“Traitor.”
“I’m just being honest. You answered the door in a towel. She fled. Quinton is right. That’s comedy gold.”
“It’s a sitcom episode,” Quinton agreed. “I’m calling it now. Next time she shows up, you’ll be in even less clothing. That’s how these things escalate.”
“There won’t be a next time,” I said. “Because I’m going to start wearing full suits at all times. In my own house. Forever.”
“That seems healthy,” Hayden said dryly.
Unconventional. Chaotic. Completely inappropriate.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d looked at me yesterday, like I’d short-circuited her entire brain.
Monday was going to be a disaster.
“For what it’s worth,” Julien said, his tone shifting to something almost serious, “if you do have feelings for her, you need to be very careful about how you proceed. The employer-employee dynamic is complicated. Add in the fact that she cares for your daughter, and it becomes even more complex.”
“I don’t have feelings for her,” I growled.
“Right,” Quinton drawled. “You just burned the burgers thinking about her. Totally normal.”
“I burned the burgers because you’re all distracting me.”
“We’re helping,” Fitz corrected. “By pointing out that you’re clearly into the nanny and should probably do something about it.”
“I’m not doing anything about it.”
“Why not?” Nathan asked.
“Because she’s my employee. Because she takes care of my daughter. Because the last thing Megan needs is more instability in her life.” I set down my beer harder than necessary. “And because I’m not interested.”
The lie tasted bitter.
“Well,” Quinton said, “when you change your mind, and you will. I volunteer to be your wingman. I’ll bring the foam finger. It’ll be great.”
“I’m never changing my mind.”
“Famous last words,” Fitz muttered.
But at least I had the rest of Sunday to prepare myself mentally.
Or to practice acting as if I hadn’t noticed the way her eyes had lingered before she’d fled.
Later that night, the house was finally quiet.
Megan had been asleep for hours, her cast propped on a pillow, her face peaceful in the way it only was when she wasn’t actively plotting my demise. I’d checked on her twice. A habit I’d never quite broken, and both times she’d been dead to the world.
Now I was the one who couldn’t sleep.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that the insomnia was just residual stress from the ER visit. From Megan’s injury. From the general chaos that had become my life since a chaotic woman with impossible hair had walked through my door.
It wasn’t about the towel.
It definitely wasn’t about the way Cate had looked at me yesterday morning—eyes wide, pupils dilated, her gaze dropping from my face to my chest before she’d caught herself and looked away like she’d been caught doing something illegal.
I rolled over, punched my pillow, and tried to think about something productive. Surgery schedules. Megan’s physical therapy appointments. The fact that my kitchen cabinet was now organized by color instead of by any logical system.
Instead, I kept seeing her face.
