Page 43 of Second Chance with the Single Dad Goalie
Then, reluctantly - so reluctantly - I say, “I have a proposition for you.”
Her lips quirked. "Oh? Should I be concerned?"
"Probably," I mutter. Then, rubbing a hand over my face, I go straight for it.
"I need a nanny. And…, I want to hire you. Temporarily."
Silence.
Then Whitney laughs. Laughs. A full, head-thrown-back,this-is-the-craziest-thing-I’ve-ever-heardlaugh.
"That wasn’t a joke."
"Yeah," she says, still grinning. “It has to be.”
But her smile falters when she sees the look in my eyes - serious, unwavering.
"Wait…, you’re serious?" she whispers, her voice barely audible as she steps back, hand tightening on the doorknob like she’s not sure whether to let me in - or shut me out.
Chapter nine
Whitney
He wants me to do what?
I blink at Blake, trying to process the words that just came out of his mouth. I would have preferred if he had said I should compete in the upcoming beauty queen pageant in town, because honestly? That would make more sense than him standing in my doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, looking all broody and serious, and unfortunately, ridiculously good, asking me to be his kids’ nanny.
Seriously, how is it fair that a man can be that handsome and that insane at the same time? His dark button-down is rolled up at the sleeves, showing off strong forearms, and his hair - thick and just the right amount of messy - looks like it’s been tugged at one too many times today.
The late evening air is warm but carries the scent of an oncoming storm. Maybe he's the storm. A faint breeze shifts a loose strand of my hair, but I don’t bother tucking it behind my ear. I am too busy gaping at him.
"You really are serious?" I ask again, one brow arched, head tilted just enough to let him know I think he’s lost it.
Blake exhales, his fingers brushing over the light stubble on his chin - a desperation habit I remember all too well. "Um… yeah."
That small, familiar gesture flickers through me, stirring something I don’t want to acknowledge. But I shove it aside just as fast.
I let out a short laugh. "No."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look surprised. "Figured you’d say that."
I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe, my curiosity officially piqued. "So, why ask?"
"Because," he says, slipping his hands deeper into his pockets, "I was hoping you'd prove me wrong."
I snort. “Then you were hoping wrong.”
“Whitney, just…”
“Blake,” I place my hands on my waist. “I heard you, gave you an answer. There.”
I move to go inside, but his hand shoots out, holding my hand - warm, solid. My breath catches, just for a second. My eyes snap to him, and something unexpected jolts through me. Annoyance, definitely…, and maybe something else I refuse to name. I yank my hand away, a little too fast.
He raises his hand in surrender and says, “Let’s go somewhere and talk.”
I arch a brow. “Why? You think if we change locations, my answer magically changes too?”
He lets out a small chuckle. “No. But I figured you, of all people, might at least hear me out properly. You know, since we’re…, friends. And we have history.”
