What a fucking thoughtful gentleman of a guy.
I hate him—and his fucking designer duffle bag—immediately.
Before I make a conscious decision to move, my unopened beer is on the kitchen table, and I’m out the back door, shoving my feet into an old pair of tennis shoes I left on the porch after playing soccer with Bella before dinner. I tell myself I’m just going to make sure Cheekbones isn’t a supermodel burglar.
Or a food delivery guy at the wrong house.
Or a food delivery guy at therighthouse, who might decide to stick around and bother Clover once he realizes she’s alone up there.
I tell myself that if it becomes obvious that Cloverisexpecting this obnoxiously put-together man in his perfectly fitted sweater and baggy designer suit pants, I will retreat to the house, where I will go directly to bed without another impure or jealous thought about my nanny.
After all, she’s not going to be your nanny much longer. She’s not going to be your anything.
The thought sends a guilty cramp through my stomach. A part of me insists I should have talked to Clover before I put in for emergency leave. But the other part of me is well aware that if I’d talked to her first, she would have probably talked me out of it. She would have convinced me that we can, andshould, soldier through the tension for the good of the kids.
Ava and Bella are thriving under Clover’s care. Losing her is going to hurt them, I know it is. But I also know that I’m not a superhero. Not even close. And it would require superhero levels of self-control for me to keep going like this.
Because I don’t just want to get naked with Clover more than I’ve ever wanted to get naked with anyone. Ever. I also look forward to our talks over snack time with the girls so much that I push the speed limit all the way home. I light up inside every time she smiles. I watch the video we made of the four of us playing “Rock Band” in the Ava’s room last week over and over again. I ache to pull her into my arms every time she leaves at the end of her shift, and watching her cross the lawn hurts a little more with every passing day.
I’m in love with my nanny, and she has no idea.
And she certainly doesn’t feel the same way. I’m just her boss. Her boss, with a side of inconveniently intense chemistry, but that’s it. Clover clearly likes kissing me, but that’s where it ends for her. Meanwhile, I can’t remember the last time I had a crush this intense.
I hope it’s just a crush.
I hope it retreats as quickly as it sank its teeth into me. If not, I’m in trouble. So are the girls. Yes, they need a loving caregiver when I’m away, but they need a stable, emotionally healthy father more. I can’t be the parent they need if I’m lovesick and pining for a woman I can never have.
So, Clover has to go.
And I have to devote myself to making that as easy for the girls as possible, while finding a replacement for the unicorn of a person we’ve all fallen for way too hard, way too fast.
But until she leaves, her safety is my responsibility.
Or so I tell myself as I slink into the bushes beneath the oak by the garage. I go still, straining for the sound of her cry of surprise as the Supermodel Bandit demands she put her valuables into his duffel bag. Instead, I hear low, warm voices, then Clover’s laugh, and something that sounds like “why didn’t you tell me?” before the apartment door closes, muffling the sound.
Why didn’t he tell her what?
That he was in town? That he got a sweet new promotion? That he and his boyfriend are recently engaged?
This guy could very well be gay. He’s very, very handsome, and very handsome men are often gay. And even if he’snotgay, that doesn’t mean he and Clover are anything more than friends. And even if they are, it’s none of my business!
This is none of my business. I should go back inside. Now.
I lean my forehead against the tree. It’s damp, and the bark smells like sadness, wet and earthy in a sour way that makes me feel especially pathetic.
What the fuck am I doing out here?
As if in answer to my question, a heavy black shadow plops down on the garage windowsill a few feet away, and croaks, “Cray cray.”
It’s Edgar, coming in hot and opinionated as usual.
“Hush,” I whisper. “I’mnotcrazy, and you should go home. You know you’re not supposed to be cruising the neighborhood after dark. If Maybelline wakes up and sees you out of the pen after bedtime again, no treats for you tomorrow.”
Edgar settles more firmly onto the ledge, clearly unimpressed by my threats. He chortles low in his throat, doing his best rusty garbage disposal impression.
“I’m serious,” I hiss, pulse spiking. “Get. Shoo. Now. Before they hear you upstairs.”
He cocks his head to one side, then the other, his black button eyes sparkling as he catches the scent of drama in the water. If there’s one thing my neighbor’s nosy crow loves more than sparkly things, it’s drama.
