I nearly choke on my drink yet again.
I knew Dylan was no longer taking care of her brother’s kids, not with all the hours she’s working. I figured her mother was happy to watch them. To learn he actually hired a nanny when he’s been vehemently against it completely floors me.
Hayden can be…difficult, to say the least. After all, he’s still grieving the loss of his wife last year. Not that it gives him a right to be an asshole. Then again, I’m not sure I’d call him an asshole. Just someone who’s a bit lost right now and is taking his grief out on the world.
“How’s that going?” I ask Rowan with a single brow arched.
“Why do you think I’m here?” she retorts with a smile, raising the glass to her lips and taking a sip. “The man sent me a spreadsheet with a list of approved and prohibited snacks. Andhe wants to put tracking devices on me and the kids so he knows where we are at all times.”
“Hayden can definitely be intense,” Dylan adds.
“And bossy. Overbearing. Infuriating.” Rowan rolls her eyes before her expression softens. “But I understand where he’s coming from. He lost his wife and is trying to figure out life without her. That can’t be easy.”
I notice a flicker of something in her eyes, an underlying affection that goes beyond her just being the nanny.
I get a feeling Dylan picks up on it, too, her brows scrunched as she studies Rowan curiously.
But before she can question her, Rowan straightens, her smile brightening.
“Enough about me andmyproblems.” She faces Dylan. “How was your day? Your own client from hell?”
Dylan groans. “Don’t get me started. This woman has been an absolute nightmare. They gave me a menu. Amenu. Like I’m a line cook, not a trained chef.”
She launches into a rant about how controlling the woman is, often hovering over her in the kitchen in a way that makes Gordon Ramsay look like a preschool teacher. Thankfully, most of her clients don’t bother her. They give her a list of allergies and dietary restrictions, and she plans the menu. But not these people, it seems. These people want control.
“But next week’s clients sound better,” she adds, relaxing slightly. “Laid back. One of them has celiac, which comes with its own challenges, but at least they’re not micromanaging me. And they seem to have quite varied tastes. There are a few dishes I’ve been wanting to try out, and they might be some good guinea pigs.”
I settle into the booth, listening to Dylan tell me about some of her ideas for the coming week. It’s a nice distraction fromthinking about Declan, which is exactly what I need. Why I agreed to come out in the first place.
But as she tells me about possibly hiring more staff to meet the increasing demand, something prickles at the back of my neck. That awareness again.
The kind that sets my skin on edge before my brain has a chance to catch up.
I try to ignore it. Blame it on the alcohol. But when it won’t go away, I steal a glance over my shoulder, stiffening when I see Declan sitting at the bar.
He’s dressed in the same charcoal gray sweater he was wearing earlier that hugs his physique as if it was woven just for him. He sits at the bar as he sips an amber liquid with an unreadable expression on his face.
Damn him for being so handsome.
For making me want him when I’m not supposed to.
For treating me to one of the best nights of my life, then turning out to be the one man I can never have.
He starts to shift his gaze around the bar, and I snap my gaze back to Dylan and Rowan before he sees me.
“Want to play pool?” I rush out.
“You hate playing pool,” Dylan retorts.
“I don’thateit. I’m just bad at it.”
“Right,” she draws out, giving me that look again. The one that says she knows something’s up but is choosing not to press. For now, anyway.
“I wouldn’t mind playing,” Rowan offers.
“Great,” I say, already sliding from the booth, clutching my martini like a lifeline.
The pool tables are at the far end of the bar, shadows pooling under neon lights. I busy myself with racking the balls, focusing on the clatter and click instead of the pulse hammering in my chest.
