Page 65 of The Nanny Game Plan
But you can be damned sure I’ll be doing my bestnotto dream about anything other than justice tonight, certainly not my lying, sneaky, heart-breaking boss.
He really did break my heart a little.
My chest ached all the way home…
It’s still aching as I plop down next to Plato, ready to feed him popcorn while he puts his brilliant hacker hands to work on my behalf.
Seventeen
DEAN
I’m stalking my nanny.
Is it still considered stalking if you’re doing it from inside your own home?
I’m not sure, but it probably is, and it’s definitely fucked up.
But that isn’t enough to make me step away from the window.
I just keep standing here like a creep, holding a warm third beer I haven’t opened—three beers would be one beer too many on a night alone—watching the street. Even though I know she probably won’t be home until midnight, maybe later if she goes out for a drink with her friends from the band after the bar closes.
Which she should.
She should go out, have fun, be young.
And I should go to bed. I should have been in bed an hour ago. The girls are out cold upstairs, and I promised to have chocolate chip pancakes ready before they wake up tomorrow. And those two wake up early, even on lazy Sundays.
I should be getting my beauty sleep, God knows I need it. Since last weekend, I’ve slept like shit, and it shows.
Instead, I stand at the window with the lights off, rehearsing a conversation I can’t have tonight.
Ican’t, I really can’t.
Because every time I get to the part where I tell Clover—I put in for emergency leave so I can find another childcare arrangement—the next thing out of my imaginary mouth is—Because I can’t stand within three feet of you without getting hard. I’m hard for you all the fucking time. I think about fucking you all the fucking time. I’m a sick, twisted, piece of shit employer. I wish I weren’t, but I am, and so…you have to go.
And that’s not a thing I’m allowed to say out loud.
Even though I’m guessing she has an idea how I feel. Since the hallway at Packy’s, the sexual tension in the house has been off the damned charts. I’m honestly surprised we haven’t accidentally set something on fire…
I’m thinking about how much I want to set something on fire with Clover—preferably my bedsheets—when headlights swing across the yard.
She’s home early, just after eleven, which means I can go to bed with an easy heart, knowing my nanny is back, safe and sound.
But I don’t go to bed.
I stand in the dark and listen to her open and close the garage door. I imagine her scaling the stairs to her apartment and changing into her pajamas. I imagine her stripping off her bra, sighing with relief to have her breasts free after a long night of wearing that push-up one she wears to get better tips. I imagine what it would feel like to cup her breasts in my hands, to cradle the weight of her as I guide her nipples to my…
My unwise fantasies are interrupted by another pair of headlights bright enough to startle me into the shadows behind the curtains.
I feel silly for being so jumpy, but I wasn’t expecting anyone else, and the car didn’t make a sound pulling up. I peek through the curtains again, spotting a pricey electric model at the curb.
Well, that explains the lack of noise.
It doesn’t explain what it’s doing here.
The new car’s door opens, triggering the dome light, illuminating the curly head of…a man. A young man with high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw that’s giving Luxury Watch Model. He reaches into the back seat, swinging a plush leather duffel bag over one shoulder before stepping out and shutting the door behind him. Quietly. Carefully. He’s clearly aware of the late hour and is doing his best not to wake anyone who’s already sleeping.
What a thoughtful guy.
