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“For the love of fucking God,” I mutter into my empty office, “if anyone out there is listening, just give me a goddamn break.”
I consider my options. Even if I thought I was up to the task, I don’t have nearly enough time to raise Violet on my own. Practice, games, events, sponsorship fulfillments—my life is crammed full of people demanding my time.
I’m lucky Coach Driscoll hasn’t been on my ass about how absentminded I’ve been. He’d have my hide if I waltzed in one day and was just like Hey, sorry about falling behind on, you know… literally everything. Turns out I’m a single dad. Surprise!
Pathetic.
This shit is almost enough to make me consider celibacy. Well, not really—but almost.
I flip through to the printout for the interview that Paula scheduled for the day, and I pause.
Olivia Carter. Her name is at the top of her file, right beside a picture of her. It’s bust-up, and just from that alone, I know she’s gotta have an amazing body. Weirdly enough, though, it’s her face that has me lingering on her photo. Smooth, barely tanned skin. Just a few freckles to break up the tone. She’s got these natural waves in this chocolate brown hair that matches up with the slight hazel of her eyes.
She looks like a fucking dessert. Sweet. Delectable. Ready to spread out on a table and dine upon. My desk is big enough for it, too. I could lay her flat like she’s a charcuterie board waiting to have every little morsel of her body sampled?—
My cock stirs in my pants. I close her file and store it away in my desk.
You’re a dickhead, Dalton, I curse at myself. You were just bitching about all the applicants that won’t stop trying to fuck you. That’s the pot calling the kettle black if I’ve ever heard it.
I can’t just turn around and think about all the ways I want to fuck this one. Up against my bookcases… over my desk…
I could let her ride me in my chair. I haven’t even seen her ass, but I bet it’s a good handful to grip. She’d let me guide her up and down on my cock, bounce her body until she’s shaking and coming all over me.
Or maybe I could put her under the desk on her knees. Those hazel doe eyes peeking up at me, half-innocent, half-seductive…
Rein it in, Reese.
Right. She’s not here for sex; she’s here to watch Violet. I hammer that thought into my Neanderthal brain a little more.
She’s here for Violet. Your daughter. Olivia is not for you. Olivia is off-limits. Olivia is a no-fucking-go.
I take in a deep breath. All thoughts of responsibility went right out the window just from looking at a wallet-sized picture of this woman. That could be trouble. Thinking with my dick instead of my brain is what got me into this situation to begin with.
It’s time to start thinking like this is hockey. I’m defending my territory. Olivia is coming into my corner of the ice. So what do I do?
I know exactly what I’ll do. I’ll get into her head. Poke her. Prod her. See if she can handle what I can dish. I’ll be ruthless. If she holds up better than those other wannabe puck bunny nannies, if she ends up proving she can look after my daughter…
Well, then I’ll have nothing to worry about when I put her on her back, will I?
6
OLIVIA
There’s a heat that clings to me everywhere when I finally make it to Highland Park, the ungodly expensive side of town. I’ve got sweat under my arms making my deodorant work overtime, and plenty more at the back of my neck.
It’s not just the heat, though; I’m also nervous as hell. I need this job. Mom needs me to get this job.
You got this, Olivia.
If only I could have gotten a better parking spot. Cars line the road for what seems like miles. I don’t even see the house number I need when climb out of my car and?—
“Shit!”
My tops snags against the corner of my door, yanking a button off. One part frantic, two parts annoyed, I catch my reflection in my rearview mirror and start to get fifty parts panicked. Any more cleavage out and I might as well be interviewing for a job as a stripper, not a nanny.
Fuckity fucking fuck.
I check my phone. It’s too late to go back home and change. Focus, girl. Find your Zen. I’m already here, right? What kind of excuse would it be, a measly button making me late? Not a good look by any stretch of the imagination.
