Chapter 8

8

" Y ou don't have to move out so fast," my father says without moving his attention from the tablet he's reading the paper on as he sips his coffee. "You could stay for a while. Get acclimated to life back here."

I laugh lightly. "I didn't go from living in a tiny rural town to the big city, Dad. I went from Paris to London, and back to Boston. If anything, moving back here and adjusting is easier than anywhere else I've lived."

Slowly he lifts his head and peers over at me. "You know that's not what I'm talking about."

I sigh and walk over to him, then drop into the seat across from him.

"I'm honestly fine."

"Have you painted or sculpted anything recently?"

"Making art isn't a barometer for how I'm doing. I didn't have the time or space in London, and now that I'm back here, I'd like to start again."

"So you're ready?" he checks, watching my expression.

I smile. "I'm ready. I promise."

"Good. That's so good to hear. Your mother isn' t happy?—"

"Did you get her to agree to stay?"

I roll my eyes at my father, whose lips twitch. "No. But she's ready," he tells her.

My mother doesn't like that answer. Not one bit. She comes over and sits beside me, facing me in her chair. "I think you should stay with us. Come work for me in the gallery. Get yourself going again in the art world, and then your talent will catch up."

"I'm going to find my own studio space," I say adamantly. "I appreciate what you're offering, but I don't want to work at a gallery. Not right now. I need to do this on my own."

She purses her lips in dismay. "You're a born artist, and the gallery is part of your family legacy. Being a nanny is a waste of your talent, and living in someone else's home is a ridiculous way to hide from us."

"I like working with children, and I'm not hiding from you. I want to be a nanny. It's fun, and it keeps me going. What I don't need is you down my throat about my talent, the gallery, living here, and how I need to be working again. I'll work when I'm ready."

She opens her mouth to continue when my dad reaches over and places his hand on her arm. "Enough. She's an adult and smart and strong enough to make her own choices and take her own path."

"Exactly!" I hop out of my seat and kiss both of them. "I'll be like twenty minutes away. Take a breath. It's fine."

"I'll try, but I still don't like it."

I don't argue further. There's no point. I just get the hell out the door while I can.

My family has been treating me like a baby for, well, my entire life. I'm a lot younger than Jack and the child they tried to have for years but were unable to until, miraculously, I came along.

But I'm Eddie, not Estlin to them .

And that difference is everything.

I tried to make the morning my bitch. I woke up before six, went for an intense run that had me splinting my ribs on three different occasions, came home, showered, made breakfast, packed the rest of my meager things, and now here I am, having a conversation I was hoping to avoid for the fifth time in the six days I've been home.

My mother's words sit with me as I take their extra car and… stall for like twenty minutes before I go to Owen's. I hit up a Starbucks and discovered a local gourmet grocery store, and oh, a barre studio. I'll definitely have to check that out.

This isn't who I was hoping to be here.

I'm not the girl who cowers—at least I didn't think I was, until Claude proved me wrong. But for some reason, this morning, I'm feeling a bit out of sorts. I don't know which version of Owen I'll be getting, and the thought of moving down the hall from him is, well, it's weird. There, I said it.

He went from a charming, hot one-night stand to a broody, unrelenting jerk in a nanosecond, and I haven't quite gotten my bearings. My last nanny position was more of a no-brainer and an escape than anything else. The position literally fell in my lap at the exact moment I needed to get away, and it was with people I trusted.

A couple.

Not a gorgeous single dad who I know what he looks and sounds like when he comes.

I'm second-guessing everything I was so adamant about yesterday.

"Get over it!" I snap to myself as I pull down his long driveway. "You wanted this job, now suck it up and deal. Think of how much worse it would be if he were sweet instead of a miserable, grumpy bastard."

True. Maybe Owen being a jerk is a blessing in disguise.

I park in the circle driveway near the front door and climb out. Shielding my eyes, I squint up at the house and then spin around to take in the front yard. It's a beautiful late summer day, and I wonder if I can talk Rory into exploring the grounds with me. Jack mentioned last night on our drive home that Owen's house sits on about five acres of land, which is un-freaking-heard of this close to the city. He also said there's a creek and some forested land that's protected by the state since it's some sort of wetlands.

I check my watch: 7:55. I'm still early. How about them apples?

I don't bother glancing down or allow myself to fidget. It doesn't matter what I look like or what I wear. I'm a freaking nanny and most definitely not here to appeal to anyone. Casual and comfortable come with the gig, and my jean shorts and oversized cropped T-shirt are just that.

I ring the doorbell, and from inside, I can hear Rory yell out, "She's here, she's here!"

A smile lights my face up for the first time all morning, her excitement popping the nervous bubble I had sitting in my gut. A moment later, the door bursts open, and there are Owen and Rory, who is jumping up and down, a gleeful smile splitting her face from ear to ear.

"Come in, come in!" She starts spouting words a mile a minute, barely taking a breath. "I want to make rainbow sparkly slime and then paint a picture and I want to show you my tree house. Oh, and Daddy said that after lunch before Katy picks me up to swim, we can clean out part of the unfinished side of the basement so you can have your own art space. Isn't that awesome?"

I stumble over my own feet, and I turn, jaw agape, and stare incredulously at Owen, who is leaning against the doorframe, tall, ridiculously handsome, and stoic as ever. His eyes are on my face, intensely locked there, almost as if he won't allow them to stray anywhere else .

I blink, lick my lips, and then blink again. My impersonation of an owl must amuse him because his lips twist almost imperceptibly. "For real?"

He shrugs. "You're going to need some place to create your art, right? I heard you tell Wren that you were going to be looking to rent a studio space and that you tend to make a mess when you do art, so that part of the house should be fine."

"Wow." My hand meets my chest. "That's incredible. Thank you."

He nods, quickly dismissing the gesture as if it's no big thing when, to me, it's everything. A private place to work has been one of my main issues for not diving back into it. He doesn't even know why I need it so badly, but hell, it's beyond perfect.

He pushes away from the door. "Do you need help with your bags?"

"No. I'm good. I'll bring them in later. They're not heavy."

"You didn't bring much home with you from London?" he asks over his shoulder as he heads back into the house. I follow after him, Rory still bouncing by my side.

"I didn't have a lot of stuff to bring home," I admit.

That catches his attention, a surprised look on his face. "I thought you had been living in Europe since you were seventeen?"

Well, shit. "I had been. But when I moved to London, I left a lot of things behind in Paris."

His brows pull together for a moment, but he lets it drop as we head into the kitchen so Rory can finish her breakfast. I sit at the counter beside her, trying not to notice the strong lines of muscle pushing against fabric as Owen's tall, broad frame moves around the kitchen.

"Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thank you. I had some on my way over. Any more caffeine, and you'll be scraping me off the ceiling. "

"How can you be on the ceiling?" Rory's face scrunches up as she shovels a bite of eggs into her mouth.

I wink at her. "Not literally. It's an expression."

She shrugs and then goes back to the show on her iPad and her breakfast.

"So, for today?—"

"Daddy, I can't hear my show," Rory chastises.

Owen rolls his eyes. "Fine. We'll grown-up talk in my office. I have things for you to sign anyway," he tells me. "Rory, cut the attitude, finish your breakfast, and then you need to go upstairs and brush your teeth. You're done with your iPad after that show anyway."

"I know, I know, you already told me."

He drops a kiss on her head, tickles her side for all the back talk, and then waves his hand indicating I should follow him. I slide off my stool and scurry after him, needing two full steps for every one of his. Owen's office is at the far end of the house, just past the amazing man cave I surveyed yesterday and the movie theater—yes, they have a freaking movie theater. That's what you get when your home is cooler—and bigger—than a cruise ship.

"I have some papers for you to sign, and I need a copy of your license and things for tax and insurance purposes."

"Sure," I say easily as we enter his office. It's the most personal-to-him room I've seen yet in the house. Then again, I haven't been in his bedroom and have no plans to ever be. It's large for an office, more like the size of a family room. The walls are a pale blue-gray, soft and relaxing. It also smells like him in here—so rich and deeply, deliciously masculine that I find myself taking a full inhale before I can stop it.

God, does he have to smell this good? Like so good my freaking nipples pop into sharp points and my pussy clenches like a needy whore ?

I take another inhale—just to acclimate myself to it—and start scanning the room wall by wall.

Floor-to-ceiling aged light oak bookshelves line an entire wall, complete with one of those cool ladder things you see in movies or high-end furniture magazines. The shelves are packed tight with books, some appearing to be old and leather bound, and some newer books with cracked and worn spines that I recognize the titles of. Many of these are freaking first editions, which again, totally turns me on and makes me wet.

In addition to the books are things like sports trophies, heavy glass medical awards, and pottery painted by Rory that says Dad in big, bold, pink letters, he has various memorabilia from all the Boston sports teams. Many of the items and photographs are signed by big-name athletes. There's some sculpture that I instantly recognize, having met the brilliant artist in Paris at an opening.

The large bay window looks out onto the grounds, and on either side of the window are several different-sized black-and-white framed photos of Rory. Some as a little baby, some with Owen, some with Katy, some with his parents and grandparents and other family members. My eyes quickly coast over each one, smiling indulgently a little at how cute she is, and then I continue over to his built-in desk with two monitors and a closed laptop on it that's bracketed by two more built-in cabinets made out of the same wood as the bookshelves.

Everything in here fills me with more questions I want the answers to. I'm curious about him, I realize, and that curiosity is not a good thing.

Off to the side is a bathroom, and then along the fourth wall is a long, gray leather sofa with a glass coffee table in front of it. Above the sofa are two extraordinary canvases, painted by my ex, Claude Morceaux, and I'm about to throw up all over his gorgeous area rug .

I stare at the paintings, unique and specific to the artist, large in how he painted them. I remember these fucking paintings. I remember him working on them. I had just moved in with him the month before, and he told me he had received a special offer from a famous gallery in New York to showcase a new collection there.

These works consumed him. At the time, I didn't care. I thought he was so dreamy, so brilliant, so everything. The way he would shut himself out from the world and be cruel and isolating and needy and so intensely focused was just part of his craft and allure, and it's what made me feel so special because he shared himself with only me.

I wrap my arms across my stomach to try and stave off the waves of nausea from taking over.

"You don't like my artwork?"

Does he know? Did Jack tell him? Or is this some psychotic, horribly ironic coincidence?

"They're stunning." Because they are. Claude is nothing if not talented. Jack was living in LA at the time, and he wouldn't know one of Claude's paintings if he tripped over it. So it's likely random that they're here, which is nothing short of karmically fucked up and a royal middle finger.

Owen folds his arms over his chest, eyes on me, as if watching me take in his space all this time is the curiosity of a lifetime. I feel my face heat, and I clear my throat and look away.

"Today is a bit of a weird day," he states as he blows past me now that he finally has my attention back. He grabs two stacks of papers from his desk and brings them over to the coffee table, then takes a seat on the couch and wordlessly expects me to do the same. I'm coming to understand Owen likes to be in control, expects to be obeyed, and doesn't like to have to explain himself more than he has to .

"Weird day, how?" I sit beside him, keeping distance between us so that we're not touching but close enough so that I can see what the papers are.

He runs his thumb along his bottom lip as he leans back against the cushion of the sofa, his body now angled toward mine. "Katy is planning to pick up Rory after lunch to take her swimming, and I agreed to play as a sub in my hockey league this evening."

"You play hockey?" I don't know why that surprises me so much. I caught a quick glimpse of the sports trophies and the air hockey table, though I didn't look closely enough to see what the trophies were all about. Maybe it's because hockey seems too wild, and that's not who Owen Fritz is.

"Yes, only not often now. I played in college. We won a national championship."

"Wow." My eyebrows bounce. "Color me surprised. That's very cool."

"Thank you. I even still have the bloody jersey somewhere to prove it."

"Bloody jersey?!" I exclaim. "Do I want to know?"

His lips twitch, his eyes glowing with haughtiness and maybe even a hint of pride. "I broke a guy's nose during a fight in the championship game of the Frozen Four."

I fall back over on the couch like he just struck me dead. "You? A fight? No way. It had to have been a mistake." This taciturn, overly conscious man could never punch someone in the heat of the moment.

"Brat," he bites out and reaches over to poke my side. Sort of like how he did with Rory when she was being a bit of a brat too. But I'm not Rory. I'm not his six-year-old daughter. And unlike Rory, I'm super ticklish.

"Ah! No! Stop!" I screech and elbow him in retort.

"An elbow? Are you trying to recreate my fight?" He nudges me back with his though not nearly as hard as I gave him .

I laugh and strike back, knocking him in the gut and delighting at his oomph . "Like you'd ever beat up a woman."

"Never. But when she throws elbows like you are, I'm not about to take it either." I get another playful poke, but then he's swatting at me, trying to brush off my advances as I go for his face with my hands. "That's pathetic and wouldn't hurt a fly. Like this." He takes my hands and molds them into fists, only to quickly release them so he can hold his fists up and mock box with me, showing me how I should do it.

"Is this how you broke the guy's nose?" I mimic his motion and jab forward.

He dekes left just in time. "Are you trying to fuck up my face?"

"That nose could use a readjustment," I tease.

"Thanks for the bruise to my ego. But let's not break my glasses." He thrusts forward, intentionally missing me, and I go right back at him, punching his arm without any heat to it.

"I won't. They're hot on you."

"Hot on me?!" He chuckles and I giggle in response. He's smiling more than he has since I showed up on his doorstep yesterday. "That I didn't expect." He bumps my cheek and shoulder as we continue to play fight.

"Those wouldn't harm an infant. You can do better than that. I'm not that fragile."

"I would never hit you. Not even at an eighth of my strength. I'd self-destruct if I did."

"Will you go from suck to blow?" I ask, tossing out a Spaceballs reference.

He laughs but I knock it off his face as I cut a fist into his flank, and he retaliates by snagging a tickle on my side. He's got me in the worst, most perfect spot, and I'm a squealing, laughing mess on his couch.

"I—you have to—oh—my God—stop!"

He starts to pull back, maybe he's come to the conclusion that he shouldn't be tickling the nanny, or maybe he's just showing mercy, but either way, I don't care. The moment I catch my breath is the moment I launch myself, blindsiding him, knocking him back and sideways onto the other end of the sofa, and covering his body with mine.

Why? No clue other than that I don't appreciate being subdued or bested by a man in any physically manipulative way, and by retaliating, I can return the favor. Now I'm on top of him, breathless, and with the tail end of my giggles still lighting sparklers on my lips.

Suddenly, my eyes go stark wide, shocked as they stare directly into his. His pupils are black, deadly midnight, and wider than the full moon. His expression is pure, tormented control. Slowly, his hands go low on my hips, not sliding or touching, but holding, unrelenting as he keeps me from attacking him further.

His hands on my hips, this position, it all feels too intimately familiar to ignore. My breath exhales from my lungs, and lust pools deliciously tight in my core.

But his body is rigid, tense, and… holy shit, he's hard.

What in the actual fuck am I doing?

In a flash, I regain my goddamn senses, and in one fluid motion, I scramble off him. With a heavy bounce on the couch, I readjust my T-shirt that had somehow climbed up half of one of my boobs and my shorts that are practically straight up my ass and pussy.

Super solid way to start a new job with a boss who wants nothing more than to get rid of you.

I run my hands back through my hair and shift farther down the sofa from him. The blush staining my cheeks can't be helped, but I power on like none of that was a big deal.

"Sorry." I emit an awkward giggle. "I don't like to lose at, well, anything. Anyway, how did I never know you played hockey, let alone beat a guy up?" I throw out quickly, trying to bring us back to… who the hell knows what.

He sits up slowly and adjusts himself in his jeans as he goes. I bite my lip as he does because fuuuck that's hot, and right now, I'm wound tight like a coil.

One more shift and a quick combing of his fingers through his hair, and you'd never know by his features or the sound of his voice that not even a minute ago, he was play-fighting with me and then I pounced on him like a lioness.

"As you said yesterday, you didn't see me much, nor did we pay much attention to each other when you were young. And yes, a fight. I was a bit of a bruiser on the ice because I also don't like to lose."

I shake my head. "I can't see it."

His eyes lift to mine, his strong face lined with a hint of vulnerability and possibly a touch of regret. "I wasn't always this buttoned-up version of a father and doctor."

No. That I've experienced first-hand. Not even two minutes ago and most definitely Friday night.

He clears his throat and returns to the papers sitting in neat stacks on the glass table. "As it is, on the rare occasions I can make the games, Rory surprisingly likes to come and watch. So after swimming, I'd like you to bring her to my game, and then we can grab dinner out when it's over." He slides, inching to the edge of the couch and hunching forward as he picks up a pen and taps the first stack. His movements are stiff and uncomfortable, as is everything else between us. "This is Rory's schedule along with a list of numbers including my hospital, her pediatrician, and family members should you ever need them." He slides the top few pages toward me and moves to the bigger stack. "These are NDAs. Are you familiar with what that is?"

I mimic his position. "Yes. Non-disclosure agreements. I had one in my last job." And one with Claude, since I had originally worked for him in his gallery before we became lovers .

"Good. That'll make this easier. These are relatively standard, but also not. They cover everything a traditional NDA does, but they're also very tailored to me and Rory as well as my family. I'd like you to read through them and initial and sign everywhere that's indicated."

"Okay," I say a bit warily, but also not surprised he'd have something so extensive.

I took Jack's advice and went down the Google Owen Fritz rabbit hole last night. His ex—who is supermodel stunning, tall and thin and regal-looking—was seriously a piece of work, and for a while, the tabloids exploited every little gem she fed them. After everything she did finally came to light, she tucked her tail and moved to Canada.

That's how bad what she did to Owen and Rory was. The chick had to leave the country.

"I'll take a look tonight and get these back to you first thing tomorrow."

That seems to satisfy him, and he shifts them toward me. The next stack is all tax documents, followed by some sort of insurance filing for me to drive a car he's purchasing. I don't argue. It's his money and his daughter, and to him, it matters what car I drive her around in. Plus, I don't have a car of my own. I've been driving one of my parents' cars, so I suppose it just makes sense.

With my arms full of papers to bring up to my room, I stand and go to leave his office, only throwing one fleeting glance over my shoulder. But when I do, I find him exactly where I left him, sitting on the edge of the couch, knees parted, elbows digging into his thighs, face cast down, and his hands clutching the sides of his head.

For the first time, I realize what this is doing to him, what my being here actually means for him, and why he didn't want me here in the first place. Flirting with the line between professional and inappropriate strikes at a terrified and vulnerable part of his soul.

I vow here and now, if I'm going to make this work for all of us, I need to readjust him in my thoughts into nothing more than my boss. No matter how difficult that task may be.