OK, so I’d walked into this one. Literally. And I’d let all of this happen.

I’d let him take my hand and lead me back into his home. I’d enjoyed every minute of him touching me, talking to me, looking at me. And then, when I’d known it was time to leave, I’d stalled, and here I was in Bryan’s kitchen, at four o’clock on a Friday afternoon, making pizza dough with a six-year-old kid who was, frankly, one of the reasons I’d decided to get into childcare in the first place.

She was a shiny penny.

She had her moments—she’d gotten extremely frustrated when the flour had poured and hit the bowl instead of the cup measure we’d been using—but she was funny most of the time. Laughing, joking—terrible six-year-old jokes, of course—and asking me a million questions.

“I think that it’s wrong that Gorbon Gamsey says curse words,” Carly said, matter-of-factly, as we kneaded the dough together. “Why does he do that?”

“I guess because he’s not good at managing his anger. You know, it’s really important to have control of all your emotions,” I said.

“Instead of saying bad words, he should just punch some dough.” Carly proclaimed and smacked the dough with a little fist. “That will make him feel better.”

“And it will make his fingers sticky,” I replied, and lifted my doughy fingers out of the bowl, wiggling them at her.

She shrieked a giggle and wobbled on the little stool we’d set up for her in Bryan’s gorgeous kitchen. Marble countertops and dark wood counters, with a center island, lit from above. We worked at it, joking as the sun dipped toward the horizon outside the window. The window looked out on the back garden, complete with a swing set, and beyond it, a pond.

Carly settled back on the stool and smushed her fingers into the dough. “It’s mushy.”

“Yeah, I think it needs more flour,” I said, and tipped some onto the dough. We squelched it in and the dough firmed up a bit more. “See? That’s much better.”

“Why can’t it be mushy?” Carly asked.

“Well, because then when we cook it, it will be more cakey. I think. It will just not taste like pizza, I guess.” I wasn’t an expert cook, that was for sure.

“OK.” Carly kneaded on quietly, clearly contemplating something deeply interesting. Perhaps, the mushiness of dough and what that pizza might taste like.

I, on the other hand, contemplated how I’d wound up here, all over again. God, I was dumb, as Carly would put it.

Bryan was in this mansion of a house somewhere, talking on the phone to a business contact, but he’d probably wander in any moment and ramp up the pressure behind my eyes and in my center all over again.

Being around him was like being inside a pressure cooker. I was close to exploding at any moment he was around.

“This looks about right,” I said and removed my hands from the bowl. I wiped them on the apron Bryan had tied on for me, and Carly followed suit. “Now, we’ve got to let it rise for a half an hour.”

“And then what happens?”

“We knead it again, and then leave it for,” I paused, and scanned the recipe, “another half an hour, and then we can roll it out.”

“That’s a long time,” Carly said, and touched her tummy. “I’m hungry.”

“What about a snack before dinner?” I asked, setting the bowl aside and covering it with a kitchen towel. “What does your daddy usually let you have before dinner?”

“Nothing.” The voice came from the door, that deep rumble of sound which set me on edge right away.

Yup, we were right in the pressure-cooker zone all over again.

“Aw,” Carly said, under her breath.

“Little thing,” Bryan said, and stuck out a finger at his daughter. “You know you won’t eat your dinner if you eat before it. What you tryna pull, huh?”

She skip-hopped over to her dad and threw her arms around his legs. “But I’m hungry.”

“How long until pizza time?” Bryan asked, as his phone buzzed in his hand, again. He looked down at it, frowning, then swiped his finger across the screen. The buzzing stopped, and my heart warmed slightly. I couldn’t judge what type of parent he was, that wasn’t fair, but so far, he’d been nothing but sweet, albeit distracted.

“Um,” I said, “well, probably over an hour and a half. The dough has to rise.”

“That’s a pretty long time, little thing,” Bryan said, and pinched his daughter’s cheek. “Yogurt?”

“Yes please!” Carly clapped her hands.

I was closer to the fridge, so I took a few steps back, opened the chromed-out contraption up, and rooted around inside. “What flavor?” I called over my shoulder.

“Strawberry, please!” Carly called back.

“I’ll get it.” Bryan’s voice was closer, now, right behind me in fact.

A shiver traveled down my spine. And that is exactly why you can’t be Carly’s nanny. Or stay here much longer than dinner.

“It’s OK,” I said, cursing the little squeak in my voice. I brought the yogurt out of the fridge and turned, bumping directly into Bryan’s strong chest.

Thankfully, I didn’t smash the yogurt container between us.

Bryan looked down at me, his nostrils flaring, ever so slightly. He removed the yogurt from my hand. “Thanks,” he said.

I cleared my throat. “No—uh, no problem.” I turned back to the fridge and shut it, exhaling heavily. I distracted myself by making my way over to the oven and setting a half hour timer for the pizza dough.

“Thank you!” Carly said, as she accepted the yogurt and the spoon from her dad. “I love yogurt. It’s the best. Daddy, can I watch some Paw Patrol while we wait for the pizza dough?”

“Sure, hon. TV’s on in the den.”

Carly rushed off without another word, leaving us in the kitchen together. It grew painfully silent, right away.

Bryan was on one side of the kitchen island, and I was on the other. He cleared his throat.

I cleared mine. “Well,” I said, with a weak chuckle. “This is awkward.”

He nodded, slowly. “You sure you want to stay here? You’re under no obligations.”

“Of course. Carly would be disappointed if I left and I’m enjoying this. I know it’s not, uh, the best situation, but it’s all right. I’m happy to stay until after dinner.”

Another nod, this one fast. Bryan didn’t walk off. He braced his hands on the counter and stared at me. “She likes you,” he said. “She gets on with most people, but I’ve never seen her take to someone this fast.”

“Probably the cooking thing,” I said. “And the pickles.”

“Pickles, huh?”

“I really do like them,” I replied and put up a smile. It sunk off my face a second later. Gosh, it was difficult to maintain a semblance of calm around him. Just being in the same room sent my pulse into overdrive. “I like Carly too. She’s sweet.”

“She’s got her problems,” he replied, quietly, glancing to one side.

In the distance, the Paw Patrol theme song screeched from a TV. The hall outside the kitchen’s open doorway was empty.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I said. “It’s none of my business.”

“Anger.” Bryan cleared his throat and pushed off from the kitchen island, backed up a step. “She struggles dealing with frustration. And I’m only telling you because you’re certified, and because we’ve known each other for a while now.”

Over a half a year. And now, intimately.

“I noticed. She was frustrated earlier, but she managed it quite well.”

“That’s good,” Bryan said. “She’s probably trying to make a good impression on you. When she’s totally relaxed, she has her moments. Fuck, this is ridiculous. There’s no reason for me to tell you this, at all. You can’t be the nanny.”

“I know,” I said, but it was like he needed to get it out. And we’d spent all that time on the app, talking about what we liked and hated, about a few of our secrets, if vaguely. Sharing things. It was natural we’d want to share now. “You can tell me, Bryan. It will go to the grave with me. You know, I don’t have anyone to talk to about it.”

“Apart from my sister,” he replied. “But she already knows.”

“Oh. She didn’t tell me anything.”

Once again, Bryan glanced to one side, exposing his strong neck. I looked down, cursing myself for the naughty thoughts. This was a serious moment, and no matter how much I wanted him, I had to control my mind and my body.

God, I’d left my hormonal years behind long ago.

“The first time Carly cried, she sounded angry. I mean, right from the start. Furious, it seemed, that she’d been taken out of a lovely warm place and forced into the world,” he said, and I lost track of my desire, focused on his words instead, the sincerity in his eyes. “She’s been that way ever since. She’s not mean or spiteful, but when she can’t get something right, she’ll lash out or get angry instead of working it out calmly.”

“I get that,” I said. “I mean, we all have to learn the tools needed to properly manage our emotions.” Ha, that was rich coming from me.

“Well, she’s trying. And I’m trying to help her. Hell, she’s got play dates with a therapist to help her work through her frustration. I’m just—fuck it, I guess I’m just talking. I don’t talk to anyone about this type of stuff.” His phone buzzed and he lifted it out of his pocket. “Shit,” he said, “I’ve got to take this. Excuse me.”

He swept out of the kitchen, and the tension dropped from my shoulders right away. Thank god. He was gone. I could breathe again. Think again.

I walked over to the oven and checked the timer, then switched it on, preheating it for the pizza later. The next hour passed in a rush. Time was on fast-forward for me. Carly rushed into the kitchen, and we kneaded the dough, left it again. I watched Paw Patrol with her, giggled at all the parts that counted, and listened to more of her six-year-old jokes, most of which didn’t make a whit of sense.

We grated cheese in the kitchen. We sliced sausage. We cut up vegetables to go on top. We made a tomato sauce for the base. We cooked, and then we sat down at the table and ate together, like some pseudo-memory of a family.

“This is great,” Carly said. “Best pizza ever!”

“I have to agree,” I replied, taking another bite. “And it’s all your hard work, Carly.”

“Yours too!” Carly bit into the pizza and pulled it away from her mouth. A string dangled from it, and she gobbled that up too.

Bryan ate in complete silence, chewing slowly. He didn’t look at me but focused on his daughter whenever he did look up from his plate.

“Do you like it, Dad?” Carly asked.

“It’s great,” he replied. “Really good. The crust especially.”

“I told you, I’m going to be like Gorbon Gamsey when I grow up. But with no swearing. And not so much yelling. I think.” Carly took another bite of pizza.

I caught Bryan’s eye, but his brow wrinkled up, immediately, and I shifted my gaze away. The dinner was just about at an end, and that meant this evening was too.

It should’ve been a relief to get out of this house, away from him and the confusion.

So why does my heart feel like a lump of lead just thinking about it?