Chapter Six

Callie

I’ve never felt like this before. I’m in the shower, water dripping all over my body, but I feel like I’m still in the gym. It was just the camera and his voice, but it was making me crazy. There’s no way that was innocent. No way I was the only one aware of what was happening. Maybe the shirtless thing was borderline, but not this—this was way, way over the line.

“It looks perfect.”

I hear his husky voice in my mind as I grab the showerhead and guide it down my body, the pressure making me tingle and then sizzle like I’m going to burn up. I guide it down toward my sex. My clit throbs as the water pushes against it, but then something ugly flashes into my mind. It’s like the past appears to remind me I don’t deserve pleasure. Then I find myself thinking, What happens if I act on this ? Letting myself crush on my boss could mean losing this high-paying, rewarding, steady job.

I shower quickly, resisting the urge, ignoring the impulses in my body. But when he was watching me, it sounded like he wanted me. It sounded like…

“Shut up,” I hiss at myself as I towel off. “It’s over. It’s done. Never think about it again.”

So far, we haven’t crossed any lines. Even if we both know that the workout session was so much more, even if we both know my moans came from desire, not exertion, we can still pretend . We haven’t kissed. We haven’t touched. Maybe he deleted that video… and if he hasn’t, we can pretend he was recording just for technique. We’ve got plausible deniability.

But if I let myself get stirred up over him, if I let my hand guide the showerhead to my sex, I wouldn’t be able to go back. He’d never just be my boss again. He’d be more. I can’t let that happen. Haven’t I learned anything? Men, especially older men with power over me, are not to be trusted. That’s freaking rule number one.

***

“Is your mommy as pretty as you?” Emery asks as she leans over her coloring book.

I’m sitting in the armchair, half reading a book, half watching her. The seriousness on her face each time she changes pens is so cute. Her newly braided hair adds to the cuteness overload. Her question catches me off-guard.

“She looks quite similar to me, yes,” I murmur.

“Do you see your mommy a lot?”

“No,” I tell her honestly.

“Why?” She asks the question with a child’s innocence, without thinking she could be treading on uncomfortable ground.

“When I was a kid, me and my mommy and daddy and I were all part of this big group of people. Sort of like a big camp. We lived in the camp and worked there. But when I turned sixteen, I wanted to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because in the camp, they wouldn’t let me do fun things like coloring or braiding my hair or making up stories.”

She looks up at me, her eyes wide in shock. “Whoa!”

“I know, right?” I say. “So, I left and got a job as a nanny with another lady who was once in the camp. A few years later, I managed to get my daddy out. I had to pay a lot of money. That’s why I worked for…” I trail off—I don’t need to go into that with her.

“What sort of camp makes you pay money to get out ?”

“A weird one. A silly one.”

“S-I-L-L-Y C-A-M-P. Was it called that?”

“It should’ve been,” I say. “But my mommy doesn’t want to leave. So I don’t see her.”

“I don’t see my mommy either,” Emery says quietly.

“Oh,” I murmur, not wanting to pry. If she wants to share, I’ll listen, but it’s not a nanny’s job to go searching into the family history.

She looks down at her coloring book, talking absentmindedly. “I don’t really remember her, but sometimes I get sad. I want a mommy, and I want her to love me. At school, I see the other girls, and they all have mommies. And sometimes I ask my friend Jessica if her mommy can be mine too. She laughs, and I laugh as well. Because it’s a joke .” She says this as if convincing me. “But, yeah…” She shrugs. “Maybe you can be—”

“How’s the coloring going?” I cut in, rudely interrupting her.

But I don’t want her to say what she was clearly about to. I don’t want her to tell me that maybe I could be her mommy. Then I’d have to shoot her down, and that would hurt her too much. I’ve already crossed one professional boundary today. I’m not going to cross another.

“Are you really good friends with your daddy?” she says, ignoring my question. “Like how me and Daddy are, he’s my daddy. But he’s my friend as well.”

“We’re getting there,” I tell her.

“Where?”

I smile. “I mean, yes, we’re building a friendship. In fact, I’m actually helping to pay for his apartment while he gets on his feet. That’s one of the reasons I was so happy to get this job.”

“Whoa. That’s really cool. So you’re like your daddy’s daddy.”

I laugh. She’s so adorable I could melt. Part of me wishes I could rewind time and let her comment on me being her mommy, but it simply wouldn’t be acceptable. “Yes, I guess that’s one way to put it.”

“Mommy might come back one day. And she’ll say, Let’s go make a story . And I’ll say, Nah-uh, I’m going to make a story with Daddy and Callie. And then she’ll say, I’m really sorry. And I’ll say, Nah-uh, no takebacks .”

My heart breaks, especially with the casual tone she uses. She doesn’t understand how devastating her words are. She doesn’t know how upsetting it is for her to be able to describe such awful family dynamics, such abandonment, without any pain. But this is normal for her, just like it was for me as a kid.

She looks up, her face lighting up. “Ha ha. Hey, Daddy!”

I turn. The red light on the camera is on. How long has he been watching?