Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
The only problem is, she’s thinking it too. I don’t flirt, or fuck around, but I sure as shit know what it means when a woman is looking at me the way Riley is.
And that’s an even bigger problem. Me, I can control. Her, I’m not sure she can even control herself, so I sure as hell don’t have a shot at doing it successfully.
Slowly, her smile starts to return, but it’s not the silly, giddy one she wore a moment ago. Instead, this one is… sex. And it looks good on her. “Okay, Cameron… your turn.”
“Excuse me?”
“To let your inner tiger… ahem, I mean, Tyra… out to play.” I’m not sure that was actually a misspeak. It seemed quite intentional. So does the finger she teases along the bottom edge of her shirt before pointing at Grace’s skirt. If she’s explaining what she means, I’m still not understanding. I haven’t done a sewing project today, or ever, so I have nothing to showcase like them.
But Riley has plans for me.
She digs around in her bag of goodies from today, and I groan, first at the curve of her hips right in front of me, and then again when I deduce what she’s up to. “No way. They haven’t even been washed,” I argue, using the no-further-discussions tone that’s served me well in numerous boardrooms.
But when she holds up the godawful plaid pants and gives me a pleading look, I’m done for. Hell, she’s got me wrapped around her finger as much as Grace does. And that’s dangerous for us both. “Please.”
I knew I was fucked before she said that, but it’s a sure bet now. “Fine. Give them here,” I say, sounding annoyed even though I’m barely irritated.
For some reason, Riley’s eyes home in on my cheek and then the tiniest smirk steals her lips, like she knows I’m exaggerating my exasperation, which is unnerving. She doesn’t know me well enough to read me that easily. No one does. I redacted the pages of my soul and closed that book a long time ago. Or so I thought.
In the downstairs bathroom, I don’t allow myself the stroke I desperately want and I definitely don’t look at myself in the mirror, too afraid of what I’ll see—an old man who knows his priorities, and it’s not playing dress-up with a too-young, too-sexy nanny and his impressionable daughter. Instead, I choose to ignore it, living in the moment instead of the past or the future for just a small second. I deserve that, I tell myself, trying to sound convincing and failing. The past and the future are where my heart and my head stay, respectively.
When I come back out, Grace and Riley are sitting next to one another on the couch, staring at me expectantly. I don’t know what comes over me—it must be a spell or maybe I’m coming down with the flu—because when I see their excitement, I strut like I’ve never strutted before.
Straight-faced and stoic, with one hand in the pocket of the ridiculous pants that are at least six inches too short and with a waistband three inches too big, I stride across the room like they’re bespoke designer-wear. And all the while, Grace and Riley cheer and clap for me like I look amazing.
It’s silly. It’s fun. It’s completely ridiculous.
And I can’t remember the last time I felt like this… light.
That evening, long after our fashion show has ended and we’re back in regular clothes—which for me is jeans, for Grace is pajamas, and for Riley is sweats—Grace proclaims the early morning is catching up with her and informs us that she’s gonna head to bed. I think it’s more likely the copious amounts of leftover pizza she consumed for dinner, but I go upstairs to tuck her in.
Afterward, I’m cleaning up from dinner, putting plates into the dishwasher when Riley comes in. “I’m gonna make some tea. Want some?” She opens the cabinet, takes out a mug, and holds it up, waiting for my answer.
I don’t drink tea. For a long time, my daily nightcap was a heavy pour of scotch, or sometimes two, that I’d sip while feeling sorry for myself because of the unpredictable turn my life had taken. Eventually, I’d realized that I needed to cut back, for Grace’s sake, and for the last couple of years, I’ve limited myself to an occasional scotch with dinner or a tiny bit more when I have to deal with my family and their never-ending shenanigans.
“Sure,” I answer, not because I want tea but because I want the excuse to talk to Riley. I feel like I owe her an apology, or an explanation, or something after today. I swear I nearly had an apoplectic meltdown when Grace put that skirt on, and if Riley hadn’t been there to stop me, I probably would’ve given my daughter a complex about her body, her choices, and herself before I was done and not even known that I was doing it.