Page 40 of The Nanny Goal

She takes a big step back, just before I wrap my fingers around her arm.

“Sorry,” I mutter before I shove my hand back in my pocket.

“We made turkey meatballs and spaghetti for dinner, if you want some leftovers? They’re in the fridge.” She covers her mouth, but the big yawn that escapes is unmistakable.

“You’re tired,” I say. “There’s a bedroom in the basement you can use.”

“You said that earlier.”

Oh, right. I scrub my hand over my face. “And, if it matters to you, the door between it and the rest of the house locks.”

Her lips part in surprise, then she nods. “Got it.”

I tip my head toward the living room. “Today… I know my daughter…”

My voice catches on the words.

The last time we were alone together in the dark, I didn’t have a child.

Emery holds my gaze for a moment, and I’m not the only one who has profoundly changed in the last two years. The last time we were alone, she didn’t have this sizzling confidence.

It’s unnerving.

It’s also very, very attractive.

Lock it down, Artyomov.

“My daughter can be exhausting,” I finish. “I know how much work it is to watch her. Thank you.”

Emery’s eyebrows lift, as if to say,that is an understatement.

“She’s fun.” She pauses, trying and failing to school a comical expression on her face. “More fun when we’re cooking. Less fun when I’m trying to convince her to do something she doesn’t want to do.”

I nod. Accurate.

“But we survived the night.” She takes a deep breath. “Do you want me to heat up the meatballs for you?”

“That sounds good.”

Silence stretches between us as the microwave counts down.

“Is your mom still okay?” she finally asks. “And how’s your dad doing?”

I’d already texted her that the procedure went well.

But the rest of the night…waiting with my father, trying to convince him to leave the hospital for at least a few hours…

That didn’t feel within the scope of what we could text about.

“One of the nurses found him an extendable chair to sleep on. I might drag him back here tomorrow. He needs a shower.”

She laughs easily, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

My mouth turns up, and the brightness in her gaze intensifies.

“Oh, you can laugh at your own jokes,” she teases.

“It’s not a joke. He really stinks.”

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