Leif Sitting behind my desk listening to Layla prattle on about all her plans and ideas was the sweetest torture I’ve ever experienced. She’s passionate, organized, smart, ambitious. Everything I’d want in a woman and more. That light emanating from her was so bright as she spoke, her delicate finger trailing along her notes as she explained everything in great detail. Truthfully, I only heard half of it. I was too focused on the shape of her lips as she spoke, the slight flush on her high cheekbones, the yellow light of the office glinting gold on her hair. As she spoke, she sat up straighter, her body lithe and slender and womanly. It was like the twins’ birthday party. She turned into bottled sunshine before my very eyes. At some point while she spoke, a strange pain entered my chest. I k ept my face blank to hide it—hide how much it scared me. Women don’t have that effect on me. They haven’t for years. I learned my lesson with Isla’s mother—or at least I thought I did. I ke ep women s eparate from business and family, because life is easier that way. Isla is my priority, and my love life cannot touch her, ever. And here I am, fantasizing about stripping every stitch of clothing off my daughter’s nanny? Despicable. Low. Even for me. “Have a drink with me,” I told her a minute ago. Idiot. I should be ke eping my distance. Any woman who can muddle all my boundaries should be k ept at arm’s length. Still, I find myself unable to resist touching her as I lead her to the kitchen, her back a warm, shallow curve under my palm. She smells fresh and womanly and perfect, and all I want to do is wrap my arms around her and bury my head in the crook of her neck to inhale her scent de ep into my lungs until she’s imprinted in my memory. What the hell is wrong with me? As we both enter the kitchen, Layla moves to the cupboard to pull out two wine glasses while I get the bottle. We move around each other like we’ve done it for years. There’s no awkward bumping, no shifting out of each other’s way. For once, I’m not upset about having someone else in my space. She belongs here. The wine glugs out of the bottle into the glasses, and then I hand one over. Layla’s fingers brush mine as she takes it from me, and a spark jolts me at the touch. Her eyes fly to mine as she pulls the glass away, and I know she felt it too. This is bad. This is very, very bad. On Friday, I wanted her. I was content to wait until the end of the week, when she wasn’t my daughter’s nanny anymore, to seduce her, sle ep with her, and move on from this strange infatuation. Now, though? Now I see her passion, and I want more of it. I’ve grown addicted to the husky notes in her voice and that low, seductive laugh in little more than a couple of days. At the end of the week, she won’t be Isla’s nanny anymore, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to get her out of my system, even if we do end up in bed together. There are too many layers to her I want to uncover. Too many secrets she ke eps showing me about herself and her life.
“This is good wine,” Layla says, gently swirling her glass after a sip. She sniffs it delicately and lets out a little noise that sounds like a moan. That noise goes straight to my cock. Turning toward the counter to hide the evidence, I take a sip from my own glass. The rich, complex notes of the red wine dance on my tongue and instead of clearing my head, only make me wonder what that wine would taste like if I drank it from her lips. To my surprise, Layla’s shoulders relax. In my office, she was stiff and formal and nervous. Now, she puts her glass down on the counter and lifts herself up to sit on it before plucking the wine up and taking another sip. She crosses her feet at the ankles, leaning her head against the upper cabinets as she glances out at the slice of living room we can see from here. “You have a beautiful home,” she tells me. “I thought you’d have some kind of sleek penthouse like Emil’s place.” “Oh, I have one of those, too,” I tell her absently, tracing her profile with my gaze. “I sle ep there some nights when I work too late to come home, when Isla is at my parents’ house or a friend’s place. It’s closer to the office.” My fingers itch to draw a line along her jaw, down her throat, along the delicate blade of her collarbone. I wonder if her skin tastes as sweet as I imagine. She snorts, throwing me a sideways glance. “Of course you do.” The light dancing in her eyes makes my lips curl. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Only a very rich man would off-handedly mention the Manhattan penthouse he has as a pied-à-terre, as if it doesn’t cost more than most people make in their lifetime.” I straighten. “Do you speak French? Your accent sounds very good.” Layla’s gaze is flat and unimpressed when it meets mine. “Really? You’re not acknowledging anything else from that sentence?” “You didn’t answer my question either.” I shift closer to her, my hip leaning against the counter next to her knee. Another blush swe eps over her cheeks, and the sight of it makes my heart stutter. She shrugs. “I took French classes a couple of years ago, when I was doing the event management course. It was before my sister decided on NYU for college and I had a bit of extra money. I used to have this fantasy of going to Paris and eating croissants at a café overlooking the Seine, then taking a train down to the south of France to see the fields of lavender in Provence.” The flush turns brighter red, and I move even closer. “It’s silly and cliché.” “It doesn’t sound silly.” She arches a brow. “But it is cliché.” Her knee moves, gently touching my hip. She moves it back, but not before the contact jolts through me. Here’s a beautiful woman who’s good with my kid, who has dreams of eating French pastries in Paris, who can plan an elaborate girl’s birthday party in little more than a few days. She’s so much more than I thought she was. So much more than I gave her credit for. Yes, she struck me dumb when I saw her at the Eldridge kids’ birthday party, but that was just the physical. This is... different.
Her wine glass is nearly empty, sitting on the counter on the other side of her legs. I grab the bottle and refill it, shifting my body in front of hers. She spreads her knees to give me room between them, but when I move closer, the catch in her breath makes me realize she didn’t mean to do it. Setting the wine bottle down next to her glass, I put my hand on her thigh. My hips are cradled between her knees, my chest level with hers. “Leif,” she whispers. I move my hand up higher along her thigh, relishing the short, sharp breaths she takes. “What?” “This is a bad idea.” “What is?” My hand moves to her hip, fingers sliding up under the loose peasant top I’ve wanted to tear off ever since I saw it this morning. When my fingers touch the skin above the waistband of her jeans, Layla’s breath stutters. Her hands move to my bic eps and she closes her eyes as her fingers rove slowly, tenderly, up to my shoulders. If she’d grabbed my neck and kissed me, it would have done less to turn me on than that delicate touch. My heart hits a harsh, violent beat against my ribs as her eyes slit open, regarding me with an unreadable expression. “This is a bad idea,” she r epeats, voice huskier than it was a moment ago. My other hand has moved to her hip, and I pull her to the edge of the counter. Her center presses against my groin, the heat of her sending a wave of lust crashing through me. She’s right, of course. This is a bad idea. If we do sle ep together, it should be after she’s done working for me. After the birthday party. When things will be simpler. When we can go our s eparate ways—a clean break. But those hands, those hands. They move from my shoulders to tangle into the hair at my nape, her touch so delicately feminine it makes me want to growl. “Daddy?” a soft voice calls out from the other side of the living room. In an instant, my lust is doused with ice. Layla goes stiff as she slides off the counter, and I readjust my pants and run a hand through my hair, clearing my throat before calling out, “Yes, kiddo?” “You’re supposed to come tuck me in. I can’t sle ep otherwise.” Layla has a hand over her eyes. I give her a quick glance, swearing under my breath. I round the corner and see Isla at the base of the stairs, her hair still damp from her bath, her pajamas fluffy and covered in little white she ep. Guilt crashes into me. What the hell was I thinking? I don’t bring women around my daughter. I don’t mix my professional and personal lives. My staff are treated with respect, they’re paid well, and they have firm boundaries. Boundaries that I do not ever cross. Painting a smile on my face, I pick Isla up and cradle her in my arms, her little arms coming around my neck in the same way Layla’s did a moment ago. Layla, my daughter’s nanny. I’m a despicable man. My daughter rests her head on my shoulder as I bring her to her room, tuck her in, and read her favorite bedtime story. By the time I come back downstairs, Layla’s wine has been dumped down the sink, the red stain still visible around the drain, and her glass tucked away in the dishwasher.
All other evidence of her presence is gone, and so is she.