Page 53 of The Overtime Kiss

My finger hovers over it, and I almost,almost,do it.

But I catch myself then yank out my earbuds and put the phone on do not disturb. It’s me who shouldn’t disturb the phone—not the other way around.

I let out a long sigh in the dark, flip over, and pound my pillow a few times. “Get over it, man,” I mutter.

But it takes me longer to fall asleep than it should as visions of the woman living under the same roof dance in my head.

I can balance on the edge of a blade while slamming a puck into the net. But climbing a ladder in my kid’s bedroom? While the stunning new nanny hands me sun and moon stickers?

That’s an entirely new feat of strength.

It’s not because of the ladder. The ladder is fine. The problem is in my pants.

I am that guy now.

That asshole who gets borderline aroused by his kids’ nanny’s baby tee as it rises up, revealing her stomach.

Am I obsessed with her stomach?

Don’t answer that, brain. Just don’t answer it.

But my unhelpful brain supplies the answer anyway:You’re obsessed with all of her. Including that belly button ring you just noticed.

And the problem is, it’s making me wonder if she has other piercings. Where they might be. If they’re part of what she wanted me to explore.

Thank god I havesomedick control though. Enough that I’m not sporting wood in my kid’s bedroom. For fuck’s sake, ifthat ever happens, I’ll have to hang a shame sign around my neck, like a dog who ate his owner’s underwear.

Fortunately, Parker and Sabrina are oblivious to my libido’s plight. They’re busy sorting through the packs of stickers, and handing me moons and stars. Parker’s chattering nonstop about astronomy facts while Sabrina hums under her breath, seeming completely at ease. I force myself to focus on their conversation instead of her stomach.

“Do you think this is Betelgeuse?” Sabrina asks Parker as she hands me a sticker with five points even though she’s not on the clock today.

“No, I don’t think it’s the right size,” Parker says with the authority of an amateur astronomer. “We need a bigger one.”

“Well, you’d better find it,” Sabrina says, urging him along. “It’s really important to put it on the ceiling. Also, I think you should add the Andromeda Galaxy and the Milky Way Galaxy, so you can be prepared for their collision.”

He rolls his blue eyes, but it’s playful, not patronizing. “Okay, those are way too big to represent with stickers,” Parker says.

“I don’t know. That seems like a challenge you’d definitely be up for. Come on, Mister Lego,” she teases.

“Oh, those are fighting words,” I say.

This is helping matters. This back-and-forth between the two of them is helping. Because I’m focused on that now, instead of the way she looks—entirely too tempting in baggy jeans and a short white shirt.

Parker hands me more stickers and tells me where to place them. I follow his instructions religiously, stretching to reach the ceiling while craning my neck to make sure I get the placement right. This repetitive task is far more helpful to my overactive libido than looking at Sabrina.

But an hour later, with a crick in my neck and a ceilingcovered in stars, I climb down and find myself face-to-face with her again.

Wincing as the pain shoots through me, I stretch my neck from side to side. Sabrina flashes me a quizzical look while Parker admires the ceiling. “Are you okay?” she asks, her eyes full of concern.

“I’m fine,” I say, rubbing my hand against the back of my neck where a dragon’s laid an egg, “but I have a new sympathy for Michelangelo now.”

“Aren’t you a Renaissance daddy,” she says, then pats my shoulder.

Hello, zing. That is not supposed to feel so good.

I am a grown man. A father. And I’m affected by my kids’ nanny like a fucking thirteen-year-old boy. But I practice my vaunted dick control, imagining—who would have thought this would be a boner killer—skate blades.

Ha. Take that, hormones. You’re not going to get the best of me.

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