Penthouse Prince(24)
Corrigan glances at me, a smile still pulling at her lips. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just, I guess some things never change. You always did love the beach.”
She gives me a strange look. “You seem to remember an awful lot about me.”
My tongue is suddenly tangled with itself. “Well, you made a big impression on me.”
She quickly turns away. Her cheeks seem pink, and I can’t tell if it’s anger, or just the sun, or something else I don’t dare to name.
No, it can’t be that last one. I can hear her voice in my head as clearly as if she’d spoken aloud. Evidently not a big enough impression to make you stay.
But what if that isn’t how she feels? We never did get anywhere conclusive about that part of our past. Maybe she’s forgiven me—well, probably not, but accepting my apology and moving on from it seems within the realm of possibility. She did listen to what I had to say, and she agreed to work for me.. it’s something I guess.
Mentally, I shake my head. It’s not like I can ask her outright to confirm whether this is just wishful thinking or not. If I’m wrong, it’ll ruin the tentative truce between us and send us back to square one. Besides, what difference does it make whether she likes me or just tolerates me because I’m paying her to look after my daughter? Everything is different now. Our relationship is strictly professional.
Well, on my end, it’s far from that. I can’t lie to myself about the way my body reacts to the sight of Corrigan’s bare legs, her curves, her smile, her dark blond hair shining in the sun. Even just her eyes meeting mine sparks electricity down my spine and straight into my groin.
But professional is what it should be. That’s what’s best for Grier.
This silence has stretched on too long. I cover up the awkward moment by asking, “Are you getting hungry?”
Corrigan shrugs. “I could eat.” She looks to Grier, her mouth quirking. “How about you, little architect? Break for lunch, or keep bringing your artistic vision to life?”
Grier stares at her, then at the castle. “Want food now.” She drops her toys and toddles off toward the picnic basket.
Corrigan laughs and, getting to her feet, scoops my sleepy angel into her arms. “No? You’re not tired at all, not even the littlest tiny bit?”
“Huh-uh.” Grier shakes her head lazily, her lashes fluttering.
Corrigan winks at me, and oh God, it does way too much to all my organs, but I take it for the purely practical cue she almost certainly meant it as. I gather up the basket, the blanket, and all of Grier’s stuff, and start back to the parking lot as Corrigan follows with Grier.
By the time I’ve unlocked the car, Grier is down for the count, her head lolling heavily on Corrigan’s shoulder. She only lets out a barely audible mumble, popping her thumb into her mouth as Corrigan maneuvers her into her seat like a rag doll and buckles her up.
At home, when I take Grier upstairs to bed, Corrigan surprises me by following. Together, we watch my sleeping daughter for a minute.
Finally, Corrigan says, so quietly I almost don’t catch it, “Today was nice.”
“It was.” It’s been a long time since I’ve had a casual day of fun like this, and even longer since I spent one with Corrigan. “Although now I’ve got sand in places a man should never have sand. I seriously need a shower.”
Her mouth quirks. “Well, let me know if you need any help.”
I can’t resist the opening. “Showering?” I ask, smirking.
“N-no, I meant with Grier,” she stutters, looking away. “Just text me.”
I clear my throat. “Right. I will.”
After I walk Corrigan back down to the front door and she’s gone, I let my head thud gently against the frame. Wow, Lex, great job keeping your shit together.
She’s only been officially working for me for one day, and I’m already losing my grip on sanity. I clearly need to get laid ASAP. But it won’t be with the hot-as-fuck babysitter. Nope, definitely not.
Dammit, what a disappointing thought.
11
* * *
CORRIGAN
“Hola! Hola! Hola!”
The sounds of Grier playing in the living room echo throughout the house, loud and clear, even over my working in the kitchen. I guess she’s getting G.I. Joe and Flapflap in the spirit of taco night. After almost four hours playing in the sandbox at the park today, you’d think she’d be more worn out than this. But no. My little ball of energy is wide awake, despite me having already changed her into her pj’s.
“And what does hola mean, sweetie?” I call into the next room, wondering how much actual learning she did today, and how much is just her repeating what she heard me say.
“Hola!” I hear her squeal, followed by the familiar thunk of G.I. Joe being tossed against the couch.
Poor G.I. Joe. That girl really puts him through it.
Stepping away from my homemade pico de gallo, I crane my neck to see into the other room, double-checking that G.I. Joe was the one hurt, not Grier. Sure enough, she’s happy as a clam, swinging Flapflap around by one wing.
“Hola!” she says, waving to me. “Hola is hello!”
Holy cow, she actually does know what it means. This toddler officially knows one tenth of the Spanish words I know, and three of mine are mas, cerveza, and por favor, which I’m certainly not about to teach her. Still, helping her learn something new does my teacher heart good, and listening to her make her toys repeat hola back and forth to each other does my heart some good.