Page 42 of Hockey Nanny

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Dawson

I paced the hallway outside her door, eyes darting to my watch for the umpteenth time. Eight o’clock was creeping closer like it had a vendetta. Tux straight, cuffs buttoned, shoes shined, I felt ready, though that didn’t mean anything right now.

“Does it fit?” I paused in front of her door, listening carefully.

“If it didn’t, I would’ve mentioned that to you an hour ago.”

Okay. Message received. I got back to pacing and tried to focus on anything that would keep my mind off how late we were definitely going to be. Or how my impatience was probably more related to wanting to see her in the dress I’d picked out.

There was some more muted shuffling, followed by hurried footsteps. Back into her bathroom, was my guess. Cupboard doors opening and closing. Muttered cursing.

I tapped at her door with one finger to avoid being too pushy. “Do you need any help?”

This time there wasn’t an answer, not even a smartass one. But I swear I could feel the beams of her death stare hit me straight through the cherry wood. The force of it made me take a step back and reconsider my approach.

Maybe a gentle reminder that the party started at eight. Or a gentler one about the limo waiting outside. That last oneremoved me from the equation, but would still create a sense of urgency.

I stifled a laugh, and got a grip. Feeling nervous before a date… Wait, this wasn’t a date. Carissa was technically my employee. Taking her to the party was nothing more than me making up for being an ass this past week. She’d been stressed about her flight practicals on top of everything else, and deserved a break.

That was all it was.

By no means anything more.

“Did I mention it starts at eight?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded a lot closer now, as if she were standing right on the other side of the door. “What you didn’t mention was how you turned into a time-obsessed ninja whenever you donned a tux.”

“Minor detail,” I murmured, amusement still on my tongue as the door opened.

Light spilled into the hallway and hit me square in the eyes. I squinted, vision catching up, and by the time it cleared, her back was to me.

She stood just inside her room, shoulders bare, the dress cut low enough that it traced the line of her spine before disappearing at her waist. My attention followed that line without permission, down the smooth stretch of skin, then back up again to where her hair had been pinned into an updo that didn’t quite hold. A few strands had slipped free, curling at her neck, catching against the edge of her ear.

The curve there was unexpected. The slope where her neck met her shoulder. The place just below her jaw where her skin dipped before rising again. It felt intimate to notice it, like I’d been invited too far in without realizing it.

She lifted the zipper tab between her fingers, elbow angling back toward me. “Can you help me with this?”

My feet didn’t move. My brain stalled. The dress hugged her closely enough that I could see the steady rise of her breath. I knew better than to stand there staring, yet my body lagged behind the instruction.

“Dawson?”

Her voice pulled me back. I cleared my throat and stepped closer, every inch of space between us shrinking faster than I expected.

“Sorry,” I said. “Yeah. Of course.”

I took the zipper between my fingers. The metal was cool. The back of my hand skimmed her skin as I started to pull it up, and that small contact landed heavier than it should have. Her shoulders shifted, a reflexive inhale, and I kept my focus locked on the task even as my awareness sharpened.

Up. Inch by inch. The zipper slid cleanly, my knuckles passing over warm skin before the fabric sealed it away. I finished between her shoulder blades and dropped my hand like the contact had burned me.

“All set.”

She turned, and where my mind had stalled before, it was now racing.

Her cheeks carried a faint flush, color spreading beneath carefully applied makeup. Lips stained red, defined in a way that pulled my gaze straight to the soft dip at the center of her upper lip. The winged liner around her eyes sharpened her expression, made her look bolder somehow, dangerous to my peace of mind.

My eyes kept traveling, traitorous and unrestrained, down the front of the dress. The neckline plunged, unapologetic, framingthe curve of her chest in a way that made it hard to remember how to breathe properly. I stopped myself before staring became obvious, though I suspected the effort showed anyway.