Page 75 of Nanny for the Protector

I looked up at the golden statue of the goddess Diana that the whole room revolved around. “What could be more than this?”

I felt Wesley grab my hand and immediately snapped my attention back to him. His thumb slid all the way to my wrist, feeling the chain of my bracelet.

His thoughtful brown eyes lingered on the butterfly and then looked back to me. “The world, Cara. That’s what you deserve.”

Only a moment later, a waitperson came to pour our champagne and serve our first course. The dinner was lavish and must have cost a small fortune between the caviar and champagne alone. But I let myself indulge and tried to lean on Wesley’s words.

He believed I deserved the world. Maybe I should start believing in that for myself.

The conversation at first was stilted by nerves, both of us thrilled to be there with one another and also terrified to say the wrong thing. I didn’t want to reveal how much I cared. After all, before he’d broken my heart, I’d been ready to tell him I loved him.

Once we overcame the nerves, though, it was just…us. Wesley and Cara. The way we bantered, the flirtations, the ease of conversation, even when the subject might not have been the most comfortable.

We avoided the subject of Lisbeth entirely, though. The day before had been traumatic at best. But I had to ask about Lucy, at the very least.

“She should be having the best night of her life. First sleepover with my friend’s kids. I was worried she might get nervous and not want to spend the night, but she handled it better than I did,” Wesley said anxiously.

“Worrying, are we?”

Wesley sighed but smiled. “Always.”

I rubbed my foot on his leg softly. Wesley reached down and grabbed my ankle, squeezing it gently.

My heart raced and my posture stiffened.

Wesley’s eyes locked on mine as his hand began to trace the line of my ankle and calf back and forth. “That dress looks fucking incredible on you.”

I pulled on my sleeve subconsciously. “Oh, you think so?”

“Absolutely.”

“My sister — I mean…my assistant helped me pick it out.”

Wesley gave me a wry grin. “Oh, asisterassistant, is it?”

I picked up my glass of champagne. “I like to keep work in the family.” I eyed him over the rim of my glass and then took a sip.

Our dinner was mostly finished at this point, so Wesley asked me if I’d like to take a walk through the galleries. How could I say no to a private visit to the Met? Every visit I’d made previously was accompanied by narrowly avoiding stampedes of tourists and trying to peek over shoulders to see pieces of art.

Plus, a little walk through the quiet galleries with Wesley seemed ideal.

To be honest, though, I wasn’t looking at much of the art. I was happy to be distracted by Wesley’s company. Trading stories and thoughts on the art around us, while we strolled closer and closer together, until Wesley grabbed my hand.

Hand-holding, somehow, was more intimate than all the times we had been in bed together. This felt more purposeful, less impulsive.

We strolled until coming to a stop before a painting. Wesley pointed to it. “What do you think of this one?”

I took in the image: a young child leaning on her mother’s lap, looking right at the viewer as the mother sewed. “Young Mother Sewingby Mary Cassatt. Well, she really knows how to get the point across with those titles, huh?”

Wesley didn’t reply. I glanced up at him. His jaw was tight, expression stoic as he took in the painting and all it meant to him.

I tightened my grip on his hand. “Wesley?”

“Hmm? Sorry.” He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to the floor.

It was like I could read his mind. A mother and a child, seemingly the most implicit relationship in the world. The one thing that seemed to be innate, yet, Wesley had witnessed crumbling again and again. I pulled myself closer to him, tucking our clasped hands near my hip. “Hey. Yesterday was tough.”

“Mm-hmm. Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

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