Page 90 of The Stranger

I begin to stomp unhappily as I push away the memories of last night. I am a professional, I remind myself. I might not be a professional nanny, but as a doctor, I’m acutely aware of the importance boundaries. Yet I burned through them last night with the restraint of a pyromaniac with a flamethrower.

Welp, I’m reinstating them this morning because, as the custodian of Emmy’s career, I’m doing a piss-poor job of things. I’ve taken a reasonably straightforward assignment—a weekend looking after children—and twisted into something ridiculously complicated. Hello, annoying him so much he blackmailed me into staying a month as punishment.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turn right, barely noticing the way the morning light spills through the arched windows. Or how it gleams from the gloss of the grand piano as I pass.

“If I can’t make you come, you can leave.”

I almost stumble at the remembrance of his sultry dare. And the way he held me. Why the heck did he raise the stakes to three times? I mean, technically, I can leave now because I only came twice. Two and a half times?

I give my head a shake. I’d convinced myself what happened at the club was a fluke, but that’s not why I took up the challenge. I craved the experience. Craved him.

But that doesn’t mean I expected him to prove me so spectacularly wrong.

And God, I loved it, until I didn’t. Until Sylvie’s little voice called out from the stairs. Panic, guilt, regret—those feelings and more washed through me. It wasn’t until that moment I acknowledged how reckless we were being.

Yet at his bedroom door…

My brow creases. I need to do better. I will do better. Last night is over. Done. It was just a game, a flirtation that got wildly out of hand.

It was an experiment—yes, that’s it! An impromptu experiment, and the data proves I’m not broken. I’ve just been dating the wrong kind of men.

It seems an older man tickles my metaphoric pickle.

Someone gruff and grumpy butters my biscuit.

A man who is ever so slightly arrogant rocks my socks. Who am I kidding? The man is way arrogant.

I need a man who is good with his mouth (in both senses) because being challenged really turns my crank. What ruffles my truffles is a someone who’ll give as good as he gets. Someone who makes me want to kiss him one minute and stab him with a cake fork the next.

Looks like I might need therapy.

But at least I know I have a type. Which means there is no excuse for getting nekkid with M. LDH again.

The kitchen comes into view, and a fresh wave of nerves settles low inside. I gird my loins, mentally at least, because I have no idea what that would look like physically. But I will not forget my good sense just because he just looks my way. Or because I’m picturing his penis in my head again.

Whatever happened last night, nothing has fundamentally changed. He’s still the bane of my life. And I’m still me. Sensible Prim. Soon to be a doctor on a ward full of elderly patients, far away from here.

I follow the aroma of coffee and force my mouth to adopt a smile, even if I’m not really feeling it. Because beneath all my thoughts and my internal dialogue lurks a tiny kernel of fear I’m trying hard not to acknowledge.

What if he pretends last night didn’t happen?

Worse, what if he blames me for it?

I probably looked like Gollum clutching the One Ring, only my precious was a slice of chocolate torte. And then there was my off-key rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus. I can’t believe he turned on the light, let alone…

But maybe he’s thinking the very same things this morning and regretting it. Maybe he didn’t enjoy it. He didn’t get off. Again. What if he agrees with me now—what if I am just a really bad fuck? What if I was a pity fuck?

Just. Stop.

I mentally bring down the shutters. I’m not going to indulge in this spiral of thoughts.

I take a deep inhale and push it out slowly. I need to be done with the whys and wherefores and move the hell on. There really is no use crying over spilt milk. Or un-spilt jizz, as the case may be.

I need to get out of my own head, put a little professional distance between us, and get in first with that news. Make him understand last night can never happen again. Three orgasms or not, I won’t leave. I’ll do the right thing for Emmy and for my sense of pride. I won’t run away with my tail between my legs.

“Hey, Prim. Good morning!”

At the sound of Zoe’s cheerful greeting, I almost squeal. I was so tied up in the mire of my mind, I almost didn’t realize I’d reached the kitchen.