I tell him I’ll be right back before I rush out of the bathroom, almost tumbling over a sleepy-eyed Camille who was about to enter from the other end.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” Her pupils dilate as her eyes shootbetween her father’s now closed bathroom door and me. She’s only four, but her accusatory glances are extremely visual.
I deserve every suspicious glare she gives.
“Daddy is feeling a little unwell today, so I took him some…”—come on, brain—“medication! I took him some medication.” Fret for her father overtakes her face until I add, “So I guess that means more pancakes for us.”
Her mouth gapes open as a greedy flare lightens her dark eyes.
Her curls spring in every direction when I scoop her into my arms and fling her onto my back. Her giggle when I piggyback her out of his room isn’t as loud as the one she rewards Dante with each evening, but it defrosts my heart enough to push aside that he imagined the woman he was with last night while making me climax.
Luckily, I anticipated Camille’s breakfast request. A stack of pancakes is already in the oven, waiting to be devoured.
As I go through the motions of a live-in nanny as I have the past week, my mind continually drifts back to Dante. Don’t look at me like that. Not all my thoughts are salacious. I’m praying he hasn’t collapsed in the bathroom. Or worse, choked on vomit.
My worries play havoc with my stomach so much that before I can eat a single pancake, I make out to Camille that I left the maple syrup in her father’s bathroom.
“I’ll be right back!”
The panic burning me alive is instantly quelled when I enter Dante’s room and see him in bed. I pad over silently, my hand unconsciously plucking at a lint ball in the hem of my sleep shirt. He’s breathing loud enough that I don’t have to place my finger under his nose as I did my father many times in my youth, and his chest is minus the rattling sound of someone choking on their tongue.
He’s okay.
The verdict is still out for me—even more so when Dante whispers my name in his sleep.
