Home might be where I unload, but work is where I come to think.

Usually, that means modeling and setting the company’s strategy and direction, leading the executive team, allocating capital to the company’s priorities, but today it’s something else entirely. Today, I have a twenty-one-year-old girl on my mind.

A nanny, to be exact.

My nanny.

No. Lilly Belle’s nanny.

Never mind that everyone is waiting for me in the next room or that the meeting will be starting any moment now. I can’t rip my gaze away from my 68^th floor Central Park view. Fall is here. Burnt oranges, bright crimsons, and vibrant yellows. Part of me imagines myself out in the park, walking amongst those trees with Penelope and Lilly Belle.

I shut my eyes hard to try and force these unwanted visions from my mind.

I can’t stop thinking about—her. Why?

Why can’t I get Penelope Wallach off my mind? The memory of her standing in her room, bathed in moonlight, when I walked in after finding her door unlocked, is burned in my brain. Emblazoned. Imprinted. Even though she was in a shirt and undies, I could see right through her. If I narrowed my eyes, I could practically see the center of heat coming off her body between her legs. Her nipples betrayed her frightened exterior. Her aura radiated desire.

She was gorgeous, mortified, and full of need all rolled into one. I should’ve fought the urge and left, but I couldn’t resist the look in her eyes, like she was begging me to stay and fuck her, put her out of her misery. And I did twice. No matter how much I wanted to pull away, I couldn’t. Our bodies melded together, a recipe for beautiful wreckage.

Even terrified of seeing me there, she pushed through the awkwardness and confusion and let me in. Let her carnal desires take over. Let her body and heart win. Then, this morning, she came downstairs to speak to me, even though she could’ve stayed upstairs all day avoiding me, and I wouldn’t have seen her. Coming down to face me took courage, but that’s what I like about her. No embarrassment. No regrets, none that I know of. Just readiness to call truce and move on.

Still, I saw that tiny spark of warmth some women have the next morning, the one that gives away what they’re feeling, the hint of overinvestment in sentiment. She was wondering if there’d be more to this quick affair.

There isn’t. There can’t ever be.

I was cold to her. I had to be.

This is who I am and what I’ve learned in my life. Warmth and emotion were banished from my existence early on, weaknesses that I extinguished long ago.

When it came to my mother, the less I felt the better. My sister was never as cold and indifferent to it all as I was, and she suffered for it.

Despite everything that she put us through, I wanted to love my own mother…

This is why feelings are irrational. Feelings hamper productivity, which is the last thing I need. Feelings cloud clear thinking.

The speaker on my desk clicks on. “Sir, they’re waiting for you in the conference room.”

“Be right there.”

I won’t. I’ll be there when I damned feel like it, and since those assholes nearly fucked up last quarter, they can wait for me. I don’t care what else is on their schedules. I’ll get up when I feel like it.

“Sir?” The gentle voice buzzes into my office again.

“I got caught up with something, Bianca. I’ll be right there. Tell Bryn to start without me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Suddenly, I’m wondering all sorts of things about the nanny, the things I didn’t learn from fucking her succulent body last night. Where did she grow up? Is she outgoing and sociable? Did she ever have a serious boyfriend?

I hate myself for giving a shit.

Swiveling toward my laptop and opening up social media, I search her name. My eye catches her right away, out of all the others that pop up. She’s the one with the radiant smile and reddish hair in the profile pic. I would know it anywhere. There are those dimples that come out whenever she smiles at Lilly Belle.

Her hometown is Sleepy Hollow, New York, and apparently, she has a small PR startup—barely even a company. Everyone can have a business and a webpage these days—the notion has lost all meaning.

Still, I’ll have to check into that later. Scrolling through her profile pics, I see she has three—the smiling one, one of her looking out across a mountain view, and another of her standing on top of a hill in workout gear like she just conquered Mount Vesuvius. Strength, determination.

Sass.

Those are the only three photos I’m allowed to see because her account is private and I’m not a friend of hers. I switch to Photo Album to see if more pics of her are there. What does she do in her spare time? Does she paint, does she cook, play tennis? I scan the few available photos for clues with such intense focus that I almost completely forget about the meeting. The last photo is a field of sunflowers.

I’ll have to look through this later, and I find myself wishing the meeting would be over quick just so I can continue checking her profile out.

I try to push the positive emotions away by imagining her acting like my mother would. The rages, the accusations, the slaps, kicks and punches. The hysterical shrieks followed by crying and the same old apologies about how it would never happen again.

But for some reason, when I look at Penelope’s pics, I can’t see it. I can’t really imagine her screaming at anyone—certainly not at Lilly Belle. She’s too gentle, of pure heart.

When I click off “Photo Album” and try checking out her “About” page, I accidentally hit “Add Friend.” Augh, you gotta be fucking kidding me. Quickly, I hit “Cancel Request” but it won’t matter. The fact that I was stalking her page will soon be known to her. I slide the cursor off but the damage is done. Fuck—that’s what I get for being curious.

Time to get back to work and put my mind where it needs to be. Where it should’ve been in the first place.