Page 42 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

I nod because that’s the only thing I can force my body to do.

He chooses the couch furthest away from the hall and guides me to sit on the cushions as though I’m made of glass.

“Are you hurting?” he asks.

His gravelly voice tumbles down my spine and forms an addiction. I shake my head.

He ensured I had another dose of medicine at the bistro while I tube fed Lola after our meal. I’ve never had someone looking out for me. It feels so good I don’t even care if he did it solely to gain something from me in the dressing room.

Anticipation thrums through my veins. I ache in places I’ve only ever felt once in my life.

I should tell him about my one-night stand, but what’s there to share? I don’t remember anything except waking up the next morning next to a stranger, and watching the interest fade from Artur’s eyes would shatter my soul. I’d never recover.

He sets Lola on the couch beside me and settles on her other side. The sleepy girl rubs her eyes before using my arm and shoulder to stand. I breathe through my teeth to weather the pain and thank Artur’s quick reflexes when he shifts her grip over to his shoulder.

The attendant strides into the room, introduces herself, gives us free range of the refreshments table, and asks what we’re looking for.

To my surprise, Artur stands and says he’ll look through the racks and make the selections. The girl, whose name is Nikki, nods and asks if there’s anything else she can do.

Artur gestures to the couch.

“Join us. She won’t relax if you’re hovering,” he says.

Nikki beams at him, says thanks, and plops down on the spot he vacated. Lola gives her a side glance before rubbing her eyes again. Nikki leans over and takes a magazine from the coffee table.

Artur captures my attention and holds my eyes for a heated moment. A thrill races up and down my spine. He smirks before disappearing down the hall.

Holy heck, I’m going to combust. The things this man does to me without even touching me is insane.

By the time I peel my attention off his mouthwatering backside, Nikki has Lola engrossed in the magazine. I smile and study Lola for a few minutes before relaxing into the couch. She shows no signs of seizure or adverse reaction to the smoothie. Her skin is a healthy pink, and her mannerisms speak of a healthy, happy, yet tired three-year-old.

I steal a moment to just breathe. So much has happened so quickly, and I don’t know how to process it all. I’ve learned how to adapt to sudden changes, but even in the worst—and best—of circumstances, I’ve never experienced so much in such a short time.

From meeting Lola and seeing Artur for the first time in thirteen years, to earning my spot as their nanny even though he hated me, to being hurt by my father, and then an overnight overhaul of Artur’s feelings toward me, it all seems like a nightmare, blessing, and fever dream wrapped up in one crazy package.

I’m too selfish to push Artur away, and I loved Lola on sight, so even though the new developments aren’t likely to last, I’ll take what I can get for as long as possible.

Artur doesn’t make a sound, but I sense his return and open my eyes. He opens the dressing room door and hangs almost a dozen outfits on the rack inside. My nipples pebble as he strides toward me. The wicked gleam in his golden orbs warns of foul play.

I shove all my doubts and worries away and accept his help. He lifts me to my feet and guides me into the changing room, but instead of closing the door behind him, he points to the dress nearest the mirror, instructs me to start there, then kisses my temple and shuts the door on his way out.

My heart pounds so hard I feel it behind my eyes. I meet my gaze in the mirror, rub a hand over my face, and swallow my disappointment. Numbness falls over me. I was stupid to think he would be so interested in me he’d break his promise of giving me time with Lola first. His daughter will always be more important. She should be. I know this.

It doesn’t ease the pain in my heart.

I toe off my sneakers and pull my top over my head. The bone-deep throbbing in my shoulders and back warn me not to look, but I drape my top over the bench and pivot.

Ugly purple, black, and blue splotches cover my back and ribs. My stomach doesn’t seem any worse than normal, but my nape makes up for it. My father left a ring of dark bruises on the sensitive flesh.

While the injuries on my neck should be fairly easy to cover, the circle around my wrist might be problematic. Even a watch or several bracelets won’t hide it without looking suspicious.

Of course Artur doesn’t want me. I look horrible.

A glance at the dress convinces me to remove my boring full-coverage white bra. I also unfasten my pants and use the wall for balance as I take them off. They join my top on the bench. I stand in my plain white panties and tell myself I’m relieved Artur is willing to wait before pursuing a physical relationship with me.

My sorrow lessens as I recall all the wonderful moments we’ve shared recently. From checking the shop for dragons, sharing a look over the bistro table, and even the gentleness of his hands as he rubbed ointment over my bruises, they’ve all helped ease my sense of abandonment.

If this is how he felt when he thought I left him for dead, I completely understand why he held on to his anger for thirteen years. Except I can’t find the energy—or reason—to feel angry. A large part of me still thinks I deserve his hatred. I failed him when I chose my mom and brother over him, and then I failed my mother and brother by not being fast enough.