Page 4 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

Her brows furrow and lips purse around her thumb, and for a horrifying moment, I brace for her denial. At three years old, she refuses to speak despite all the scans showing she’s anatomically capable, but she has no problem screaming the building down if she disagrees with me.

Which is often.

I’m at a loss.

Her nanny turned in her two weeks’ notice sixteen days ago. The past two days have been my first of being Lola’s only caretaker. It’s been eye opening. Even though I coordinate my daughter’s appointments, am hands on with her every morning and evening despite my overwhelming workload, and love her with every fiber of my being, she’s always had a professional to look after her, even before she was born.

I’m no stranger to my daughter, but I’m also not a healthcare provider, nor do I have the training or skills of a nanny or a mother’s intuition.

To say I am woefully inadequate is an understatement.

Despite having more money and power—literally, since my company supplies all warning systems, safety equipment, and maintenance to the electrical infrastructure for most of the United States—than anyone has a right to have, I’ve failed to find a suitable replacement nanny. My strong-willed daughter refused all eight trial placements sent by the company with even more dislike than she shows me.

Yet she rested her head on Millie Grant’s shoulder and melted against her as though that’s where she belonged.

Maybe I give my little girl too much credit for being perceptive and too much freedom in public.

To my surprise, Lola reaches down with the hand not connected to the thumb in her mouth and lifts the bottom hem of her top. Her custom-ordered two-piece dress makes access to her feeding tube easier while rendering her the best-dressed three-year-old at the wedding.

When I accepted the invite, I didn’t intend to bring her, but without a certified-nurse nanny available, I had no other choice except to cancel. The thought of flaking on a commitment churns my stomach and goes against everything I believe in, so here we are.

I lean down, ignoring the pinching of my half-hard cock, and inspect her feeding tube. When it looks normal, I breathe a sigh of relief. Lola drops her top, flings an arm around my nape, and squeezes. I freeze, uncertain whether she’s trying to kill me or tell me something is wrong. With patience learned through business negotiations and parenting my precious diva, I stay with my face squished against her front until she releases me.

She pats my shoulder with a seriousness shining from her eyes that no toddler should possess. Alarm spears through me.

Humming in the back of my mind, a voice of panic grows. Lola hasn’t had a seizure since she started taking medication three months ago, but the thought of handling one alone fills me with terror.

I’d rather step into a puddle with a downed power line again than be the only one she can rely on as she fights a battle I can’t help her win. I’ll never forget the sheer horror of watching my daughter lose control and jerk and flail on the floor.

“Are you hurting anywhere?” I ask.

She shakes her head, looks toward the door, then reaches across herself and points at her ear. Her tiny, pudgy finger and short arm are so adorable they distract me from deciphering her message for a few seconds, but the memory of Millie’s tempting lips lowering to my daughter’s ear flashes through me. I wince as my cock strains against my trouser seems, my crouch all the more painful as it tightens my pants against my crotch.

“That woman told you to do it?”

She nods with her thumb firmly in her mouth.

“Baby, she’s a stranger. We don’t—”

Her scowl returns. I swallow the rest of my sentence and hurriedly change topics.

“What was that? What did she tell you to do?”

She hugs herself with one arm before throwing the tiny limb around my nape again. I grunt and struggle to maintain my balance as she yanks my face back to her chest.

Despite the real possibility of being smothered to death, unexpected joy blooms in my soul.

My daughter is hugging me. Sure, the delivery is a little clumsy and lot forceful, but it’s the first time she’s initiated physical touch outside of basic tasks since her original nanny announced her inevitable departure two weeks ago. All the progress we’d made after Regina’s absence disappeared.

Lola has always refused to fall asleep at night unless I hold her, but with our new situation—I used to rush home to finish the bedtime routine her nanny helped her through—we’re together all day. Our awkwardness isn’t as bad as the first twenty-four hours, but she still pushes me away as though I betrayed her, and I have no idea how to comfort her when she breaks down. It’s the most stress I’ve ever felt in my life. Building a company from scratch was easier.

When she finally releases me, I sit back and cup the side of her face. She’s too small and fragile compared to my scarred hand.

“She told you to hug me?”

My voice, deep and rough ever since the accident, sounds impossibly more ragged through the lump in my throat.

Lola nods before fixating on the shelf of toys along the wall. I nudge her toward it and move to the nearest chair to allow her a few minutes of play while I work through the last few minutes.