Chapter Seven

 

ERIN

 

“I believe Mr. Frost already explained his stance on girlfriends. And his nanny happens to have eight years’ experience and countless impeccable references,” I snap at the obnoxious reporter with handy feet.

She’s lucky I have eight years’ experience keeping my cool with immature people, although generally they’re under the age of ten. Otherwise, she might have found herself under the table by now, and not on her hands and knees, blowing Garrett’s mind with her lips instead of her feet.

I toss a glare at my employer while patting Abby’s back to ensure she stays asleep with her head resting against my shoulder. What the hell is he thinking? This whole masquerade was contrived to convince the paparazzi that he is exactly not the type of guy who’d enjoy a ball massage under the table while holding his slumbering daughter in his arms.

“You’re awfully comfortable for being the hired help,” the snotty female reporter tosses out while the guy stuffs his recorder into the inner pocket of his blazer and makes a swift exit. I’m sure he wants no part of this uncomfortable exchange.

I bet his article will do nothing but improve Garrett’s questionable public image. I appreciate his integrity. Makes me want to give him some kind of exclusive story. Maybe I’ll talk Garrett into letting Kalvin join us when Abby practices her swing.

Meanwhile, it’s time to deal with the trash.

“You’ve obviously never had experience with the type of families who hire live-in nannies. If you did, you’d know how important, how special that bond is. How close the family becomes. I’m helping Garrett raise his child. She’s like a daughter to me.” Shit, I should add that it hurts like someone scooping out my heart with a spoon each time I’ve had to walk away from the kids I’ve taken care of. But I can’t seem to formulate the words that will make this about my livelihood, not about being Garrett’s nanny.

“Oh?” The woman arches painted on brows, which carves unattractive lines into her forehead, while her gaze shifts to Garrett. He’s standing next to me, staring at me like he doesn’t quite comprehend my words.

“Does that mean her father is like a husband to you?” Snarky Woman asks, and if I didn’t have Abby in my arms, I’d throat punch her. This chick has no idea how lucky she is right now. Not only did she get to feel up Garrett with her toes, but she’s gonna get to walk away in one piece, too.

“Let’s go, Erin,” Garrett says, his hand on my back, exerting enough pressure that I stumble forward a few steps. He doesn’t let up, and I’m propelled toward the ballroom door, and then we’re out in the lobby and he’s stalking up to the coat check. When he returns, he drapes Abby’s coat over her back and wraps mine around my shoulders, pulling the lapels together around both Abby and I.

I glance up at him through my lashes. As much as I want to smack him upside the head over the whole footsy thing, this small gesture of consideration also makes me want to lean forward and kiss him. But he’s my boss, not my date. Our purpose here is to show the media what a good dad he is. His nanny kissing him in the lobby isn’t exactly conducive to fixing his bad boy image.

He catches my eye and stares back for several heartbeats until he finally breaks the connection and mumbles something about flagging down a cab.

And then we’re settled in the backseat, Abby sound asleep between us. I tug at the hem of my dress, which is trying to creep up my thigh. Garrett shifts in his seat while his gaze keeps drifting to my legs.

“What the hell was that little exchange with Fiona?” he asks, cutting through the Hindi pop music blaring through the speakers.

“I should ask you the same thing.”

“All I did was answer a reporter’s questions. You were practically challenging the woman to a cage match.”

“All you did?” I lift my brows and strive for a cool look as the driver pulls up in front of Garrett’s building and shifts the car into park. While Garrett pays the guy, I scramble out and turn to reach for Abby. But he already has her and is heading for the elevator. We don’t speak again until we’re zooming up to his apartment.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he says, glaring at me.

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know. Hell, if she’d kept it up another few minutes, you would have had to figure out how to hide a dark stain on the front of your pants.”

His glare shifts to surprise as the doors whoosh open. I step into the hall and head toward his apartment while digging my keys out of my purse. I can hear him following me, but I don’t turn around or otherwise acknowledge him. Right now, I just want to escape to my bedroom, to separate myself from him and all the annoying feelings he stirs up inside me.

Before I can stab my key into the lock, he’s so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Abby’s back brushes mine when he reaches around me and uses his own key to unlock the door and push it open.

“I thought it was you,” he says so low I’m not sure I heard him right. My heel catches as I try to cross the threshold into his apartment, and he reaches out and grabs my arm to keep me from falling.

I whirl around. “You—you—”

“Let me put her to bed,” he cuts across my stuttering. I stand there watching his retreating back. I want to rush to my bedroom, but what if he comes in after me? I’m not sure conversing with a bed in the immediate vicinity is a good battle strategy on my part.

He thought it was me?

“Yes,” he says, returning to the foyer sans a sleeping Abby. “I thought it was you. I didn’t realize it was Fiona until you stood up.”

“I stood up because I figured out what was happening, and…”

“And what?”

“And I was jealous.” I can’t believe I just admitted that to him. This would be a hell of a lot easier if it were about him ruining the steps we’d taken to improve his bad boy image.

“You were?” He tugs at his tie, freeing it from his neck and draping it around his shoulders. Then he takes my coat and hangs it next to his in the front closet. Turning around to face me, he adds, “Really?”

Slipping off my heels, I roll my eyes and head to the kitchen. This conversation is probably better had over a drink. He trails behind me.

“What’s your poison?” I ask.

“You.”

“Stop.”

“Fine. Jamison. Top shelf, to the left of the fridge. Are you drinking with me?”

“Most definitely.” I splash amber liquid into two glasses and hand one to him. He tosses back half his drink while I sip more sedately.

“We need to talk.”

“Clearly.”

“Erin, look. I—”

Lifting my hand, I cut him off. “Look, Garrett, this hasn’t happened since my first job. Maybe that’s because they always end up finding out. I don’t know. I mean, we haven’t been together that long—er, I haven’t worked for you for that long. I didn’t expect any of this to happen.” Screw sipping. I take a slug from my glass.

“I understood pretty much nothing you just said.”

Leaning against the island, I stare down at my drink. “We need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“This.” I wave my hand between the two of us. “I’m not going to sleep with you.” Maybe if I say it out loud, it will stay true.

He drives a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end, much like I suspect it would look after a vigorous round of sex. With some other woman. Would he have gone home with Fiona if I hadn’t interrupted his ball massage?

“I keep forgetting you have a boyfriend,” he says.

Shit. Me too.

“It’s not even about that. It’s about…” Part of me wants to tell him about my colossal fuck-up, so he’ll understand why I cannot possibly cross that line with him. But I don’t want him to think of me that way. I’m not that woman who sleeps with men because of their status or money, even if it sure as hell seems like that’s who I’m attracted to.

“It’s about Abby,” he says. “I get it. But I still want you, even though I know I shouldn’t.”

I stare at the floor and don’t tell him I want him, too. He doesn’t need to know that. What good would it do? “The best thing for Abby—for all of us—is if you and I can agree to just be friends.”

I can’t believe I’ve managed to say the words without stuttering or swallowing my tongue or laughing hysterically at the absurdness of that statement. Because the last thing I want to do is be friends with the sexy daddy I work for.

Not unless that friendship comes with benefits.