Chapter Eleven

 

ERIN

 

I admit it. I’m a hypocrite.

Eight years ago, I gave in to the temptation and my world imploded, and I swore I’d never do it again. And I haven’t. Until now. Goddamn it, I should’ve held my bladder that evening Danny and I went to The Ogden. And that moment I realized my next potential employer was the hottie with the glassy blue eyes I met at the bar—that’s when I should have walked away.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

Instead, I’m climbing Garrett’s body every chance I get. And I’m helping him raise his kid. And I’m managing his household. He’s even given me access to his calendar, so I know exactly where he’ll be, what he’s doing all the damn time. So I can anticipate the next chance we’ll get to be alone together, which somehow makes it a hundred times hotter than it probably should be when it happens. Or maybe that’s just us. Maybe we’re so explosive together, the sex will never get old, never get monotonous or boring.

So yeah, I’m right where I was eight years ago. Lying and cheating and hating myself a little more each day. I know it’s going to end. Probably badly. Garrett’s not a relationship guy, and I’m the nanny, arguably the one woman he shouldn’t be screwed on the regular. Or at all.

What if Garrett finds out he isn’t my first sexy daddy? He’s trying to get his career back on track, trying to prove to his sponsors and the golfing world that he’s worthy of their support and respect. If the media gets wind of the fact he’s boinking a nanny who has a history of doing daddies—bonus that the last one was unavailable—it’ll ruin him.

And Abby’s life will be disrupted yet again when this thing crashes and burns and Garrett has to find a new caregiver for his daughter.

And I’m not doing a damn thing to change my circumstances.

In fact, while we’re flying from Chicago to Dallas for Garrett’s next tournament, he and I leave Abby watching a movie on his iPad, tucked between Callum and Garrett’s caddy, Harry, while we squeeze into that ridiculously tiny in-flight restroom and officially join the Mile High Club.

“That was the quietest you’ve ever been, Red,” he murmurs as he follows me back to our seats.

“You’re the one who doesn’t want anyone to know about the extra services your nanny’s providing,” I say tartly, arching my eyebrow as I glance over my shoulder.

I slide over next to the window while he drops into the aisle seat, across from Callum. “That’s my manager’s decision,” Garrett says, stabbing his thumb at the man.

“What’s that?” Callum asks, looking up from his phone, where he’s no doubt scheduling public appearances or maybe new sponsorships for his most popular client.

“I told Erin you loved the idea of bringing her and Abby on tour.”

“Definitely helps to verify your shiny new image as a family man,” Callum agrees. “Although I’d try to avoid letting Fiona photograph you three together if you can. That woman can turn the most innocent situation into a fucking shitstorm.”

Except our situation is anything but innocent.

I glance at Garrett, who smirks and leans back in his chair while signalling to the flight attendant. “I’ve managed to work up a hell of a thirst. How about you, Erin?”

I’m such a hypocrite.

***

 

Everything is bigger in Dallas, especially the shopping and dining options. I’ve never been to the Big D before, so I don’t mind that for the few days before the tournament starts, Abby and I are pretty much on our own to explore like tourists while Garrett practices and does media rounds. He needs to be fully focused during this competition, to make up the points he lost when he didn’t make the cut a few weeks ago.

It’s like hockey, he explained to me the first night we were in town, as we showered together in his room after putting Abby down to sleep in the adjoining room, the one she and I are sharing, for propriety’s sake. He needs to earn a certain number of points in order to compete in the FedEx Cup, which is like playing in the Stanley Cup Finals. I didn’t bother to tell him I couldn’t care less about hockey or golf, especially when he started rubbing his soapy hands between my thighs.

It’s Thursday, and the tournament starts in a few minutes. Garrett gave Abby and I executive passes, which allow us to go pretty much anywhere we want to at the club. He tried to be cool about it, but before he left this morning he mentioned the places with the best views of each hole, and I knew he was hoping we’d be there to support him, to cheer him on.

I have every intention of doing so, for both father and daughter. This kid, this charge of mine, is so damn proud of her dad it makes my heart swell. They’ve only known each other eight short months, but you wouldn’t know it unless you knew their backstory.

“Hey, let’s do a selfie next to the sign,” I say to Abby. “I want to text it to Uncle Danny.” We’re wearing matching blue and black patterned golf dresses. Yeah, it’s cheesy, but I know Danny will get a kick out of it. I bet Garrett will, too, when we arrive to watch him tee off at the first hole.

My three-year-old charge enthusiastically agrees, and we snap a few photos with my phone before I say, “I think we have time to stop in the restaurant. I want one of those amazing turkey and Swiss croissant thingies. So good.”

“Can I have a sausage biscuit? With grape jelly? And chocolate milk?”

“Sure.” I take her hand and we head toward the restaurant, which is emptying as most patrons make their way toward the course.

As I reach for the handle, a guy in a club uniform flips the sign on the door from “open” to “closed.” He points at another entrance about twenty feet away. “Go to the bar,” he calls out through the windowpane. “The restaurant’s closed to prepare for the after party.”

“We loved the sandwiches we had here yesterday,” I call out to the man, who’s still shaking his head.

“You can get them at the bar,” he says, stabbing his finger with more fervor.

“Okay, okay.” I raise my hands in surrender as my phone vibrates in my purse. It’s a text from Garrett. He’s drawn number twelve, which means we don’t have a lot of time to make our way to the first hole to watch him tee off.

“Come on, Erin,” Abby says, and I let her drag me down the path running along the back of the building. “Can we sit at the bar?” she asks when we reach the door and she tugs it open. I glance up at the length of mahogany wood separating us from a dark-haired woman with her back to us, stacking glasses on shelves above a sink.

“If they card you, say you left your ID in the car,” I reply, which causes her to giggle as we make our way to two empty stools.

The bartender whips around like she’s heard a gunshot, and her eyes widen as she stares at us. More specifically, at Abby. Uh-oh. Is this a groupie? Somebody who saw one of the pics Callum has been steadily feeding to the media to keep them happy and at the same time counteract Garrett’s playboy image?

“On second thought, maybe we should wait,” I say, grabbing Abby’s hand. We’ve had a few interactions with fans who tried to grill her for information about her dad. Garrett was furious and wanted to immediately hire a security detail to follow us around, but I talked him out of it. Those fans hadn’t been obnoxious, and they’d backed off as soon as I asked them to.

“Abby?” The bartender whispers her name, and Abby glances at her, furrowing her brow like she’s trying to place the woman.

“Mommy?”

What? Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

Oh. Shit.

Abby’s mom? I study her face for a few seconds before she hurries to the end of the bar where there’s an opening so she can reach us. And I see it. The slant of Abby’s eyes. The color is all Garrett, but that slight lift at the outside, that’s the same as this woman. Her mouth, too, is the same. And her hair, although to be fair, Garrett has dark hair, too. But his is wavy, and Abby and this woman both have bone-straight strands.

I’m frozen in place as she crouches down in front of Abby. I’d say she’s my age, maybe a little older. Pretty, although the lines on her face tell me bartending is significantly harder than nannying.

She reaches out and tentatively touches Abby’s face while blinking against tears I can see welling around her eyelashes. The child glances up at me, like she wants my permission to interact, and I want to cry myself. I should whisk her away, head straight to the airport, get her home to a place where I know I can protect her from the heartbreak that will likely come of this meeting. Suddenly, that turkey and Swiss croissant sounds terrible, and surely, we would have time to get a sausage biscuit from McDonald’s.

“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” the woman says. She swipes at the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Oh, sugar, it’s so good to see you again. I—I never thought I would.” She covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob, while Abby inches closer to me, holding my hand in a death grip.

Okay, I admit it, I’ve given plenty of thought to why Abby’s mother might have handed over full custody of the child Garrett hadn’t even known he had. I’ve always assumed she was a druggie or that rare form of human being who has no capacity to love anyone, not even her own offspring.

I never imagined she was a bartender at a country club who would start crying the moment she saw her child again. She gave her up—willingly. Not only that, but she didn’t even tell Garrett she’d gotten pregnant with his kid until Abby was two years old.

“Why didn’t you come back for me?” Abby’s tiny voice makes my own eyes begin to water. I glance around, looking for someone who might resemble security. With our executive passes and our connection to Garrett, I should be able to find an escort who will get us the hell out of this situation.

The woman cups Abby’s cheek. “I wanted to, sugar. I really did. I can’t tell you how much it broke my heart to let you go. But it looks like you have a good life. You’re happy, right? Your daddy’s treating you all right?”

Abby nods.

“And this lady. This is your nanny?”

How does she know that? Oh wait, Garrett’s a celebrity in the circles in which this woman works.

Abby bobs her head again. “We’re going to watch Daddy golf today.”

“I saw he was on the roster. I never imagined he’d bring you with him.”

Did Garrett know she would be here? ?

After another moment, she straightens and shifts her attention to me. “I’m Morgan Mathern. Um, Abby’s mom. In case you didn’t, you know, get it.” She thrusts her hand at me and I actually consider not shaking, but social graces force me to slide my hand into hers. Her skin’s rough and dry, and her nails are short and unpainted. Probably not atypical of someone who schleps drinks for a living.

“I think I’ve managed to put two and two together. I’m Erin Sanders. Like you said, Abby’s nanny.”

She pulls her hand away and stuffs both into the back pockets of her khaki skirt. Her gaze darts around the room. “Y’all want to come sit at the bar? I’ll get you something to drink.”

“Chocolate milk,” Abby pipes up, and Morgan smiles through her tears.

“Still your favorite drink, huh?”

Abby nods.

“What about mac and cheese? And applesauce?”

“And steak,” I add, like I need to prove I know her kid better than she does. Which is really shitty of me, frankly. Hell, I’m not even a candidate for stepmom. I’m just the nanny who happens to be sleeping with her daughter’s dad.

Morgan arches thin, dark brows. “Steak wasn’t a favorite when she was living with me.”

I feel like I’ve been chastised. “Yeah, well, Garrett’s a fan, so it’s probably by default.”

She gestures at the bar, and Abby scurries over to climb onto one of the stools. I automatically reach out my arms, prepared in case she loses her balance. Morgan is watching us, her mouth pursed. Once Abby is situated, I drop onto the stool next to her and her mother slips back around behind the bar.

“What’re you drinking?” she asks me as she pours Hershey’s chocolate syrup into a plastic cup filled with milk.

“Water, please.”

“You don’t drink?” She snaps a lid onto the cup, slides it across the bar to Abby, then dumps ice into a glass tumbler before filling it with water from the beverage gun under the bar. 

“Sure, but it’s like ten in the morning.”

She places the glass on a cocktail napkin. “Yeah, but it’s tournament day.”

I nod at Abby. “Well, I’m kind of on the clock.” Not that Garrett cares whether I have a drink as long as I don’t overdo it and shirk my duties. Still, I’m not sure why she’s pressing the issue.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, and she heads to the other end of the bar to take care of a customer who’s stepped up. She’s back after serving him a bloody Mary, leaning against the bar, watching Abby chug chocolate milk like a boss.

“So how’s Garrett?” she asks, and I choke on the water I’d just sucked into the straw. She waits while I have a coughing fit and wipe my streaming eyes.

I finally manage to pull in enough oxygen to ask, “Er, what do you mean?”

She waves at Abby. “As a dad. How is he?”

Oh. Right. “Um, fine. Better than fine, actually. He’s great with her.”

“Daddy says I’m a pro-gee,” Abby pipes up.

Morgan furrows her brow. “What?”

“Prodigy,” I explain. “She’s a natural at golf. A little Tiger Woods.”

“Well, Garret is her father, so that’s not terribly surprising.” Her gaze sweeps over our matching dresses. “I’ve read the articles speculating about your relationship.”

“Huh?” Is she about to spread gossip? About Garrett and I? In front of Abby?

I don’t think so.

“Hey, Abby.” I lean toward her and touch the little plastic goat standing next to her empty cup, and then I point at a nearby bay window with a window seat. “Why don’t you and Spot Junior go over there and play? And let me know when your dad walks by, okay?”

She shoots her mother a shy look before sliding off the barstool and heading to the area I indicated, where she immediately begins trotting Spot Junior back and forth while chattering away to herself.

“Spot Junior?” Morgan says.

“She has a thing for goats.”

Her brow creases, like she wants to ask for more detail, but we both fall silent while we watch Abby play.

“Some of those reporters can be real dicks,” she says after a while. “If Garrett’s taken to being a father like you and the media say, I can’t imagine he’d screw around with the nanny. It’s a recipe for disaster, especially with his track record.”

I can’t figure out if she’s warning me or simply stating facts. Yes, Garrett has been a playboy, I’ve learned, for as long as he’s been a professional golfer. Probably since well before that. Paynter alluded to some wild college nights, before Garrett snapped at him to shut the hell up.

No, he’s never been involved in an actual relationship with any of the women he’s slept with. Including this one, I assume, since he didn’t know he’d knocked her up until last year.

So, naturally, whatever is going on between he and I is destined to end, probably badly.

But I already know this. I’m doing a reasonable job of pretending I’m okay with it. That I don’t want more. That I don’t wish I could be the one to break his sleeping around habit, the one who could convince him to settle down. That I don’t want him, me, and Abby to be the perfect little family. Maybe even add to that family someday.

“Why?” I ask while staring at the sweating glass parked on the bar in front of me. “Why did you give her up?”

“He didn’t tell you?” There’s a challenge in her voice, like she’s implying I’m not as close to Garrett as I think I am. I almost want to tell her the rumors are true, just to shove it her in her face. Except whatever I have going on with him will undoubtedly be nothing more than another notch in his headboard eventually, just like she was.

“He told me your lawyer called and said that he had a kid and, if Garrett wanted her, he had to fly down here and claim her. And when he got here, you signed over your rights, gave him full custody, and walked away.”

“That pretty much sums it up.” She watches Abby, who’s trotting her little plastic goat back and forth on the window seat.

“Yeah, but why?”

She tops off my water with the beverage gun, even though I’ve taken only a couple of sips. “I’m an alcoholic. Recovering, I mean. Ninety-three days.”

“Uh…”

She pours a water for herself and sucks it nearly dry before speaking again. “I was in a pretty dark place when I gave her up. Three DUIs in less than a year. My lawyer told me the state would take her if I didn’t give her to her dad.”

Holy shit. A freaking Jamison on the rocks sounds damn perfect right now. Which is a sensation that makes you feel like an ass when you’re around a confessed alcoholic.

“Is it time to go watch Daddy yet?” Abby calls from where she’s seated on the windowsill, trotting Spot Junior in a circle near her hip.

“Just about,” I reply, glancing at Morgan. There’s a small, wistful smile on her lips.

“What I wouldn’t give…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but then again, she doesn’t have to. I know what she means.

My phone vibrates and Abby’s voice shouts, “Daddy’s calling!” I should probably change that ringtone. I pull it out of my purse; Garrett’s biggest rival just shot two under par, which I know isn’t good. Well, it’s really good, actually, which means it isn’t good for Garrett’s ranking in the tournament. He’s going to have to shoot a damn near perfect game.

“We probably need to get down there so Abby can watch him tee off,” I say. What else am I supposed to do? Part of me wants to rush away, to never come back to this place again, while another part wants to invite Morgan over for dinner.

“Yeah, you should probably go.” She’s looking at Abby as she says it.

“Abby, do you want to come over here and say good-bye to, er, your mom?”

Abby slides off the windowsill and rushes over to Morgan, who has stepped out from behind the bar again. Morgan crouches and the little girl throws her arms around the woman’s neck, much like she does when Garrett comes home after having been gone for a week. Morgan buries her face in Abby’s hair. I know she’s crying even before she lifts her head and I see the tear tracks on her cheeks.

“I’m a mess,” she says, wiping at the wetness and standing. “I need to go freshen up. I love you, sugar.”

“When will I see you again, Mommy?”

I avert my gaze, but that doesn’t stop my ears from listening to this private, emotional exchange.

“I don’t know, baby. I’ll have to talk to your daddy, okay?”

“Okay.” Abby lifts her plastic goat. “Spot Junior says bye.”

“Bye, Spot Junior.”

I sweep her into my arms so I can escape more quickly. With tears blurring my own vision, I head out to find a place up front to watch him play. Hopefully, the game will distract Abby from wishing she were with her mom, and me from this new knowledge that not only is Morgan still around, she isn’t the horrible ogre I’ve made her out to be in my head.

***

 

We arrive with plenty of time to spare and manage to elbow our way to the front of the group of people clustered around the thick rope wrapped around the first hole, ensuring overzealous fans don’t get in the way or ruin the turf or whatever it is excited golf spectators might do. A golfer steps up and hits his ball and the crowd cheers and claps. Another golfer, another ball knocked hundreds of yards to land on the slightly different color of green near the hole they’re aiming at, and God, watching paint dry would be more exciting. The only saving grace is that one of the golfers is pretty good-looking, although he’s got nothing on Garrett and his head of thick, dark hair, those glassy blue eyes, and that body that begs a girl to lick it.

And then Garrett steps up with his trusty caddie, Harry, next to him. He lifts one arm in a general wave and smiles from under the bill of his baseball cap, which is pulled low over his eyes. The crowd makes this feminine tittering noise. It’s pretty damn obvious the fairer sex came here to watch him. How many of them even give a shit about golf? Not that I can talk.

His biggest rival, Greg Hanstrom, walks past and throws a disdainful look at Garrett’s bright yellow pants and shirt with psychedelic flowers splashed across his chest. Yeah, that’s right, buddy. Let him get into your head.

Garrett points his club at Greg and calls out, “Let me know if you want my tailor’s number.” The women in the crowd giggle and snap pictures as he flashes a lopsided grin. Abby bounces in place, waving her chubby little arm until she catches his attention. I make eye contact, and it’s all I can do not to slip under this rope and rush into his arms. I’ve watched enough golf on television recently to know it’s perfectly acceptable for girlfriends and wives to do that, but I’m just the nanny and the last thing I want is to add to the speculation already buzzing about our relationship. So instead, I lift my hand and give him a shy little finger wave.

He hands the club to Harry and strides toward us, and I hold my breath. In my head, he’s about to lift me off my feet, wrap my legs around his waist, and kiss me until I’m breathless, all while the paparazzi snap picture after picture and call out to him, wanting to know if I’m “the one.” And when he’s done kissing me, he’ll lift his head and announce to everyone…

“Hey, ladies. Nice dresses.”

I blink and the world comes back into focus, and Garrett’s standing here, smirking, two feet and a length of rope separating us.

“Pick her up,” he whispers, “so I can come closer without causing speculation.”

I lift his daughter into my arms while smiling up at him, and when he moves closer to hug her, I tighten my hold around her back to keep myself from leaning into him. All I can think about is that shower back at the hotel, the way his soapy hands slid over my body, how he caressed my breasts until I whimpered; how he fucked me from behind while stroking my clit, and I clung to the towel bar and wished the moment would never end, even as an orgasm tore through me, leaving me exhausted, sated, and already eager to do it again.

He shifts to whisper, “I can’t wait to tear that dress off you, later. Thinking about it’s giving me wood, so I probably should back away now.”

I fail not to be pleased by his saucy comments as he turns his focus back to Abby, asking her to wish him luck in this round. Instead, she says, “We saw Mommy.”

He freezes. Well, not literally, because this is real life and people don’t just freeze, and besides, it’s May and we’re in Dallas. It’s got to be at least ninety degrees already and the sun is beating down on us pretty relentlessly.

But he’s as still as a statue, the only movement the steady up and down motion of his chest, indicating he’s still breathing. He turns those glassy blues on me, and I flinch from the storm I see in them. I should have told Abby not to say anything, at least not until after the game. He doesn’t need the distraction, today of all days. He needs to earn every point possible to give him a proper ranking going into the FedEx Cup.

Look at me, almost sounding like I know anything about golf.

“Did she just say what I think she said?” he asks through clenched teeth.

“She’s over there,” Abby adds, stretching out her arm and pointing at the clubhouse in the distance.

Garrett’s gaze flicks up to the building and back to Abby. When he turns his focus to me, it’s even darker, a storm worse than any I’ve witnessed before. I swallow and resist the urge to step away from the fury in the depth of his eyes.

“Abby,” he says without breaking eye contact with me, “go stand with Harry for a minute. Tell him to show you my new club.”

“Okay,” she says, and she wiggles until I bend my knees to place her on the ground. When I stand straight again, Garrett clamps his hand onto my arm, like he’s afraid I’m going to follow her.

“You took her to see her mother?” he says, his voice so low it’s practically a hiss.

“I—what? I had no idea who she was,” I protest. Is he really accusing me of deliberately taking her to see the woman who gave her up? She’s his kid. I would never do something like that without his knowledge, even if I had known Morgan’s identity. And I still wouldn’t, now that I do. I can wish all day long that Morgan might be able to maintain a relationship with her daughter, but ultimately, she gave that child to Garrett and it’s his decision whether she gets to play a role in Abby’s life. Not mine. Not even hers, not anymore.

“She just said, ‘We saw Mommy.’ Or did I not hear her right?”

I wrench my arm out of his grasp. “Maybe you shouldn’t have invited us to this tournament,” I suggest icily.

His gaze darts to the clubhouse again. “I didn’t realize she still worked here.” He says it quietly, almost like he’s talking to himself.

I’m suddenly conscious of the people standing all around us, fully aware that they are observing, trying to listen. One guy is holding up his phone, pretending he’s looking at something on the screen, but I know damn well he’s either taking pictures or, more likely, videoing this exchange.

“Look, why don’t you go play, and we can talk about this later? When we’re alone.” I’d prefer to deck Garrett right now for thinking so little of me, but the media doesn’t need any more fuel for the simmering flames of speculation surrounding our relationship.

His gaze latches onto my face. I’m not even sure he’s aware we have an audience. I suppose when you’re a celebrity and yet you have to concentrate on your game, you learn how to tune out the crowd. Unfortunately, that’s a very bad practice at the moment.

“Don’t get any fucking ideas in your head,” he says. “She’s mine.” He finally storms away, snatching the club from Harry’s hand before patting Abby on the head and sending her back my way, all without turning around to acknowledge me.

“Daddy’s mad,” she says when she returns to my side.

I lift her into my arms and say, “Yeah, well, sometimes people get mad over dumb things. He’ll be fine. He just needs to lose himself in the game for a while.” And realize what an ass he was just now. Or maybe I’ll remind him, later, when we’re alone and can hash this out without worrying about phones with cameras and speakers and instant uploads to social media accounts.

“Trouble in paradise?” a husky, feminine voice says beside me. I want to scream. Fiona is as sexy—or is it slutty?—as ever in a slinky, white dress that shows no panty or bra lines … because she isn’t wearing any.

“We’re fine,” I say to dismiss her.

“So you’re ‘we’ now?”

God, the woman gets under my skin. She’s always trying to stir up gossip. Never mind that she’s right this time and there’s plenty of fodder surrounding Garrett at the moment. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one to feed it to her.

“I could’ve sworn I already explained to you the relationship between a nanny and the family she works for. But if you need me to go into it again…”

Fiona smirks and then opens her mouth, probably to give me some scathing reply, or worse, make a suggestive comment about my relationship with Garrett, when Abby says, “He’s teeing up.” She claps her hands, a wide grin on her face while she watches her father get ready to start this round. She’s far more enamoured of this game than I’ll ever be. Or maybe it’s him. That’s the only reason I’ve learned the little I have.

He glances our way, does a double take, and then straightens and steps away from the little white ball perched on the tiny bit of wood. Harry steps closer and says something, and Garrett thrusts the club at him, gestures wildly, then storms toward us.

“Get the fuck away from them,” he says to Fiona, stabbing his finger into her face. Her eyes widen while she moves her head like a chicken, like she’s trying to dodge his digit. “You better not have told her anything,” he says to me. “Our lives are private. It’s none of her goddamn business.”

“I didn’t—”

“We’re leaving,” he says, reaching for Abby and pulling her out of my arms.

“But the game—”

“Is going to suck. I’m done with this tournament. I can’t fucking concentrate.”

He starts to walk away, through the crowd that parts for him like he’s Moses. I catch a glimpse of malicious satisfaction on Fiona’s face. I need to call Callum as soon as I can and warn him that she’s brewing something and he needs to start working on damage control.

But first, I need to deal with my unhinged employer. Okay, maybe unhinged is a strong way to say he’s acting like a big, fat jerk. All I know is I just got chastised in public for something that wasn’t my fault, and it’s time for Garrett to learn a hard lesson in the proper way to treat … what? Women? Employees? Friends with benefits? Lovers? I wish we’d put a damn label on it so I know what to call myself in my own head.

I chase after him while he skirts around the clubhouse, even though it would be quicker to cut through. And then we’re standing on the sidewalk outside the main entrance. He turns to me and in measured tones says, “Where’s your valet ticket?”

“In my purse,” I snap.

“Can I have it?”

I glare at him.

“Please?”

Jerking the bit of paper out of my bag, I slap it into his hand. “What about your clubs?”

“Harry will take care of them.” His tone is clipped, short. Probably a good thing Fiona isn’t within striking distance. I’m pretty sure if Garrett had a club in his hand, he wouldn’t be whacking a ball with it.

Well, I’m angry too. He has no right accusing me of arranging for Abby to see her mother. I can’t believe he thinks so little of me, of my integrity. Not to mention my love for his child. She’s probably going to have nightmares now or, at the very least, be sad when we go home and she realizes she can’t see her mother again.

The rental car arrives, and Garrett belts Abby into the car seat while the valet holds open the passenger side door and I slide inside. And then we’re off down the long, winding drive, turning onto the road and heading toward our hotel. I can’t take the deafening silence any longer.

“You know, I didn’t do anything wrong back there. And I resent the fact you think I—”

“She’s mine,” he interrupts, staring straight ahead and flexing his hands on the steering wheel. “Morgan gave her to me.” His gaze flicks to the rearview mirror.

“She can’t have her back.”

I snap my head around and narrow my eyes and then whip back to glare out the side window. Damn it, it’s not even entirely his fault I’m so furious, although he definitely gets the bulk of the blame.

But it’s also about my history. My first nanny gig. And the biggest mistake of my life. While this affair with Garrett is different from what happened with Peter, there are also far too many similarities for my own personal comfort level. And I’m scared out of my mind that one of the media hounds—like Freaky Foot Fiona—will dig deep enough into the famous golfer’s nanny’s past and figure out that she’s been here before.

And that knowledge will not only ruin whatever he and I have going, it’ll also ruin him.