Page 33 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

Skylar

The sun glints off the water as I watch Lucas and Elodie splash in the pool, their laughter echoing across the manicured lawn. I dip my toes in, savoring the cool relief from the sweltering heat.

"Skylar, watch this!" Elodie calls out, her pigtails bouncing as she cannonballs into the deep end.

I clap and cheer, playing my part as the attentive nanny. It's become easier to slip into this role over the past week. No more surprise visits from psychotic exes or uncomfortable standoffs with Austin. Well, those haven't actually gone away completely.

"Quite the little fish, isn't she?" Birdie's voice drifts from the shade of a nearby oak tree. She's perched on a lounger, sipping lemonade and looking impossibly elegant despite the humidity.

"They both are," I reply, gesturing to Lucas as he perfects his backstroke. "I'm starting to think they're part mermaid."

Birdie chuckles, her silver hair catching the sunlight. "Oh honey, with their fathers' genes, I wouldn't be surprised if they sprouted gills and fins by puberty."

I roll my eyes, fighting back a smirk. "Don't give them any ideas, Birdie. I'm barely keeping up as it is."

"You're doing just fine, dear," she says, her tone softening as she looks at me with those wise, knowing eyes. "They adore you, you know."

A warmth spreads through my chest, unexpected and a little unsettling. I shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t let myself get attached. But I have. Slowly, day by day, these kids have chipped away at the walls I built around myself.

"It's just a job," I say, more to myself than to Birdie. But it’s a lie. A terrible, hollow lie. Because I adore them right back. And that terrifies me.

This is temporary though. Everything is temporary.

I might not even be living here by the time school starts. Birdie’s health might decline, or she could decide to sell the house and move down to Florida to live with her sister even if it doesn’t. Now that the seed has been planted, why wouldn’t she? Unlike me, she still has family that loves her, that wants her around.

If that happens, I’ll be left scrambling for new housing, starting over yet again.

And on a teacher’s salary, with barely any savings, the options aren’t great. I can’t afford much—just a shoebox apartment at best—and that’s if I can even find something close to the school. The idea of uprooting my life yet again, of saying goodbye to the small sense of stability I’ve managed to carve out here, sends a pang of dread through me.

I glance at Birdie, who’s humming to herself as she watches the kids, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in my mind. It’s all so fragile. My job. My home. This tenuous little family I’ve found myself a part of.

I need to remind myself not to get too comfortable, to keep my heart out of it. Because when it all falls apart—and it always does—I’ll be the one left to pick up the pieces.

"Skylar!" Lucas calls out, interrupting my brooding. "Can we turn on the sprinklers? Please?"

I nod, grateful for the distraction. As I walk over to the control panel, I catch sight of my reflection in the pool house windows. My chestnut hair is a mess of damp waves, my sundress clinging to my curves. For a moment, I barely recognize myself—this carefree version of me that's emerged over the past week.

The sprinklers burst to life, and the kids squeal with delight as they run through the spray. I can't help but laugh, their joy infectious.

"You know," Birdie says, appearing beside me with a knowing glint in her eye, "it's okay to enjoy yourself, Skylar. The world won't end if you let yourself be happy for a moment."

I bristle at her words, my walls slamming back into place. "I'm fine, Birdie. Really."

But as I watch the kids play, their faces alight with pure, unbridled joy, I can't help but wonder if maybe —just maybe—Birdie might be right.

With a sigh, I slip off my sundress that's covering my swimsuit and dip into the cool water. I can see the kids just fine from here and I need to cool my overheating mind.

As I drift lazily in the pool, my mind wanders to Cohen.

My standoffs with Austin might be less frequent, but Cohen and I? Our eyes have been meeting more frequently lately, charged with an electricity I can't quite explain. There's a flicker of recognition in his storm-blue gaze, as if he's trying to place a half-forgotten melody.

If only he knew.

My skin prickles with heat as memories of Vegas flood my senses. Two days of uninhibited passion, fueled by tequila andan intoxicating freedom I'd never known before. Cohen’s hands on my body, his rough fingertips exploring every inch of my skin. The way his lips trailed fire in their wake, setting off explosions of sensation that made me forget everything but him.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the vivid images to fade, but it’s no use. I can still hear the low rumble of his laugh, feel the press of his body against mine, and taste the salt of his skin. It was supposed to stay there, in Vegas, tucked away like a souvenir from a life that wasn’t really mine.

But now, every glance, every casual brush of his skin against mine, threatens to pull me under. And he obviously doesn’t remember a fucking thing.

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