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)
I’m a good father. I make sure of it. But what Riley said and did today? That was on a whole different level, one I’ve never known existed. But now that I do, I have an entirely new goal to strive for, and if there’s one thing I’m skilled at, it’s meeting and exceeding my goals. I take that shit seriously.
I also give myself a stern talking to about the fashion show moment that flashed hot and then turned down to a bare simmer over the rest of the evening. This little tete-a-tete needs to remain polite and professional, with nothing remotely inappropriate said or done on either side. Rules and responsibilities are the name of the game.
You think she’s wearing a bra beneath her sweatshirt?
You know she’s not.
Motherfucker. Shut that shit up right now, Harrington. Get your head out of your ass, or more accurately, out of her shirt, and focus on the proper things—thanking Riley for today.
She grabs another mug, fills them with water from the fridge, and then puts them into the microwave, setting it for two minutes. Leaning back on the counter, she shrugs. “I know it’s not ideal, but I never had a kettle and got used to microwaving the water.”
“It’s fine by me.” I’m not sure I’d know the difference, anyway.
We wait, with only the whirring sound of the microwave to break the silence. When it beeps, Riley jumps to open the door and carefully removes one cup, then the other. “Chamomile?”
I nod in agreement, and she drops a tea bag into each mug.
“Want to sit out back?” I flip a switch by the sliding door, and the porch is illuminated by dim lighting.
She follows me outside, and I slide the door closed behind us, letting her choose a seat first. She curls up in the corner of the big sectional couch, tucking her legs underneath her and snuggling in. I choose the opposite end, sitting as far away as I can. For both our sakes.
She blows on her tea, peering at me over the edge of her mug, and I take a sip. It’s hot, scalding my tongue and burning all the way down my throat. The little flash of pain helps me focus and I admit, “Today was a good day. Thanks to you.”
A tiny smile tilts Riley’s lips up, and she teases, “So you didn’t ask me out here to yell at me?”
I huff out an unexpected laugh. “No, definitely not. If anything, I owe you an apology and my undying gratitude.”
“Today was no big deal,” she says with a shrug, though she seems relieved that I’m not shouting at her, which shocks me because the thought never crossed my mind. I’ve been thinking quite the opposite, that I don’t think we could go back to life with anyone else as our nanny. “I appreciate your letting Grace go shopping with me. I am sorry she woke you up” —her eyes unconsciously drop to my chest, and I wonder if she’s thinking about this morning the way I am— “and forced you to go along. You could’ve used the sleep, and I’m sure you had other things to do.”
Some people would say that with a questioning tone, like they want the personal details of your life without asking outright for them. But Riley says it with a period, a simple statement, not interrogating me for more, and her look is even, like she doesn’t expect me to give her some grand revelation.
Which is somehow more compelling, so I share, “I usually just hang out with Grace on the weekends. I’m pretty chill.”
“You think you’re chill?” The disbelief is evident in her tone, and when I nod, she laughs outright. “You are the most unchill person I think I’ve ever met.”
I’m unexpectedly hurt by her words, though I’m not exactly sure why. I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me. I sure as shit don’t care what anyone else thinks, and I’m paying Riley to be here so her opinion should matter even less.
But it does matter, a lot.
“What do you usually do on weekends, then? Go out and party?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them because they bring to mind a vision of Riley in a club-worthy dress and heels, going out with friends, dancing and drinking and having a good time. That’s what she should be doing at her age, but it doesn’t sit right with me for some reason. Probably because in the vision, she’s not wearing any of her jewelry or unusual clothes and is instead in a dress not much longer than the skirt I deemed criminally short today. The difference is, Riley would look good in something like that with her curves, because while she might be small-chested, her hips and butt are full, round, and decidedly gripable, and I’ve recently discovered I might be an ass man.