Page 68 of The Nanny Goal

The problem is it also feels wrong to carry my daughter away from the big, warm bed where her babysitter sleeps.

In an alternate universe, I should have every right to slide into bed next to them in the middle of the night, and hold them both tight.

CHAPTER22

EMERY

I wake up before Inessa, and there’s a bit of victory in starting the day with a minute to myself.

I slowly blink the sleep away, the ceiling coming into focus, as I listen for the usual rustling from her room. Nothing yet. No babbling. No footsteps.

Then I remember that we’ve been sleeping in Alexei’s bed and she should be right beside me, but when I look sideways, she’s not.

I jerk upright, then dash to the hallway, where I skid to a halt.

Alexei’s at the top of the stairs—barefoot, shirtless, and staring at me with an intensity that takes my breath away.

“You’re home,” I say inanely, because of course he is. I even knew that he would be, but I’d been so tired last night that I forgot. And it’s embarrassing how excited I sound, how relieved I am to see him.

His gaze flares. Too hot for this early in the morning.

Warning. Danger.

I break the invisible connection between us and look down, but that just lands my attention on where his sweatpants ride low on his hips, where shadows tease at the edge of hard, lean muscles I’ve never seen before, because when we?—

He never?—

I take a step back.

“You were dead to the world when I got in,” he says softly. “I moved Inessa, then crashed in my parents’ room.”

Because I was in his bed.

Heat swarms through me, and he notices.

His gaze drops to my chest, where I’m sure I’m turning red, then slides up my neck, lingering on my mouth, before finally meeting my eyes again. “She’s still sleeping. I was going to start coffee.”

“Good idea,” I whisper.

Neither of us moves.

And my fucking nipples tighten.

No, nipples. Don’t betray me now.

“I’ll just…” I cross my arms over my chest. “I need a sweater. I’ll, um…”

He watches as I slide past him.

The space between us feels charged with electricity. Like something could spark if either of us breathes too hard.

It’s so intense, so immediate, that I don’t know how I thought I could ever maintain an arms-length professional relationship with him.

What have I gotten myself into? And how many days until he leaves on the next road trip?

In my temporary room, I cross to the reading chair in the corner that has turned into my temporary clothes storage device and grab a Minnesota hoodie, one of my faves. Oversized, well-worn, and most importantly, nothis.

I don’t look at the carefully folded stack of two Artyomov jerseys I’ve tucked onto a shelf.

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