Abby scowls as she circles her finger in the direction of my chest. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”
Her tone makes it clear the correct answer is no, but I have no clue if she means the pressed white shirt, or the silk tie.
“And which sartorial item evokes your displeasure?”
“The tie,” she says crisply. “It’s all wrong.”
“Why, may I ask?”
“It’s too Wall Street.”
“I did work on Wall Street for a decade.”
She nods several times. “It shows. That tie makes it abundantly clear you’ve spent plenty of hours with Standard & Poor’s,” she says with a smirk. “Not like you’re an I-left-Wall-Street-to-back-hip-eateries investor.”
And folks, this is reason number 547 why I can’t shake this desire. Because she’s so goddamn direct, and it’s a fucking turn-on. After my ex’s falseness, Abby’s honesty is refreshing and downright alluring.
“Which tie should I wear then?” I ask, and for a moment, I nearly let myself believe I’m asking like a man seeking input from the woman he’s with. As if she’s going to step closer, undo the tie, and toss it on the couch. As if she’s going to run her hands down the front of my shirt and say Skip the dinner—have me instead.
I’d miss the dinner in the blink of an eye. I’d have her all night long, again and again, and send her soaring in pleasure.
But I can’t let my brain hop too far from my reality.
We’re not a couple. We’re not together. She’s my daughter’s twenty-six-year-old nanny. I’m her thirty-four-year-old employer. Abby is bright and beautiful and funny and smart and so fucking sexy, and she’s only giving me advice on clothing because she’s one of the most upfront and caring people I’ve ever met, not because she’s playing house.
“No tie,” she answers, her eyes fixed on my attire.
“None at all?” I ask, because I like the fact that she’s looking at me, that she’s thinking about me.
She purses her lips, drawing my attention to them, all shiny and glossy. She shakes her head. “You don’t need to be a tie guy anymore. Besides, I like the tieless look.”
“Why’s that?”
She straightens her shoulders and gestures to me. “It says confidence. It says you’re so cool you don’t even need neckwear.”
I narrow my eyes, adopting a debonair simmer. “Guy. Tieless Guy,” I say in my best over-the-top-suave James Bond tone.
She laughs. “Perfect. Though I’d have pegged you more in the Chris Hemsworth type of role.” She quirks up the corners of her lips. “You’re a dead ringer.”
Oh, yeah.
That is a compliment.
And I’ll gladly eat it up.
“On that note, I should go.”
“Good luck tonight,” she says, upbeat and cheery. Her eyes meet mine, and for a few seconds they linger. Neither one of us says anything. I just enjoy the view of her gorgeous face.
That gorgeous, untouchable face.
I repeat that word silently. Untouchable. She’s off-limits to me.
Her tone shifts to something softer as she adds, “And if the eagles get hungry again, I’ll send you a message, Simon.”
My breath hitches, just from hearing her say my name like that. I swallow, my throat dry. How can I be so wound up at the thought she might send me a text about a bird of prey eating? I know the answer, of course. It’s as old as time.
I want her.
I pop into Hayden’s room. She’s sound asleep under the covers, her wild brown hair fanned out over the lavender pillowcase. I press a soft kiss to her forehead and run my fingers lightly over her hair. “Good night, little dolphin.”
I step away, quietly close the door, and return to the living room, grabbing my phone.
“See you in a few hours,” I say to Abby, who’s settled into the couch with her iPad.
“See you later, Guy, Tieless Guy,” she says, and waves goodbye from her spot amongst the soft pillows. She looks good curled up on the couch, like she belongs here. Like she’s mine and she’ll be staying the night.
I’d like to smack myself right now, because it’s so cliché—the single dad who’s got it bad for the nanny.
I shake my head in the building’s mirrored elevator and mutter, “Get it together, man.”
I might want her, but I sure as hell can’t have her. Something I remind myself of later that night, when a text from her lands on my phone.
3
Simon
* * *
Gabriel points to the angel food cake. “This tastes like a sweet pillow melting in your mouth, does it not?”
“Like a blueberry pillow,” I add since the cake is covered in blueberries and blueberry sauce.
He brings his fingers to his lips and kisses the tips. “It is home, plus flare. That’s what I want. I want this feeling in Gabriel’s on Christopher,” he says, since he’s already picked a spot in the Village for the new restaurant he wants to open—his first in Manhattan, coming on the heels of his wildly successful eateries in Miami and Los Angeles. He’s French and Brazilian, and his creations are a fusion of both cuisines.
He turns to the men in his entourage, and says something in French, his native language. It’s rapid-fire, and makes me wish I fully understood what he’s saying, rather than just a word here or there, especially when his goateed business manager says something to me about wine. Eduardo is soft-spoken, so the question is mostly lost. Gabriel steps in, and repeats what he said.
“Sure. More wine,” I say, sliding over the glass, because more wine is always the right answer in the food business. The restaurant we’re at tonight is a few blocks away from the one he wants to open.
Gabriel pours more of the cabernet, sets down the bottle, then flips his long, wild hair off his shoulders. This man is a rock-star chef in every sense of the word. The hair, the tattoos, and of course, the talent. As for me, I can boil water extremely well and order takeout or delivery even better, but I’m excellent at sniffing out talent. And Gabriel is the real deal.
The trouble is, after his victory on a popular reality TV cooking show, nearly every big restaurant investor in town has sniffed him out, too, and wants the chance to back his first Manhattan establishment, especially since it’ll be the flagship for a much bigger business expansion into cookware, cookbooks, and more. That’s why I’ve spent the last few weeks buried in paperwork, developing the proposal that I hope will win his business.
We chat for a few more minutes about New York and food. “Manhattan needs your panache, Gabriel,” I tell him, as my phone buzzes faintly in my pocket. I can’t look now, since I want to give them my full attention. Besides, if there were an emergency with Hayden, Abby would call rather than text. “We’ve been sorely lacking in the sort of style you’re known for, not to mention your daring in the kitchen.”
“That makes me sad for your city,” he says, his lips pulling into a playful frown.
“Exactly. But just imagine how happy you can make the taste buds in Manhattan.”
He tosses his head back and laughs. “I can hear them crying out for me now. Gabriel,” he says, mimicking a host of adoring fans calling out his name. The thing is, he does have fans, and not only because he’s masterful with a skillet and a knife. Women flock to him at his restaurants and his events, and I don’t think they’re after his lasagna recipe.
By the time the meal ends, I’ve got a good feeling that I can land this deal. We’ve skirted the subject of terms, but tonight’s not the time for that. Besides, he knows my track record when it comes to investing, and what I bring to the table in capital as well as experience.
I take a final bite of the cake, then set down my fork, leaving the dessert half-finished.
“That is a sin,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.
I laugh. “True. My daughter would tell me there’s always room in the dessert drawer.”
Gabriel eyes the remaining slice of cake on the table. “Now, as y
our punishment for not finishing your dessert, you must take the extra piece home for your little girl.”
I adopt a serious look. “Punishment accepted. And thank you. She’ll be thrilled.”
“Sweets are the way to a woman’s heart,” he adds.
Eduardo says something in French, and Gabriel laughs, translating as he taps his chest. “He tells me, isn’t that my mantra?”
“And is it, Gabriel?” I toss back.
“I’ve been known to make a woman swoon with my crème brûlée,” he says, shrugging sheepishly.
An idea strikes me—to take the extra piece to Abby.
I haven’t taken dessert home for a woman in ages. My ex was one of those anti-sugar people, so treats were verboten. I never took any home for Miriam. She’d have scoffed at the offending item, and told me precisely how many calories were in a piece of pie, a slice of cake, a tart. She knew how to suck the fun out of dessert, of food, and come to think of it, of life in general.
On the crowded sidewalk outside the restaurant, we say good night. I shake hands with Gabriel, Eduardo, and the others, then hail a cab and let them take the first one. I grab the next taxi right behind it, and on the ride home I finally check my phone.
* * *
Abby: He brought her a fish!
* * *
I blink, and it takes me a second to process what Abby is talking about. Then it hits me. Mr. Eagle. She’s updating me on the eagle. Okay, I’m not going to read anything into this, even though this is the first time we’ve texted about anything not related to work or schedules or kids.
But I grin as the car swings up Madison Avenue, and a warmth spreads through my body. I don’t think it’s from the wine. It’s from what feels like the cusp of flirting.
* * *
Simon: Was it a big fish?
* * *
Look, I know we’re talking about the predator’s catch. Not other things that could be big. But still. It is big.
Her response arrives quickly.
* * *
Abby: Of course :) Mr. Eagle only takes home big prizes for his woman.
* * *
Absently, I tap the angel food cake in the takeout box next to me, then I write back.
* * *
Simon: As the man of the nest should. He is the hunter.
* * *
While the car streaks along the stretch of pavement, lights from late-night New York winking on and off, her name appears on my screen.
* * *
Abby: He’s all about delivering on the You Had One Job premise.
* * *
That makes me laugh, and we keep up the playful banter a bit longer. Ten minutes later, I arrive at my building and head inside and up the elevator, buoyed by a slight buzz from the wine, but mostly from the texting. When the elevator stops on the eleventh floor, I’m keenly aware that this is one of life’s pivotal moments.
No, I’m not the eagle, and this is not National Geographic.
But this is one of those moments when something happens—when this thing for Abby shifts from a simmer to a bubbling-over-the-pot boil. Start with nearly seven months of lust, add in a pair of eagles, chase it with a leftover dessert from a dinner with a chef, top it off with the absence of a wine-red tie.
I unlock the door and find her on the couch. Damn, she looks good in my home, with the lights dim and the quiet of the night wrapping its arms around her. She sets down her iPad, and I hold up the dessert.
“I brought a cake,” I say proudly, as if I’d wrestled it from a fierce lion. “For you.”
Okay, fine.
I’m totally the motherfucking hunter, and this is my prize for the woman I so badly want to woo.
4
Abby
* * *
I’m not going to read anything into this. Even though—hello, he brought me dessert. That’s kind of a thing guys do when they like a woman, right?
As I dig my fork into this unexpected treat, I flash back on that lingering gaze before he left for the dinner, and now to the way he said for you. A delicious possibility unfurls in me. Perhaps this street isn’t as one-way as I thought. Maybe, just maybe, he’s keen on me, too. I slide the container a few inches across the counter, giddy from these new thoughts jumping joyfully in my head, like puppies bounding through a field of grass. “Do you want to have some?”
“I think I may have already passed the legal limit for cake consumption tonight,” he says.
I wave the fork and correct him. “There’s no limit for cake. Harper and I have conducted many tests and have proven as much.”
“Not once were you able to reach the threshold?”
I shake my head. “Never. Each bite you take raises your legal limit by one more bite.”
He strokes his chin as if in deep thought. “So it’s a rolling target? This cake limit?”
“It is. And we’ve studied it thoroughly, being cake fiends and all. It’s entirely possible we were separated at birth when we were left in baskets outside Peace of Cake.”
He knows my friend Harper. She’s a magician, and he hired her to perform at Hayden’s fifth birthday party last fall. At the time, Harper told me she had the tiniest crush on him, but that was way before she started spending more time with Nick. Now, the two of them are madly and inseparably in love. It’s awesome.
What’s also awesome is that Simon reached out to Harper for nanny advice. He took her out for coffee specifically to ask her for a recommendation, because she’s good with kids. That’s what he wanted for Hayden, and that’s why he hired me.
“Was it your love of sweets that reunited you with your long lost magician sibling?” he asks, leaning against the island counter in the kitchen.
“That, and going to the same school.” I take another bite. These are the late-night moments I savor. I love spending time with his daughter, but I also crave the stolen seconds when she’s asleep, and we’re adults, just talking to each other.
“College, right? I’m assuming you didn’t go to high school with her since you’re from Arizona, and she’s from here.”
I nod, impressed that he remembers all the details I’ve shared, then I add the year we graduated. He smirks and shakes his head as he laughs.
“What’s so funny about that?”
“That was only four years ago.” He taps his chest. “Whereas I finished twelve years ago.”
I set down the fork, park my hands on the counter, and shoot him a steely stare. This is one of the reasons I like working with Simon. I can be playful with him. I can tease. He’s not Mr. Serious, like my last employer. “I know how to do math.”
Wait. Why is he bringing up the age difference? It’s a curious detail to float out there. Maybe because it’s late, or maybe because he brought me cake, or maybe because it’s been a long time since I flirted, I decide to keep wandering along this path. This line of questioning is like a door sliding open, inviting me into a new kind of interaction with him, the one I secretly desire.
I inch closer. “And do you think you acquired all the knowledge in the world in those eight years you have on me?”
He scoffs. “God no. Sometimes I think I know less now than I did then.”
My brow creases. “What do you mean?”
He rubs his hand across the back of his neck. His cuffs are rolled up, revealing his strong, toned forearms. He was a football player in high school, and a basketball star, too. He’s the rare high school jock who still looks fit and trim in his thirties. His arms are to-die-for. My hands itch to stroke those forearms, to explore his biceps, to hold on tight to his shoulders. In fact, for dessert, I’ll skip the rest of the cake and take one order of sexy single dad, please.
“Just that there are things I might have done differently,” he says in a softer tone, one laced with regret. His gaze drifts in the direction of Hayden’s room. “But then again,” he says, returning his focus to me, “I also think I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”
“I get it,” I say quietly.
“I totally do.”
He flashes me a sweet smile. He doesn’t talk about his ex-wife much, but the demise of their marriage wasn’t too hard to figure out. Hayden’s mother is involved with someone she works with, and from passing comments Simon has made, that relationship overlapped with their marriage.
He’s never called Miriam a cheating bitch, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s what she is. I’ve met her a few times, and she’s quite accomplished at shooting dismissive glares at me and forgetting my name. She calls me Gabby every time she sees me. She’s a great mom, though, and she’s lovely with Hayden on the weekends she has her, so that’s all anyone can ask for.
But I don’t want to linger on her, even at the outskirts of this conversation. “How was your dinner?”
As I eat more of the cake, he tells me about his night. I like listening to him talk here in the dimly lit home, the clock skating toward midnight, the faint sounds of Manhattan floating through the windows.
“Gabriel is very outgoing, and easy to talk to. We didn’t discuss the terms of any potential investment, but we all got along well,” Simon says as he finishes sharing the details of his dinner.
“You’re going to get the deal,” I say with confidence.
He arches an eyebrow. “Can you see the future?”
“I didn’t tell you that on my application? In addition to my amazing language skills and childcare talent, I read tea leaves. It’s what everyone wants in their . . .” I trail off, for the first time feeling strange saying my job title. Nanny. It feels weird, maybe because this is the first night I’ve stayed this late and chatted with my boss as if we’re a couple—me asking about his business dinner, him bringing me dessert, us texting on his route home—when we’re so not.
The Sexy One Page 2