Page 89 of The Nanny Goal

“I’m not sure I put the pots away in the right spot,” I confess as I lean back against the cushions. Her toes are a half foot away from me, and when I stretch my arm out across the back of the sofa, I almost reach her shoulder.

Almost, but not quite.

She slides a glance my way. “How do you not know where your own pots go?”

“I’m spoiled?”

Her eyes spark with undisguised amusement. “You think?”

I inch my fingers closer to her. “Come here.”

“Why, so you can undo my braids and kiss me again?” She catches her lower lip between her teeth, and fuck, yes, I want to do that. I think she wants me to as well.

But I need to do something else, first.

I snag one of her hair clips and flip it to the coffee table. “Nope.”

“You’re literally—” She gasps as I wrap my long arms around her and haul her up, pulling her onto my lap for a second, just a glorious fucking second where I feel the warm press of her ass against my thighs, and then I slide her to the floor in front of me.

She spins around and gapes at me. “What are you doing?”

I pluck the other clip and toss it to join its friend. “I want to learn how to braid hair. I know it’s asking you to help me again, but if you teach me now, then you won’t need to do Inessa’s hair when I’m here.”

Her expression softens. “You don’t need to do this. Your mom is going to be able to take that over soon enough.”

“I should be able to braid my daughter’s hair,” I say stubbornly. “And maybe learn where my own pots go, too.”

“Maybe,” she says dryly. “But I’ll warn you, it’s not as easy as it looks.”

That might be true, but actions speak louder than words, and apologies sound hollow when I try to justsaythem. I want to show her I can be better than she expects.

“I can stop a slap shot traveling a hundred miles an hour with two guys screening me. I can learn to braid.”

She smiles. This time it’s real. “Fair point.” She straightens out her head and shakes her hair with her fingers. “Okay, I’ll show you how I do it on myself, first. Your hands will be in different positions, but this is the basic pattern. Split the hair into three sections—like this—and then cross one of the outside pieces over the middle chunk, then under the opposite side. Always keep the tension even. And as you reset your hands, you draw a little more hair into the section that just did the braiding motion. Over, under, keep it tight. Add a bit. Over, under…”

I watch as she plaits a neat braid over the crown of her head and down, until there’s no more hair to add, and then she’s just twisting the three strands a few more times to complete the braid.

“Got it?”

“Umm…”

She laughs and shakes her hair loose again. “Let’s start with a simple braid, with just three sections, no adding hair.”

She shows me how she braids three pieces of hair together, then gets me to try with her hair.

My braid doesn’t look anything like hers. It’s loose in places, and lopsided as well.

“Tension is the game changer,” she says as she runs her fingers over my effort. “It’s…” She twists and looks up at me, then plants her hand on my thigh—whoa—and pushes herself up, climbing onto the couch. “Sit in front of me.”

“What are you…”

“I’m going to braid your hair so you can feel what I mean,” she says, shoving at my shoulder.

I slide to the floor and she scoots around behind me.

Her fingertips brush the back of my neck, and I go completely still.

“Relax,” she murmurs. “It doesn’t hurt.”

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