The Sexy One

by Lauren Blakely

  I pop back up immediately and declare, “It’s a miracle! I’m all better.”

  She wipes a hand on her brow. “I was so worried.” She tilts her head. “Daddy, I think I want to take fencing lessons.”

  I arch an eyebrow as I lean against her bed. “Yeah? What inspired that?”

  “I watched Puss in Boots this weekend at Mommy’s.”

  “That sounds like an excellent reason to learn how to fence. Want me to look into it?” She nods excitedly as I look at my watch. “All right, sweet pea. It’s nine in the morning. I go into the office at one. Want to do anything special before lunch?”

  She sticks out a sandaled foot at me, showing me her nails. Cotton-candy pink polish has worn down to mere specks. “My nails look terrible. Can I get a pedicure?”

  “Yes, but you know the rule.”

  “No red or black,” she says.

  “But go crazy with the pastels,” I tell her.

  She reaches for my offered hand, and like that, with her small fingers laced through my big ones, we head to her favorite salon around the block. They know her at Daisy Nails, and treat her like a princess, as well as the regular customer that she is.

  Daisy, the owner, looks up from the brush, flashing me a crooked smile as a sheet of dark hair falls across her cheek. “You want one, too, Hayden’s daddy?”

  That’s what she calls me, and that’s fine with me. “Nah, I’m trying to cut back.”

  “Pedicures are good for you,” she says playfully. Every time I’m here, she makes a valiant attempt to get me in the chair.

  “That so? New medical study come out on the topic?”

  “Lots of men get pedicures these days. It’s important to have handsome feet,” Daisy says, patting a big brown chair next to my girl.

  “Yes, Daddy. Do it!” Hayden calls out from her perch. “You can have handsome feet!”

  “Aren’t my feet already good-looking?” I give an exaggerated wiggle of my toes inside my shoes.

  “C’mon,” Hayden shouts with a smile.

  I shake my head. “I’m holding out on you both. No pedicure for me today.”

  “Next time then,” Daisy says. “I won’t stop till you’re in the chair.”

  “I’ll consider myself forewarned.”

  I spend the rest of the time making funny faces for Hayden and keeping her in stitches as she has her toes painted silver and purple. “Can I get a flower on the big toe?” she asks as Daisy finishes the color.

  “Did you make your bed when you were at your mom’s?”

  “I did all my chores.”

  “And all last week with me?”

  “I did.”

  “And did you listen to Abby when you were with her?”

  “I always listen to Abby,” she says, and the way she says her nanny’s name squeezes my chest. Hayden says it with sweetness, with earnestness. She adores Abby, and Abby adores her.

  I scrub a hand across my jaw, wishing I didn’t love their connection so much. “Then you can get a flower.”

  After, I take her out to lunch at her favorite diner where we feast on chicken sandwiches and French fries, and the weight in my gut doesn’t come from the food but from the knowledge that the real playacting starts in thirty minutes when Abby arrives for work.

  We return home, and a few minutes later, Abby’s here.

  At the sound of the knock, I draw a deep breath and head to the door, my feet heavy, my nerves racing, and my dumb heart still pounding hard. I’m like a buffet of warring emotions—lust, desire, regret, and hope all tossed together, chopped and julienned.

  But when I open the door, one single emotion fights its way to the front of the pack as my breath catches in my throat. Desire wins, and it comes from the body and from the mind. She’s so gorgeous. Her wild blond hair is loose over her shoulders, and she sports an orange V-neck T-shirt, and a summery, flowered skirt. As usual, she hardly wears any makeup, and she looks good enough to kiss.

  Obviously.

  I’m right back where I shouldn’t be—thinking of touching her. Of how utterly fucking spectacular it was to taste her lips. How she practically climbed on me. How she felt in my arms, so warm and perfect, wanting what I had to give her.

  “Good to see you,” I say, and my voice sounds like it comes from another planet.

  She smiles brightly. Too brightly. “Good to see you, Mr. Travers.”

  I wince as she puts space between us by using my last name. “Simon. No one calls me Mr. Travers,” I say gently. But maybe this distance, this formality, is what she needs to deal with my transgression.

  She nods and then holds out her arms for Hayden, who crashes into them in a big hug. “What do you want to do today, crazy girl? Because I have some wild ideas.”

  “Oh tell me, tell me, tell me,” Hayden says, bouncing up and down.

  Abby doesn’t look at me. She only has eyes for my daughter as she shares her plans for their day.

  Unlike me, she doesn’t seem to have any trouble pretending it never happened, and that’s an invisible fist to the gut. The blow hurts more than I ever expected, even though I’ve seen it coming for days.

  14

  Abby

  * * *

  After we explore both the funky and the traditional nooks in Chinatown that afternoon, Hayden face-plants on her bed, snoozing in seconds. I press a kiss to her wild hair and cover her with a maroon paw-print throw blanket. Her regular comforter is in the laundry.

  As I tug the soft material to her shoulders, I remember something Simon once said when I was hunting in the linen closet, and I’d asked him if he knew where the nap blanket was.

  “Why does that term exist?”

  “What term?”

  “Nap blanket. I don’t get it,” he said, scratching his head. “It’s smaller than a regular blanket. Does that mean you’re smaller when you nap?”

  I’d laughed. “Of course. Science has proven we become tinier during an afternoon snooze.”

  He’d beamed. “There you go.”

  As I leave Hayden’s room, the memory brings a smile to my face. His observation had amused me then; it has the same effect now.

  We’ve always had an easy rapport. Always gotten along. Sure, he’s been my boss. He’s been the man in charge, and the one who signs my paychecks, but it’s never felt like a work relationship where power flows from the top of the hill to the lowly employees at the bottom.

  We joke. We tease. We talk.

  He’s always felt like a . . . friend, even though I have a crush on him. But a friend nonetheless.

  I want to make sure we can be that way again. Not just boss and employee, but friends . . . nap-blanket friends.

  With the door shut, I tread quietly across the carpet, grab my phone from my bag, and set the alarm for forty-five minutes. If I let Hayden nap too long she’ll never go to sleep at night, but she’s tired since we covered a lot of ground sampling soft buns and noodles, hunting through quirky boutiques, and eating fortune cookies.

  In a tchotchke shop full of embroidered jackets, fans, and other little items, she’d asked me so politely for one of those red and gold cats with the ceaselessly waving paw that I’d picked one up for her, then a back scratcher for her friend Madison on the third floor of the building, and then she’d wanted to bring a bamboo plant to her dad for good luck with his business deal.

  As I’d plunked down the bills at the counter, my heart had twisted with a strange combination of guilt, shame, and, oddly, excitement at buying something for Simon, even if it was actually from his daughter. The most dangerous organ in my chest had been shouting at the little girl, Your father is amazing and I’m crazy for him.

  Then my brain had scoffed and said, Don’t be a fool. Stop fantasizing about this girl’s daddy.

  The man I’m crazy for is the father of this precious, sweet, adventuresome, wonderful girl. I want her in my life, and I need this job.

  That ought to make him easy to resist.

  Ought.
<
br />   Scooting back into the pillows on the chocolate-brown couch in the living room, I click open my text messages to find one from Harper.

  * * *

  Harper: Soooo???? How was it? Did you manage seeing His Hotness?

  * * *

  I smile faintly. I’d told Harper everything Friday night about what happened in the cab, and how it had been like a dam bursting between us, then how it had slammed shut when he’d turned me down.

  * * *

  Abby: I survived. It was hard. I put on my game face when I arrived. But as you know, my game face sucks.

  * * *

  I insert an emoticon of a fox with his eyes narrowed, his lips a thin line. Then I add another text.

  * * *

  Abby: Dude, do I not have the best emoticons ever?

  * * *

  Harper: You so do. :) But do you think he could tell it was your game face?

  * * *

  I consider her question. Simon certainly seemed to be doing his best this morning to be cordial, and to follow my directive to pretend nothing had happened.

  * * *

  Abby: I guess I need to give him credit for doing what I asked. He was unruffled.

  Harper: Is that what you want?

  Abby: You know I barely have a clue what I want.

  Harper: Not true. You do know. And you know what you need to do.

  * * *

  She means the advice she gave me when I’d pulled her into the ladies’ room of the pool hall. “Tell me what to do,” I’d said, gripping her arm, desperate for something, anything. “I’m so crazy about him, and it’s so wrong, but I want it to be right.”

  She’d smiled sympathetically, brushing an errant strand of hair from my face. “The situation is complicated, and I can’t tell you what to do. But at the very least, you should try to talk to him.”

  She’s too damn smart. Talking to him about the longing I have for him gives me the willies. It’s akin to lacing up sneakers and going for a run. I shudder at the mere prospect of both. And I’m a talker, so that should make it abundantly clear how terrified I am of voicing my feelings.

  * * *

  Abby: My mouth was superglued closed last night by little green men. Guess I won’t be able to talk to His Hotness now.

  * * *

  Harper: Bummer. Guess you can’t do anything else with that mouth, either. Like kiss him again. Or more.

  * * *

  Abby: You’re evil.

  * * *

  Harper: But you love me.

  * * *

  Abby: Always and till the end of time, my cake twin.

  * * *

  Setting down my phone, I open my iPad and work on my lesson for tomorrow’s Spanish class. Before it’s time to wake Hayden, I search out fencing clubs in Manhattan, since she told me today she wants to try the sport. When I call one, the head fencing instructor tells me that five is a bit young, but a trial lesson to see if Hayden can focus well enough at her age would be fine. I schedule an introductory session for her in a few days.

  Then I rouse her from bed, and once she sheds the remnants of sleep, she proceeds to crush me in a vicious game of Chutes and Ladders before I destroy her in Sorry. We head to the third floor of the building to find Madison, but she’s not home. I text Madison’s nanny, and she tells me they’re in the park, but to please return in the evening. I reply with an emoticon of a fox giving a thumbs up.

  Back upstairs, I make edamame and rice for Hayden’s dinner, and when she finishes eating, the sound of the key in the lock sends my heart soaring. As I turn to meet Simon’s gaze, my heart beats so mercilessly fast, I swear it’s going to fly out of my chest.

  I want to lock my dumb heart in a cage.

  I swallow, wave faintly, and manage a simple hello, while Hayden sets a new land-speed record, racing over to him and jumping in his arms. He gives her the biggest hug in the universe, and damn, if the sight of that—his strong, sturdy arms wrapped around the little girl who worships him—doesn’t melt me, I don’t know what will. Butterflies take off in my stomach, and I want to tell them to settle down, but the feeling is such a wonderful one that I let myself exist with it a little longer.

  “Tell me about your day,” he says, his voice bright and happy as he sets her down.

  Hayden tells him to wait just one teeny second so she can give him something, then runs to her room, presumably, to fetch the bamboo plant.

  From the kitchen, I chime in, “I scheduled a fencing lesson for her.”

  The corners of his lips curve up. “You did?”

  “She said she wanted to try it. I thought it would be okay to just go ahead and set it up. I researched the club and everything.” I share what the instructor said about her being young. “But she has good focus when she wants, so I think it’ll be great for her.”

  His smile widens. “Thank you, Abby. I really appreciate it.”

  “And I set it up for early evening, since sometimes you can get away then,” I continue from my post in the kitchen. “And I know you like to go with her the first time she tries new activities. It’s near your office.”

  His grin is supersized now. “That’s fantastic. Yes, I would love to go. Thank you again,” he says, and he takes a step into the kitchen area. For a moment, time stops when he looks at me. I want to tell him I can’t pretend, that it’s terribly hard, especially this very second, with him so damn handsome in his black slacks and dark blue shirt, the cuffs rolled up, showing off his forearms.

  God, his forearms.

  My eyes roam up his body, settling on his face, and the five o’clock shadow stubble that I now know feels fantastic against my chin when he kisses me. A hot flare bursts in my chest at the memory, swooping through me. My knees go weak, and I grip the counter to steady myself.

  But then, I remember the weirdness in the cab. How he acted. How we agreed to pretend it never happened.

  He raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

  I blink and nod, fighting off every instinct that tells me to launch myself at him.

  Hayden’s footsteps crash across the living room, breaking the spell of the moment. Thank the Lord.

  “Look!”

  She thrusts the bamboo plant at her father. “It’s for luck. Good luck, Daddy. In your business deal. You’re a superstar!”

  I turn away from them. If I watch him interact with his daughter any more, my ovaries will explode. I will turn into a swoony mess of hormones. Grabbing the plates from the counter to put in the sink, I call out, “Did you want to do that French practice now?”

  “That would be great.”

  He retrieves the jungle coloring book I bought for Hayden from the living room and settles her at the little dinosaur table, while we pull up stools at the island counter in the kitchen. I put on my tutor blinders, doing my best to focus on teaching him words and phrases, rather than staring longingly at those lips I want to kiss, those arms I want to touch, or those eyes I want to get lost in.

  I slide my finger across the iPad screen, opening the language app. “Now where did we leave off?” I scroll to a section of the app that covers business terms. “Let’s see. Last time I saw you, we worked on . . .”

  I freeze as the awareness of my own running commentary slams into me.

  Well, Abby, we left off with my hands in your hair, and your lips crushed to mine, and then all the awkwardness in the world rained down, and will you please forgive me, and let me go down on you later when we’re alone? Only I have no idea if we can be alone, but this is a fantasy so, hey, we’re alone, and I’m fucking crazy about you, too.

  I turn to face him and words spill out. “I meant, in our sessions. Where did we leave off in our tutoring sessions? Not anything else,” I add quickly, each clarification tumbling onto the next, as if I’m autocorrecting what I pretended he said in my head.

  Good Lord.

  A faint smile plays on his lips. “I knew what you meant,” he says softly.

  If he knows what I meant, does he hav
e any clue what’s going on inside me? I wonder if I’m truly as bad as Harper says I am at keeping my feelings hidden, and if he can read my mind and my heart.

  Clearly there’s only one option for me right now. Speak in tongues. I repeat what he just said, but in French. I knew what you meant. Like that, we are teacher and student, not woman and man, not nanny and single father.

  A fast learner, Simon is rattling off new phrases with alacrity at the end of the hour. Then, he shows me an email from Gabriel about the man’s business expansion plans and needs, including how they want to build out a commercial kitchen.

  I raise an eyebrow and point at the screen. “You’re not going to have to discuss all of that with him in French, are you? Cabinetry and kitchens on top of business terms?”

  It’s one thing to pick up key words and phrases; it’s entirely another skill to conduct business in a new language.

  He laughs lightly. “I just want to do a better job chatting with his business partners, like Eduardo. I want to impress them. I have a dinner with him this weekend, and I hope to get closer to sealing the deal.”

  An idea pops into my head. “Wait,” I say slowly, returning to the email and running my finger across the note. “He says here that he’s looking to hire a contractor for the kitchen.”

  Simon nods. “Yeah?”

  A smile spreads on my face. “I know someone. Harper’s fiancé’s twin brother is a carpenter. Wyatt Hammer. He specializes in kitchens. Want me to connect you two? That might really impress these guys. They might not know the Manhattan contractors and carpenters yet, and to have a recommendation . . .”

  The expression on Simon’s face tells me all I need to know. He beams. “I would love that, Abby. Thank you. Especially since Wyatt Hammer is pretty much the perfect name for a carpenter.”