I blinked. The woman seated across from me had a crease between her brows, head tilted to the side in question. Her long blonde hair was curled, wild, her face accentuated by heavy makeup. She wore a dress that was classy but still showcased a curvy body, great tits.
One of the servers at the restaurant had been trying to set me up with her sister for months. She was determined, and apparently, not scared of me. I’d utilized the number she gave me out of fucking desperation, after the moment with Hannah at the wedding.
Her hand on my thigh, her body in that dress.
“Yeah, I agree.” I cleared my throat, gambling that whatever she’d asked me was a question.
She was nice. My age. Divorced. No children. Interior designer. Polite to waiters. Allergic to gluten. I couldn’t remember her name.
Her smile dimmed. “I was asking what you wanted for dessert.”
Fuck.
I rubbed the back of my neck and took a sip of my water, wishing it were whisky. But I only had one when I knew I’d be driving. No way in fuck would I jeopardize Clara’s future by drinking and driving. No way would I miss Clara’s future. Not for anything.
“Sorry.” I genuinely meant it. It was an asshole thing to do, taking a woman on a date who I was essentially using to hurt the woman I really wanted. Then, on top of that, not havingthe decency to listen to her on the date I had no intention of repeating.
“It’s okay,” she replied warmly. “Dating is hard, I get it. And I know you’ve had a difficult few years. This is your first time on a date since…?”
“Since I was married.” I sighed.
Not that Naomi’s and my dates were enjoyable after Clara was born. She had to convince me to leave Clara, usually by using tears, dramatics, and ultimatums. I would reluctantly go while my dad watched Clara, only halfway listening to Naomi, pushing her away as she tried to give me a hand job under the table so I could check the baby monitor.
I hadn’t wanted to leave my daughter. And those “dates” had made it unavoidable to realize that I truly disliked my wife. Those “dates” had led me to decide to file for divorce.
“Wow.” The woman—fuck, I wished I could remember her name—sipped her wine.
“Yeah.” I shrugged.
“Are you ready to date?” she asked, peering at me as if she already knew the answer.
“No,” I answered honestly, though without the clarification that I wasn’t ready to date anyone but the five foot five, auburn-haired nanny currently living with me.
“I get it.” She smiled again, this time sadder. Once again, I felt a stab of guilt for being an asshole. “It took me three years after my divorce to properly get out there. And I’m still here.” She waved at her torso. “It’s hard.”
I nodded again, feeling like a piece of shit.
“Well, we can always have dessert at my place?” She chewed on her lip. “No strings. And I’m not saying that and secretly thinking otherwise. Truly, no strings. It can be lonely after a divorce. Not being emotionally ready but physically…” Shedidn’t finish the sentence, her cheeks coloring. But she didn’t look down, confidently proposing no-strings sex.
I liked that. Appreciated it. If I’d never met Hannah, it might’ve turned me on. A self-assured, straight-shooting, attractive woman.
But my cock didn’t so much as twitch.
I considered taking her up on her offer anyway. My cock would eventually wake up. I wasn’t dead. And it had been a long fucking while since I’d taken anyone to bed. But that crossed lines even I wasn’t willing to cross. It would be using this woman. It would completely erase any possibility of Hannah.
The possibility that I told myself didn’t exist.
It would be betraying her.
Even though we weren’t together.
She was my nanny.
I was her employer.
I could fuck whomever I wanted.
And maybe fucking another woman would rid me of this obsession once and for all.
