Page 10 of Touch My Shelves

“Daddy, is that her?” My daughter runs down the old stone stairs—which she’s been cautioned at least a million times not to do. At least she’s using the handrail.

I ruffle her hair when she gets to the bottom and let out a relieved breath. “I suppose it is, but we won’t know until I open the door.”

The security cameras show a woman with a suitcase outside the door. We might as well get this over with so I can get back to work.

I pull the heavy door open… and it’s the woman from the alley. Memories from that night swirl in my head and clash with the reality of the woman before me. It was dark that night and I didn’t get a good look, but how could I miss her purple hair? Maybe she just recently dyed it.

And her dress looks like something she found at an estate sale stuck in the back of some sweet old lady’s closet. It’s orange, cinches in at the waist, and flares into a skirt that comes to just below her knees. My gaze trails down to her shoes. They’re pink! A bright pink with low heels and the cutest, pink-polished toes peeking out. My cock twitches in my pants, which absolutely cannot happen when I’m interviewing my daughter’s nanny.

Her face is what I remember. A sweet, upturned nose and defined brows showcase striking blue eyes. I couldn’t tell the color of her eyes that night. Then there are those lips. Today they’re covered in a glistening pink lipstick that I really want to taste.

But wait… I’m confused. Hannah said her name is Poppy, but I clearly remember her saying, “Paulina?”

She gasps when her eyes lock onto mine, her hands going straight to her face when recognition hits. “Theo, it’s you,” she says and her tanned face loses all color.

She’s every bit as gorgeous as I recall from that night and my cock stirs again as I remember how she felt in my arms. “Paulina? What are you doing here?”

“I… Hannah…fire…nanny…” she mumbles, making no sense at all, yet I can understand her perfectly.

“But I thought your name was Paulina and Hannah said the lady she was sending was named Poppy.”

A pretty pink flush grows upward on her cheeks. It almost matches her lips. “It is… I mean, my name is Poppy. I just… I mean Paulina sounded better…you know, in the moment.”

My daughter sticks her head around my arm and giggles. “She’s right, Daddy. Your name has to match the part to get it right.”

She grins up at me and asks, “Why did she call you Theo? Were you acting too?”

My gaze meets Poppy’s over the top of Freeya’s inquisitive head. How are we going to explain this? I do know one thing. “No, I wasn’t acting.”

Poppy hides a grin and explains, “I thought your dad looked more like a Theo. That’s why I renamed him.”

It’s probably best to move things along. “Poppy, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Freeya.”

Poppy offers her hand, Freeya puts her tiny one in hers, and they shake. “I like your name and your dress. I really like your hair. I want purple hair.”

My head whips around. Did my daughter just say she wanted purple hair?

“I really love your blonde hair. I like your name too and thanks, my friend made my dress for me. Unfortunately I lost all my clothes in the fire. This is the last surviving member of my wardrobe. It’s what I had on at the Murphy’s cookout when I found out about the fire.” Poppy grins as they pump hands.

While Freeya talks with Poppy about her purple hair, I have a moment to check her out. Hannah said she lost everything in the fire and has no place to live. It stands to reason she also lost her wardrobe, so what’s in the suitcase that’s sitting beside her feet? I feel for her situation, but I’m still not sold on her ability to keep Freeya safe. I know nothing about her other than the fact that she fits in my arms perfectly… and I want her.

That’s the problem I should be most concerned about. Poppy will be living under my roof as my daughter’s nanny. I shouldn’t blur the lines by sleeping with her. Should I? No is the correct answer.

“Why don’t you come inside and we can talk.” That’s when I notice…

“What’s that?” I ask with my eyes glued to the broken-down grape in my circular driveway.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know where to park. I can move it,” Poppy says and starts digging in her bag, probably for the keys—or a crank. I’m not sure which.

“You drove here in that?” I say with considerable doubt in my tone.

Poppy’s chin tips. “Yes, of course. Don’t hurt JuneBug by saying mean things.”

“You call that thing JuneBug?” I ask with a smirk. Parts of the car match her hair color. Other parts are rusty and faded. The car reminds me too much of the rusted out, bullet hole-marked Nova we had growing up. Maybe that’s why I find her car so objectionable.

“I love JuneBug!” Freeya shouts and claps her little hands.

There’s no way my daughter is ever riding in that deathtrap.

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