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)
Very recently discovered—as in this morning when I saw Riley scurrying down the hallway in black leggings that hugged her just right. I mean, wrong! Because I don’t see her that way. Riley is my nanny, nothing more, and I don’t know where these thoughts are coming from.
I shift on the couch, placing an ankle on my knee and yelling at my brain to behave appropriately.
“I’ve never been a partier. Didn’t have the luxury of throwing away money like that,” she says, not sounding bitter, but maybe a little sad.
“Partying isn’t a luxury,” I reply. “It’s a waste of time, a waste of your life, and yeah, a waste of money.”
She blinks at my hostility, and I sigh, struggling to get my emotions in check, though I’m not sure why they’re all over the place to begin with.
Emotions? Pretty sure you mean your dick, asshole.
I’m a good-looking man. I know that. And I’m in great shape, especially for my age. That does not mean I should be getting random, uncontrollable erections around a woman I have no business seeing as anything other than an employee.
Maybe I need a release? The last few weeks have been filled with more pressure than usual, and while I’ve maintained my typical habit of a morning jack-off session, sometimes I need a bit more. Like this morning, because in addition to her ass in those leggings, catching Riley open-mouthed ogling my chest had me nearly bolting for the shower. And now, after the peek at her breasts, I’m on edge again and will likely need to fuck my hand before I can sleep.
But while I’m having a discussion with my dick, Riley is waiting for me to explain why I feel so vehemently about partying. Since I can’t explain my dress-vision, I go with another truth. “I partied a bit too much in college.” Thinking back, I share, “It was my first time away from home and the pressure of being the golden child, and I rebelled a bit too much. Took me until Thanksgiving to realize that if I didn’t get my shit straight, I’d be headed right back to that madhouse.”
“You rebelled for three whole months?” she gasps, dramatically putting a hand to her chest, and I long to replace her hand with my own, let it trace down the flat of her sternum and detour over to pluck at her nipples. I wonder if they’re as pink as her hair. Unaware of the traitorous turn my mind has taken, she taunts, “Let me guess, keg stands at frat parties, treating sorority girls like shit, and failing your classes? Oh, no, the absolute horror!”
“Something like that,” I admit, and though she lifts her tea, it doesn’t hide the small smile stealing across her lips.
She acts like that’s not so bad, but it was way worse than she’s making it sound. My only saving grace is that it was ages ago, a near-lifetime. For me.
For her?
Peering at her curiously, I ask, “Can I ask how old you are?” I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Mostly, I think I want to use the information to yell at myself and shut down this unexpected reaction I'm suddenly having to her.
“Twenty-five, but they’re hard years, and I started out an old soul to begin with, so they basically count as dog years, which makes me… doo-doo-doo-doo… 175 years old. You?” She actually makes the calculator sound, typing the numbers in the air as she does the mental math, which amuses me.
“Thirty-seven, but the last nine have been rough, so they’re the equivalent of a thousand.”
She nods like that makes perfect sense to her. “Two old fogeys, sipping tea at nine o’clock on a Saturday. Whoo-hoo!” she jokes, lifting her mug in the air as a toast. From across the couch, I lift mine in salute, and she makes a clinking sound before drinking again.
The silence between us feels more comfortable now, and after a few minutes, I ask, “Is being an old soul what makes you so good with Grace?”
She stares into her tea, and I almost regret asking, but finally, she says, “No, I’m good with kids because of the hard years.”
I don’t press her. I know what it’s like to have people demand your deepest, darkest, most painful thoughts and feelings like they have any right to them simply because they’re curious. Plus, she’s already shared something heavy today, and I imagine that’s still weighing on her. There’s always a rebound when you dig up old skeletons, which is why I like to leave them buried too. “Sorry, you don’t have to explain.”
She pulls her legs underneath her a little tighter, like she’s getting as close to the fetal position as she can to comfort herself. “It’s fine. I can talk about it, and you deserve to know who’s spending time with your daughter.” But then she swallows thickly like the words won’t come. After a long minute, she says, “Growing up, I never had a dad and my mom passed when I was five. I spent the next ten years in foster care, with around a dozen placements over that time. In each one, even when I was young, I took care of the other kids. It’s like that’s what I was meant to do, you know?”