I stop in my tracks and turn at the sound, a little startled. I step back and he stands in the doorway running one tattooed hand through his hair, like he’s trying to buy time. He looks uncomfortable, and I brace for whatever is about to leave his mouth.
“Thank you,” he says. “For this week. For everything, really. You’ve been great and have helped me out a lot. Lilah loves being with you.”
I don’t move a muscle. I just stare at Wes with what I’m sure are wide, unblinking eyes.
“Oh, yeah. No problem. I love being with her too,” I reply cautiously.
“And I’m sorry if I’ve been an asshole. Or stand-offish,” he adds, glancing away quickly. “It’s just been an adjustment having someone new in my space.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’d like to hire you. If you’re interested.”
I freeze. Still interested? I want to tattoo “NANNY FOR DELILAH” across my forehead in sparkly ink.
“No need for the trial basis,” he continues. “I’ve seen what I needed to see.”
He slips his hands into his pockets, and looks at me with what I swear is hope in his eyes. I can hear angels singing in the distance, maybe even a harp.
“Really?” I ask—probably a little more desperate that I’d prefer, but who fucking cares, he wants to keep me on.
“Yeah,” he replies, rocking back on his heels.
I lunge at him.
7
Wes
Ivy barrels into me, arms wrapping tight around my middle. I go still. Fuck. The last thing I need is her tight little body pressed up against me. I instinctively shift my hips back, to avoid any areas of me rubbing up against her.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Her eyes are screwed shut and her cheek is pressed against my sternum. I’m frozen in place. She’s hugging me so tightly I can feel every pad of her fingers digging into my back.
I know I’ve been a dick to her, but seeing the shock and nerves written on her face when I apologized just now, makes guilt churn in my stomach. I’ve been giving her the cold shoulder and doing my best to keep my distance, but now I’m starting to think that wasn’t the right move.
I’m trying like hell to be professional and unbothered by her presence, but coming home to her everyday this week, knowing she’s strictly off-limits, has been my own personal brand of torture.
Ivy is incredible with Lilah, and my daughter has become attached to her way faster than I was anticipating. It wasn’t like this with the last nanny. Lilah was fine with her, sure. Indifferent at best. But with Ivy? She’s like a whole new kid. It’s Ivy this, and Ivy that all night long. She talks about her before bed, and right when she wakes up.
Seeing how uncomfortable Ivy was talking to me when I got home… yeah, that gave me pause. Of course I want to hire her. I hate that she was surprised by that.
Ivy’s been a nonstop chatterbox since the day she started, and seeing her go quiet—no doubt because of me—makes me question how I’ve handled things. Her weird jokes and wild, off-the-wall tangents have become something I actually look forward to. And yet, all I’ve managed to do is act like an asshole in some distorted attempt to maintain boundaries.
My daughter deserves a nanny like Ivy, and pushing someone as good as her away because I can't get my own shit together? That’s not only unfair. It’s unacceptable.
You’d never guess it, considering how much of a tool I’ve been, but every day I struggle not to berate her with questions. Like what she does when she goes home. I want to know where she lives, or if she likes it there. I have to physically bite my tongue not to ask where she moved from, and why she chose Canyon Creek of all places. I want to know what her favorite fucking food is so I can cook it, and invite her to dinner. I wonder if Sophie would give me shit if I asked her for the information instead.
Ivy starts to pull away, and I realize I still haven’t moved. I’ve just been standing here like a corpse. Snapping out of it, I wind my arms around her small frame and hug her back.
I should not be doing this.
It’s just for a second, I tell myself. One second.
Apparently, a second is all it takes for me to memorize the feel of her. Holy shit, she smells good. Is that vanilla? There might be a little coconut in there. I’m contemplating sticking my face in her hair just to get a more defined smell.
I hear her small intake of breath, and my pulse thunders. I pull back, looking down to see the dreamy expression written across her face. Jesus, she’s fucking hypnotizing. Her eyes, her lips, the way her smile grows with every passing second I stare at her.
My palm absentmindedly slides down and rests on the small of her back. Her cheeks have a pink hue to them that wasn’t there before, and without warning, my brain flips through a hundred different ways I could make her blush even harder.
