“What’s wrong?” He eyes me in concern. “We’re alone.”
“I know.” I glance toward the living room, confirming the kids are occupied. “But Presley’s already picked up on…whatever this is. She asked if I like you.”
He waggles his brows. “And do you?”
I playfully swat his arm. “I’m trying to be serious.”
“So am I. My ego is extremely fragile.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
I adore this version of him. The playful one. The man who isn’t carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. The carefree man he must have been at some point in his life.
“I think it’s probably best if we keep our hands to ourselves when the kids are around. It’s already going to be difficult for them when I leave.”
At the reminder, his expression falls, and I hate that I’m the cause of it. But my plans haven’t changed. I’ll eventually leave, and Hayden will find a new nanny. Maybe someone like me but with more stability.
Someone without a ticking clock.
Although, the mere thought of it makes something hot and sharp bubble inside me.
“I just think it will be a lot less confusing if we tone down the PDA,” I finish.
He pushes out a long breath, running his fingers through his still-damp hair. “You’re right. I’ll keep things professional when they’re around.”
“Thank you.”
I turn back to the stove, fluffing the rice, even though it doesn’t need it.
“But for the record,” he murmurs, stepping close again, “I’m going to PDA all over you the second those kids are asleep.”
Before I can react, his palm lands against my ass with a firm smack.
I whirl around. “Hayden!”
He’s already backing away, looking far too pleased with himself.
And I hate that my first instinct isn’t to berate him or remind him of what we just discussed.
It’s to count down the hours until bedtime.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
HAYDEN
Six conversations overlapin my mother’s dining room, bouncing off the pale yellow walls and the antique china cabinet she refuses to replace. Forks scrape plates. Someone laughs too loudly. Jemmy babbles incessantly to my mom, and she hangs onto every word he speaks.
Same table. Same faces. Same heavy oak chair beneath me.
Everything else is different.
A month ago, I sat in this exact seat with my jaw locked so tight it ached. Every time Joshua leaned toward Rowan, every time she laughed at something he said, it killed me. Made me rage with jealousy. Becausehecould touch her. Could make her smile. Make her laugh.
I couldn’t.
Or so I thought.
Today, Joshua is still part of whatever animated conversation Rowan’s having with Claire and Dylan, but he doesn’t touch her arm when he talks. Doesn’t lean too close. Doesn’t linger.
