Page 64 of The Nanny Goal

At some point in the night, she woke up and came to find me, and now she’s sleeping on the carpeted floor, a plush pink baby blanket clutched in her little fist.

“Oh, baby girl,” I say softly as I swing my feet to the floor. “Aren’t you a quiet little bit of mischief? We have to sort out this sleep thing, don’t we?”

She keeps sleeping, unaware of my angst.

I reach for my phone, so I can send Alexei a picture of just how much his daughter doesnotstay in her bed,actually, but then our conversation from last night starts rocketing around in my head.

God, why did I say all of that?

Why did I tell him I worried he was in a relationship?

Why did I force him to tell me that he didn’t regret our hook-up?

The room is still dim, early morning light just starting to seep through the curtains. I slide out of bed slowly, carefully, but I needn’t worry—she doesn’t wake up even after I step over her and head down the stairs to the kitchen.

I need coffee.

I need a reset button.

I need to forget the way Alexei looked at me last night, as if I was something breakable and beautiful at the same time.

I press the start button on the espresso machine and lean both palms on the counter, bracing myself.

You’re the babysitter, I remind myself.

Not his girlfriend. Not his confidante. Nothisanything.

Last night was too much. I need to avoid soft, whispered late-night conversations with him. This was the second time we’d been alone in the dark, the air thick with emotions best left unexamined—and the second time we’ve immediately gone straight down that path.

It felt like I could tell him anything.

And worse—like hewantedme to.

But it’s morning now, and I know better.

As soon as I have my first bracing sip of espresso, I find the mantra I need to keep reminding myself—he’s my boss now.

This is just a job.

This is temporary and some professional distance is my best strategy.

It doesn’t matter how easy it is to talk to him late at night.

Or how good it feels when his knuckles press against my thigh.

Or how his eyes get all hooded and intense when he says?—

Nope.

I take a long sip of coffee and forcethatthought out of my head.

If I want to survive until the end of the playoffs, and then get out of town with my heart in one piece, I have to be careful.

No more vulnerable confessions.

No more soft, sleepy conversations.

Because I know how awful it feels to get my hopes up and then have them dashed.

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