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OLIVIA
Pleated skirt, knee-length, over flat dress shoes? Check.
Professional blouse, black, and a spare in case of projectile-vomit-induced emergencies? Check and check.
No stray buttons seeking to fly off and retroactively embarrass the fuck out of me? Oh, for the love of God, check.
Alright, Liv. You’ve got your shit together. You can do this.
Even after I give myself the millionth lookover and the billionth pep talk, I don’t leave my car. Thank goodness I’m parked in Reese’s private garage behind his house, or else I’d look like some psycho stalker muttering to myself in the mirror.
I’m hiding here, yeah, but it’s not that I’m nervous about the job.
It’s that I don’t know how to look him in the eyes after that dream.
I groan with embarrassment just thinking about it again. For good measure, I bang my head on my steering wheel.
“Pervert, Olivia. You’re a freaking pervert!”
It wasn’t my fault the dream had been so real, though. It really felt like I was in this spicy, taboo situation where my boss was coming on to me and it was totally hot and I wanted it. His mouth was a hot, heavenly thing against my breasts and between my thighs?—
Stop that! Bad Olivia!
My skin is already heating up again. The really shameful thing? I couldn’t help but masturbate after that dream. And then again in the shower, when I went to go wash away the evidence.
And then one more time last night, when I remembered I was coming here again.
Maybe it really has been too long since I got laid. I can’t be this down bad over something that never happened and never will.
I take a deep breath and straighten up. That’s enough, I scold myself. No more wallowing. I’m here because I’m qualified. Not because of some weird nanny fetish that Reese Dalton may or may not have. Not—and I repeat not—because there’s a mutual attraction. I’m damn good at my job, and part of being damn good at my job is not sleeping with my boss.
I simply can’t control Dream Me from trying to do so.
Things are going terribly in here, so I get out of my car. Over my shoulder, I sling my messenger bag that doubles as a laptop case, briefcase, snack pack, baby bag—you get the point.
When you work with children for a living, you have to be prepared for anything. Quinn says it’s my end-of-the-world bag because only someone trying to outlast Armageddon would have use for it.
I count each step I take to Reese’s front door. It feels good to focus on something simple and concrete. One, two, three… At the very least, it manages to lower my blood pressure enough that I don’t feel quite as close to dying of second-hand embarrassment when I finally knock.
I mean, there’s no way he would be able to tell just by the look on my face I’ve had wet dreams and masturbated to him, right?
Right?
The panic is settling back in. But it’s too late. My knuckles are already rapping against the door and it would look silly if I backed out now. Unless…
The door swings open on the second knock. I wouldn’t have had the time to run even if I tried.
“Good mor?—”
“Shut up. Come in.”
I grimace. Okay then.
Reese and his assistant, Paula, greet me—though it’s not much of a warm greeting. Between Reese’s “shut up” of a hello and the displeasure etching early crow’s feet across Paula’s temples, I’d say they’ve had a rough start to their day.
She’s got Violet in her hands, and rather than holding his niece, Reese is bearing a thick stack of papers. He dumps them unceremoniously in my arms.
“I thought I already did all my paperwork, Mr.—I mean, Reese.”
