathe in the quiet of the house, the hum of the fridge the only noise. I finish the apple, then toss it into the compost bin and head upstairs, a pang of longing cutting briefly through my chest. I ignore it, since really, what am I even longing for?
I re-center my thoughts as I get ready for bed, chucking my tie and suit back into the closet and tugging on shorts and a T-shirt. As I brush my teeth, I find myself reviewing Sabrina’s first week, and I’d say she did a damn fine job. That relaxes me as I slide under the covers a few minutes later.
But once I’m alone in the biggest bed ever, my mind drifts to her. Two flights down. Is she under her sheets? And how do they feel against her body? Are they smooth against her skin? Does she get hot when she sleeps and kick them off?
A groan, unbidden, rumbles up my chest as I imagine the cool blue sheets slipping down her skin, revealing soft flesh and full breasts, and a warm, eager woman.
The longing intensifies, revving my mind and my body.
I could ignore it, but instead I feed it. I reach for my phone on the nightstand. I hop over to her socials, and a fizzy feeling rushes through me when I spot a new video. I’ve never once commented on her posts, or even “liked” them. But I have watched all her skating videos. Every single one, from the routines and free skates to the tutorials. Yeah, I’m a social stalker. But the woman is stunning and her videos are…addictive. Before I hit play, I grab my earbuds and pop them in. Don’t want anyone to wake up and figure out what I’m listening to. I hit play, then settle down under the covers, a hazy sensation filling me as a Jane Black song plays, and Sabrina glides across the ice. She posted this a couple days ago, and it hits me—this routine might very well be from her first morning here. When I ran into her in the garage and she was wearing only her towel.
For some stupid reason, that makes me feel even more connected to her, knowing what she did after. She came here, to my house. With that sense of satisfaction running through my veins, I get a little lost in how she gains speed and power with each crossover, then I’m mesmerized by her spins. I bet they took years to perfect. Of course they did. And she makes it look effortless. When she launches into the air, my breath catches annoyingly, but after two revolutions she lands like it was easy.
I smile. A stupid smile. Because I really shouldn’t be watching this.
I hit play again. Then one more time. And I like it so much I’m tempted to hit the heart button.
My finger hovers over it, and I almost, almost, do it.
But I catch myself then yank out my earbuds and put the phone on do not disturb. It’s me who shouldn’t disturb the phone—not the other way around.
I let out a long sigh in the dark, flip over, and pound my pillow a few times. “Get over it, man,” I mutter.
But it takes me longer to fall asleep than it should as visions of the woman living under the same roof dance in my head.
I can balance on the edge of a blade while slamming a puck into the net. But climbing a ladder in my kid’s bedroom? While the stunning new nanny hands me sun and moon stickers?
That’s an entirely new feat of strength.
It’s not because of the ladder. The ladder is fine. The problem is in my pants.
I am that guy now.
That asshole who gets borderline aroused by his kids’ nanny’s baby tee as it rises up, revealing her stomach.
Am I obsessed with her stomach?
Don’t answer that, brain. Just don’t answer it.
But my unhelpful brain supplies the answer anyway: You’re obsessed with all of her. Including that belly button ring you just noticed.
And the problem is, it’s making me wonder if she has other piercings. Where they might be. If they’re part of what she wanted me to explore.
Thank god I have some dick control though. Enough that I’m not sporting wood in my kid’s bedroom. For fuck’s sake, if that ever happens, I’ll have to hang a shame sign around my neck, like a dog who ate his owner’s underwear.