Page 51 of Doughn't Let Me Go

The bad news? I think I am too.

There’s a small, cruel part of me that hoped she’d be an awful nanny and I could fire her without feeling guilty.

But of course she’s not.

She’s fucking amazing.

Patient. Kind. Stern, yet soft. She’s helpful but also lets Kyrie have her independence. She doesn’t try to stifle my daughter’s unique sense of…well, self.

She’s perfect.

In the last week, the only time she’s done anything to even remotely piss me off was last night when she tried to retreat to her room for dinner, like we can’t eat together or some shit.

I put an end to it quickly, and we all had dinner together.

I stare out at the island counter where we ate with Kyrie sitting between us, laughing and teasing and having a good time.

There’s a twinge in my chest as I think about a time when that was normal for us. Me, Kyrie, and my ex.

But then she took off, leaving behind a single slip of paper on the counter.

And that was the end of everything normal I ever had.

I sip my coffee, letting the hot liquid burn my tongue, trying to zap myself back into reality.

“Good morning.”

Dory pads confidently into the kitchen, already dressed for the day. She’s wearing a t-shirt that’s too big—which is all she seems to own—with a pair of leggings, and her feet are bare, toenails pink.

Her still damp hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she’s not sporting an ounce of makeup.

Simple. Understated. All Dory.

When I heard her shower switch on this morning, my dick sprang to life. I had to imagine everything and anything to not think about her standing under the stream in all her naked glory.

It was hard—no pun intended—but I managed to talk my dick down and get dressed for the day. I thought maybe if I kept my mind occupied, my thoughts wouldn’t wander to the gorgeous woman now living in my home.

I was wrong.

She steps around me, reaching into the cabinet above the coffee machine for a cup.

Except she’s too short to get a grasp on one.

I start to move toward her, but she shoots me a gaze that saysI’m a strong independent woman who don’t need no man.

I get the message loud and clear.

No getting close.

Instead, I step away as she pulls herself onto the counter, snatches a mug, and hops back down with grace.

She busies herself filling it to the brim with caffeine. I like that she doesn’t use creamer, just one scoop of sugar. She doesn’t mess around. Coffee in hand, she takes a seat at the island.

I don’t know if she chose that spot on purpose, but the morning light glows around her like she was made to sit there.

When she brings the mug to her lips, I notice it’s a cup that used to belong to my ex. I make a note to throw it out and buy her a cup of her own.

Her birthday is coming up soon. A coffee mug is a safe gift for your employee who you also happened to do the naked tango with, right?

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