“I’m sure Mr. Eagle is at the market, picking some up right now. It’s important to keep it fresh,” she says in mock seriousness. Then she turns to me. “Want me to let you know when they go back for seconds?”
“Absolutely. Please send me a full report on the next eaglet feeding.” I look at my wristwatch. “I need to head to my dinner. I should be back by eleven.”
“If you need to stay later to entertain Gabriel, it’s totally fine. I have a book, and my Italian app to work through,” she says, tapping her iPad. She already speaks four languages and is learning a fifth. When I interviewed her for the job, she told me she spent her junior year of college in Barcelona on a study abroad program. She grew up knowing Spanish, but wanted to master it, and she has. She offered to teach some basics to Hayden, and now my daughter is picking up a few new phrases. That’s one of the many perks of working with someone like Abby.
“I’ll definitely be back on time,” I say, because I don’t want this dinner with the hot new chef everyone is wooing to last forever, and because I need to be considerate of Abby’s time. She works full-time for me, since I have primary custody of my daughter.
Abby scowls as she circles her finger in the direction of my chest. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”
Her tone makes it clear the correct answer is no, but I have no clue if she means the pressed white shirt, or the silk tie.
“And which sartorial item evokes your displeasure?”
“The tie,” she says crisply. “It’s all wrong.”
“Why, may I ask?”
“It’s too Wall Street.”
“I did work on Wall Street for a decade.”
She nods several times. “It shows. That tie makes it abundantly clear you’ve spent plenty of hours with Standard & Poor’s,” she says with a smirk. “Not like you’re an I-left-Wall-Street-to-back-hip-eateries investor.”
And folks, this is reason number 547 why I can’t shake this desire. Because she’s so goddamn direct, and it’s a fucking turn-on. After my ex’s falseness, Abby’s honesty is refreshing and downright alluring.
“Which tie should I wear then?” I ask, and for a moment, I nearly let myself believe I’m asking like a man seeking input from the woman he’s with. As if she’s going to step closer, undo the tie, and toss it on the couch. As if she’s going to run her hands down the front of my shirt and say Skip the dinner—have me instead.
I’d miss the dinner in the blink of an eye. I’d have her all night long, again and again, and send her soaring in pleasure.
But I can’t let my brain hop too far from my reality.
We’re not a couple. We’re not together. She’s my daughter’s twenty-six-year-old nanny. I’m her thirty-four-year-old employer. Abby is bright and beautiful and funny and smart and so fucking sexy, and she’s only giving me advice on clothing because she’s one of the most upfront and caring people I’ve ever met, not because she’s playing house.
“No tie,” she answers, her eyes fixed on my attire.
“None at all?” I ask, because I like the fact that she’s looking at me, that she’s thinking about me.
She purses her lips, drawing my attention to them, all shiny and glossy. She shakes her head. “You don’t need to be a tie guy anymore. Besides, I like the tieless look.”
“Why’s that?”
She straightens her shoulders and gestures to me. “It says confidence. It says you’re so cool you don’t even need neckwear.”
I narrow my eyes, adopting a debonair simmer. “Guy. Tieless Guy,” I say in my best over-the-top-suave James Bond tone.
She laughs. “Perfect. Though I’d have pegged you more in the Chris Hemsworth type of role.” She quirks up the corners of her lips. “You’re a dead ringer.”
Oh, yeah.
That is a compliment.
And I’ll gladly eat it up.
“On that note, I should go.”
“Good luck tonight,” she says, upbeat and cheery. Her eyes meet mine, and for a few seconds they linger. Neither one of us says anything. I just enjoy the view of her gorgeous face.
That gorgeous, untouchable face.
I repeat that word silently. Untouchable. She’s off-limits to me.
Her tone shifts to something softer as she adds, “And if the eagles get hungry again, I’ll send you a message, Simon.”
My breath hitches, just from hearing her say my name like that. I swallow, my throat dry. How can I be so wound up at the thought she might send me a text about a bird of prey eating? I know the answer, of course. It’s as old as time.
I want her.
I pop into Hayden’s room. She’s sound asleep under the covers, her wild brown hair fanned out over the lavender pillowcase. I press a soft kiss to her forehead and run my fingers lightly over her hair. “Good night, little dolphin.”
I step away, quietly close the door, and return to the living room, grabbing my phone.
“See you in a few hours,” I say to Abby, who’s settled into the couch with her iPad.
“See you later, Guy, Tieless Guy,” she says, and waves goodbye from her spot amongst the soft pillows. She looks good curled up on the couch, like she belongs here. Like she’s mine and she’ll be staying the night.
I’d like to smack myself right now, because it’s so cliché—the single dad who’s got it bad for the nanny.