Right now, it’s 4:47 AM, and I’m in my bakery trying to focus on laminating croissant dough. Butter, fold, fold, roll, fold, fold, roll. But all I can think about is the fact that Chloe’s still asleep in the room down the hall from mine. That she’s probably wearing those flannel pajama pants I caught a glimpse of yesterday morning when she was coming from the girl’s room after comforting Ava, the ones with the little cartoon moons on them. That her hair is probably a mess, spread across her pillow, and I have absolutely no business imagining any of this.
I fold the dough with more force than necessary.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. Exactly why I almost didn’t hire her, despite her being the most qualified applicant —despite being theonlyapplicant who didn’t run screaming when I mentioned four a.m. baker’s hours andtwinfour-year-olds. They can really gang up on a person and most nannies understood that.
I told myself I could keep it professional. That I could have an attractive woman living in my house and not develop some inconvenient attraction to her. That three years of celibacy and single fatherhood had effectively neutered any romantic impulses I might have once had.
I was wrong on all counts.
So fucking wrong.
The dough tears under my hands.
“Dammit,” I mutter, trying to repair the damage. Croissants are unforgiving, brutally unkind to absent bakery. They require patience, precision, the kind of attention I’m not capable of when my mind keeps drifting to things like the way Chloe’s eyes light up when she talks to the twins, or how she touched my arm yesterday when she was laughing at something Mia said, or how she’s started staying up after the girls go to bed, sitting at my kitchen counter while I clean up for the day, just... talking to me.
No one’s just talked to me in years.
The bell above the bakery door chimes, and I look up to see Jake letting himself in for the morning delivery run.
“Morning,” he says, grabbing his keys from the hook. “You look like hell.”
“Good morning to you too, Jake.”
He grins, completely unrepentant. Young, perpetually cheerful, and deeply in love with his girlfriend of five years, Jake is the kind of guy who thinks everyone should be as happy as he is. It’s exhausting.
“Seriously though, you okay? You’ve been weird all week.” He leans against the counter, studying me with the kind of concern that makes me want to throw a bag of flour at his head.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You’re always tired. This is a different kinda tired, like you’re thinking about thinking about thinking.” His eyes narrow and then they widen. “This is about the new nanny, isn’t it?”
“No.” It’s too quick and I fold the dough for the final lamination even harder than before.
“Oh man, it totally is!” Jake’s grin widens. “Is she hot? Please tell me she’s hot. You need something good in your life, and you’re always so grumpy here at the bakery, never with the girls of course, but I really think you need to get la?—”
“Jake!”
“What? I’m just saying, you’re thirty-six, not dead. And you’ve been alone since?—”
“Jake.” I stretch his name and put enough warning in my voice that he finally stops talking. “Chloe is myemployee. She’s here to take care of my daughters. That’s it.”
“But is she hot?”
I throw the dish towel at him.
He catches it, laughing. “I’ll take that as a yes. When do I get to meet her?”
“Never, if I have anything to say about it.”
“Come on, I’m harmless. I just want to see who’s got you all twisted up.”
“I’mnottwisted up.”
“You just tore your croissant dough… again. Younevertear your dough.” Jake tosses the towel back at me. “Face it, boss. You’re into her. Big time.”
I don’t respond, because what am I supposed to say? That he’s right? That I’ve spent the last three nights lying awake in my too-big bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the woman sleeping down the hall? That yesterday, when she asked me to teach her how to make sourdough starter, I spent twenty minutes standing too close to her, breathing in whatevershampoo she uses, trying not to notice the freckles on her shoulder where her wide-necked sweatshirt had slipped?
Done that Flashdance thing that drives men into insanity.
