Page 5 of Faking it with the Billionaire
I clear my throat and head out of the security office, leaving her alone. If Declan trusts her, then I should as well. Besides, she’s here to help, not make my life more complicated.
The heat dissipates the farther I am from Emerson. I stalk to the kitchen, open the fridge, and grab a bottle of water. I twist the cap off and turn around, glancing at the entrance of the kitchen. Emerson seems to have followed behind me.
I didn’t hear her leave the security office.
I didn’t even hear her footsteps against the wooden floorboards. I blame it on being distracted. Not that I need to listen for where Emerson goes, but I thought she’d be playing with the surveillance equipment a little while longer.
And I really don’t want her to see the tent I’m pitching. Thankfully, the counter is in the way to combat my embarrassment.
Hockey.
Pucks.
Anything to make me think about something other than what’s under Emerson’s damp clothes. And her nipples have made a grand appearance through her shirt.
But I open my mouth, and I can’t stop myself. My filter tonight seems to be broken. “You’re still wet,” I say.
Her brow furrows, and there’s that sexy little head tilt again.
“It’s just from the rain. I won’t melt.”
“You should dry off. You’re no good to me if you get pneumonia,” I say.
She bites down on her bottom lip, and I can’t tell if she’s holding back or if something else is going on inside her head.
Did Declan send me Emerson as a joke? We go way back and have a history together. He’s well aware of my situation with my daughter. I don’t date anyone because Bristol is my entire universe. I don’t want to bring someone into my life who is going to fuck things up with my kid.
And just being in Emerson’s vicinity lights a fire inside me that I hadn’t realized had been extinguished.
Hockey.
Mouthguards.
Penalty boxes.
Sports references aren’t helping in the slightest. The thought of Emerson at a game, wearing nothing but a jersey, flitters through my mind as she bends over in the penalty box, teasing me.
For fuck’s sake, I need an ice bath. Not even a cold shower will help me come down from this high I have around her.
And we just met.
“Daddy!” Bristol tears down the stairs, her footfalls not the least bit silent.
I glance at the clock. She should be in bed asleep.
There’s little chance that Emerson or I woke her. We’ve been quiet enough that sound isn’t traveling into my daughter’s bedroom upstairs.
She runs into the kitchen, breezing past Emerson, and throws her arms up in the air for me to catch her.
“What are you doing awake?” I ask, lifting her into my arms.
“I had a bad dream,” Bristol says, wrapping her arms around my neck as I cuddle her.
I rub her back, and her head falls against the crook of my neck.
She sniffles. Her cheeks are red, her eyes matching with dried tears that have recently streaked across her face. “Are you my new nanny?” Bristol asks, turning her head just enough to meet Emerson’s gaze.
Emerson opens her mouth, and I stop her before she can explain anything to my six-year-old daughter.
