Page 7 of Mountain Daddy
Celia lets out a tiny, nervous laugh. I clear my throat, rubbing the back of my neck like a guilty teenager.
The drawing shows three stick figures holding hands under a giant Christmas tree. One of the figures is labeled “Daddy,” another “Me.” And the last one, written in my daughter’s signature blocky scrawl: Celia
My chest twists.
“That’s… great, bug,” I manage.
Celia looks like she might actually melt into the floor.
“Okay,” Celia says, clapping her hands, cheeks bright with color. “Bedtime routine?”
Elsie cheers and darts down the hall.
Celia gives me a quick glance — anxious, sweet, flustered — then heads after her.
I stand there gripping the edge of the sink, breathing like someone just punched me.
Holy hell.
I almost kissed her.
I wanted to.
Istillwant to.
And that’s the exact reason I need to keep myself together. She’s my daughter’s teacher. My temporary nanny. The woman my kid has grown attached to.
A woman who could break both of our hearts if I’m not careful.
Celia steps out of Elsie’s room, pulling the door shut gently behind her. The soft glow from the Christmas lights strung along the hall paints her in warm gold.
“She’s out,” Celia whispers.
I nod. “Always crashes hard after a storm.”
We stand there in the quiet. Too close. The tension humming between us like a live wire.
Suddenly, Celia’s expression shifts.
“Oh,” she says softly. “Where should I… uh… sleep?”
The question hits me square in the gut.
Because the truth is, I’ve been thinking about it all damn evening.
About her warm body in my space.
About her scent lingering on my pillows.
About her curling up behind my bedroom door.
Too close.
Too real.
Too damn tempting.
I swallow hard. “I?—”
