Page 112 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“This seems to be becoming a habit,” she said, gazing at him through her eyelashes.
He angled his body toward her. “What’s becoming a habit?”
She glanced from side to side, admiring his hands. She must have taken a hundred pictures of them today. Those hands that gripped her hips and tangled in her hair. Those hands that she couldn’t stop imagining caressing her breasts and working her most sensitive place. Large and the right amount of rough, a shiver rippled through her recalling what had happened at the sink a few paces away.
“Thiscaging-me-inbusiness seems to be becoming a habit,” she teased.
He came in even closer. “Maybe it’s because I don’t want you to go anywhere.”
Had it gotten hotter in there? Was the cooktop still on?
No, this was all them—their heat, their electricity.
His words hung in the charged air.
I don’t want you to go anywhere.
And what was she supposed to say to that? Oh, by the way, I have an opportunity thousands of miles away across the ocean. No, she couldn’t mention it. Not now! Her brain was too scrambled by this man’s raw allure.
She twisted the key between her fingers. “It appears that you’ve got me. My question is, what are you going to do about it?”
This was fun! Tapping into this part of her, the powerful, seductive part of her she’d never known with any other man, made her head spin and her body ache. Mitch’s gaze raked over her as he drank her in. It was beyond wrong and beyond intoxicating and clearly beyond her control to resist him.
“How do we always end up like this?” he whispered against the shell of her ear. She hovered there on the precipice, wanting so badly for him to press his lips to her skin while savoring the rush of anticipation.
She released the key and slid her hands up the hard expanse of his chest, relishing the rise and fall of each ridge of defined muscle. She parted her lips, ready to tell this beast of a man that she was ready for round two against the sink when her timer went off again. They pulled apart as the chirping cut through the cheese-scented, sex-fueled charge that pulsed between them.
He looked as dazed as she felt.
“What’s that alarm for?” he asked.
She grabbed her phone and silenced the incessant sound. She’d set multiple alarms for Oscar. It was his first day, and she was hellbent on making sure that they weren’t late to get him. The last thing he needed was to be the last kidpicked up. She knew plenty about that.
“We need to get going. We can’t be late to pick up Oscar,” she said, finding her voice and recovering the ability to form rational thoughts. She glanced between his hands, still pinning her in place. The guy got the message. He took a step back, then crossed his arms as she smoothed her skirt.
What were they going to do? Bang one out in front of a homeless shelter?
She shook her head, then checked the digital clock above the order window. “Actually, we’ve got a little time.”
Focus!
“I could show you some of the pictures I took today. We could get it on—the work. We could focus on the work of looking at photographs. Because that is part of my job. I take pictures of you and your body. And food. Your body and food,” she finished with a resolute nod. She could have ended that statement with a cartwheel, or stuck out her tongue, or blew a series of raspberries. Any of those options would have been less embarrassing than the verbal vomit she’d spewed.
And oh, my God!
Is this what happened to girls who had too many dirty, dirty thoughts? Did their brains simply decay inside of their skulls?
“We don’t have time to go over the photos. We should head over to Whitmore. I was on the phone with the school before I came back to the food truck to scare the hell out of your old boss and ex-boyfriend,” Mitch said as a cocky edge returned to his voice.
She stared at him as dread welled in her chest. Why was he on the phone with the school? Her thoughts spiraled. “Is Oscar okay? Did something happen? Was he bullied? Did he fall? Did he break his leg?” she rattled off.
He chuckled. “No, none of that happened. Oscar’s fine. But wow! You went right to crisis mode pretty fast.”
Her jaw dropped. “Yes, I went into crisis mode. Oscar is my…” she trailed off. He’s her what? He wasn’t hers, but he sort of was. “I’m his nanny,” she finished.
“Well, Ms. Nanny, I think you’ll like what’s about to happen,” he said, then opened a small metal door next to the refrigerator. She leaned over to peer inside. It was crammed with extra ingredients—a block of cheese, jars of condiments, a slab of butter, and a few loaves of bread.
She couldn’t figure out what was going on. “I thought you guys went through the supplies?”
