Penthouse Prince(20)
As I dress her in pajamas, Grier says with big, solemn eyes, “My like Cor-gan lots.”
“Me too, baby girl,” I reply. Way too much.
“Say night-night?” Grier asks.
“Yeah, Corrigan has to go home. But we’ll . . .” There’s no guarantee we’ll see her soon, or ever again.
“No,” Grier says shrilly. “We give bye-bye!”
“Okay, sweetheart. Come on,” I say as I hoist her into my arms.
By the time I’ve reached the last stair, she’s already half asleep, her head heavy on my shoulder. I round the corner . . . and I’m astounded again. Everything is spotless and back in its proper place, except for the foil-covered plate she set out for me at the table, complete with silverware and a napkin.
Corrigan herself is waiting for me by the door with her purse. She looks beautiful.
I bring Grier close, and she reaches out to touch Corrigan’s arm.
“G’night,” Grier manages to mumble before her head drops back onto my shoulder, where she nestles in close, pressing her face to my neck.
“I’ll write you a check as soon as you decide your rate,” I whisper. And whatever figure she names, I’ll top it with a generous bonus. “I really can’t thank you enough for today. You seriously saved my skin.”
Corrigan runs her fingers through Grier’s hair. “It was no problem. I mean, when you first left, I kind of wanted to castrate you,” she whispers back, smiling. “But it was your mom. You couldn’t exactly ignore her. Besides . . . Grier is a really sweet little girl and we had a lot of fun today.”
“She is. She’s my whole world.” I hesitate, then think, Fuck it—nothing ventured, nothing gained, and take the leap. “And I need you, Corrigan. There’s no one else I’d trust.”
She looks away, swallows, and I’m so prepared to hear absolutely not that I almost don’t catch her murmuring, “I’ll do it. Text me the details.” And with that, she’s gone without another word.
I take Grier back upstairs, lay her gently in bed, and return to eat my dinner.
It’s the best spaghetti I’ve ever tasted.
9
* * *
CORRIGAN
Let me state the obvious—two-year-olds are a lot of work.
Don’t get me wrong, Grier is absolutely precious. Sure, it took a while for the shock of the whole situation to fade, but once I had her wandering along the beach with her tiny hand in mine and the other with a death grip on a strawberry ice cream cone, something in my brain just switched. Yes, I wanted to chop Lexington’s balls off the second he walked out the door, but by the end of the day, I was actually a little bummed to be leaving my new bite-sized bestie behind.
Of course, that went away the second I slid into the driver’s seat of my car, when exhaustion hit me like a freaking tidal wave. I’m talking about a level of tiredness that no amount of coffee from Lexington’s fancy new espresso machine could fix. The kind of exhaustion that makes you wonder if caffeine pills are such a bad idea and, more importantly, if Lexington is superhuman for doing this whole parenting thing all by himself.
How in the world is he managing to raise his daughter by himself while running such an enormous real estate business? And why is Grier’s mom not taking some of that responsibility off his hands?
My mind churns with questions the entire drive home. But by the time I step through my front door, there are only two things on my mind—my comfy pants and my bed.
Yes, it’s only eight p.m.
Yes, the sun is still out.
No, I do not care. Judge me if you must.
Between navigating awkward small talk with my ex and putting in a good six hours of emergency babysitting, I need a full eight hours of sleep more than I need oxygen right now. As I lug myself up the stairs, I picture a sleepy little Grier, nuzzled up in her daddy’s bulky arms, too tired to even say good-bye to me tonight. That’s how I feel right now. Only I don’t have a big strong man to carry me to bed. Just my two very exhausted legs.
Upstairs, I hurry through my bedtime routine, which includes a few additional steps tonight. It’s not every day I wash pasta sauce out of my hair and have to scrub finger paint from beneath my nails. I guess I should start getting used to this, though. I accepted this nannying job, after all.
Once I’m feeling fresh and clean again, I slip into a pair of comfy pajama pants and a tank top. Two seconds later, I’m beneath my fluffy white duvet, letting out an audible sigh of relief as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Time for some much-deserved me time. Maybe I should zone out and fall asleep watching some dumb reality show. Or I could finally start that book that’s been gathering dust on my nightstand.
But before I can make up my mind, my phone buzzes on my nightstand with a text from Lexington.
Are you sure you’re a teacher and not a chef?
My brows push together as I text back a string of question marks, but he replies right away with a spaghetti emoji, an equals sign, and a flame emoji.
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. So this is how we’re communicating now? Emojis?
I guess I’ll play along. Scrolling through my emoji keyboard, I hunt down the chef, the shrugging guy, and the girl tossing her hair. No use acting humble. My pasta game is killer.