Anxiously, I chew on my bottom lip as I wait for Declan to answer, feeling a little awkward.
Maybe I should have declined.
I should have texted my sister.
A few seconds later, we’re standing face-to-face, and a lopsided smirk pulls at his lips when he sees me. Pushing the door open further, he steps to the side for me to walk through. “Hey. Come on in.”
“Thanks.” My purse lands in its normal spot as I drop it to the floor once I’m inside.
“How was your test?” There’s a soft click from the deadbolt engaging, then Declan turns to face me.
My eyes sweep over him, taking him in as if this is the first time I’m seeing him. In a way, it is the first time I’m seeing him like this—off the clock. With a dish towel slung over his shoulder, he’s relaxed, wearing a gray T-shirt and dark wash jeans, with his feet bare.
The scent of garlic and rib-eyes waft in from the kitchen, and I lick my lips, although I might have done that because he looks so damn good right now.
Realizing my thoughts have run away with my libido, I try to hide the extended silence with a nonchalant shrug. “It was good, I’m pretty confident I passed.”
“That’s great.” He tugs the dish towel from his shoulder and spins it. “Make yourself comfortable—Sail’s in her playroom if you want to say hi, but,” he pauses, choosing his words carefully, “you’re not here as her nanny, so don’t feel like you have to work...” His voice lowers as he trails off. When our eyes idle, my pulse jumps in the hollow of my throat at the palpable tension between us.
I smile, shoving my hands into my pockets, suddenly feeling like I need to do something with them. “Everything smells amazing. Can I do anything to help?”
“Nope. Not at all. Dinner will be ready in about twenty, I’m just finishing up the potatoes.” Declan winks. He. Freaking. Winks. And my panties incinerate. “Go take a load off.”
Who is this man?
With another hearty grin, he stalks back into the kitchen, and I fear I might fall in love by the end of the night.
Or worse. Fall into his bed.
No. I won’t let that happen.
Hewouldn’t let that happen.
There’s a split second, though, where I feel a twinge of awkwardness not knowing if I should follow him and continue to make polite conversation, or head into Sailor's playroom to check on her.
As much as I want to follow after Declan, I know I need to go say hi. Even the thought of being here without acknowledging her feels wrong—so I make my way down the hall, my steps slow as I take my time and lazily walk the path I hustle down so often.
The Lane house is stunning, and honestly, I’m understating its beauty with the termhouse. In my opinion, his home is what I’d call a mini mansion, and Declan has decorated it modestly, but inverygood taste. It’s no secret he has money, and while I don’t know his net worth, Idoknow he earns a pretty penny as a coach, and that his family comes from old money.
I read somewhere that the Bears team owner went out of pocket to supply the team with better gear this year, including big salary bumps foreveryone. Despite the Bears being under better ownership, it’s also incredibly apparent they’re in good hands with Declan as their coach too. Already the hype around the Bridge Point Bears has skyrocketed in comparison to last year.
Prior to taking the nanny job I did a little research on my boss and learned Declan’s father owns a baseball team out in New York, and his grandfather was one of the most sought-after pitchers back in his day, and resides in the hall of fame.
The Lane family bleeds baseball.
When I turn the corner into Sailor’s playroom, the familiar sound of her favorite Barbie movie plays in the background while she tinkers with a tea set at her small table. Leaning against the doorframe, I watch her and admire how well she navigates independent play, letting her imagination thrive.
After a few more seconds, she notices me and her face beams. Returning her smile, I cross the room and sink down onto myknees in the soft, plush carpet. “Hi, sweet girl. What are we playing? Tea party?”
Her little head nods enthusiastically, her soft brown ponytail wildly spinning. “Yes! Want some tea?” She holds out the floral plastic tea kettle.
“Why, that would be amazing!” I say in my most proper voice.
Sailor clanks the spout against the teacup and pretends to pour, then thrusts the cup into my face. “Here you go!”
“Oh gosh, this looks delicious.” I bring the cup and hover it above my lips, making loud slurping sounds while pretending to drink. In true tea party fashion, my pinky is extended, too. Sailor mirrors my movements—down to the pinky, and together we drink our imaginary tea.
“This is the most delicious peppermint tea I’ve ever tasted, Sailor. Thank you.”
