Page 17

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

DELANEY

T he sound of the door shutting makes my heart stutter. I’ve been both dreading and anticipating Max’s return all day.

Something changed between us last night. How could it not?

When a man brings you to two mind-melting orgasms—leaving you sated, boneless, and worshipped—without asking for anything in return, something shifts. It has to.

Only… he’s acting completely normal. Like nothing’s different. Like he wasn’t between my legs last night, licking me into oblivion.

This morning, he came downstairs dressed for practice, calm and casual.

Caroline was in her highchair, and I was halfway through trying to feed her rice cereal—an effort that was going about as well as I’d expected.

Now that she’s six months old, we’ve started introducing solids, but she hasn’t quite mastered the concept.

Most of the rice mush ends up smeared across her face, stuck in her hair, or dropped to the floor in sticky blobs.

She’s brilliant—grasping new things like a champ. Eating, however, is an absolute calamity. It’s messy and chaotic and somehow completely adorable. Even when it means adding an extra bath to her day.

Max squeezed her little feet, pulled goofy faces that made her laugh, and greeted me the way he always does—warm and easy. He grabbed a protein shake, kissed Caroline’s forehead, wished us a good day, and left.

It was all so normal that, for a moment, I honestly questioned if last night had even happened.

But no.

I press my thighs together at the memory. There’s no way I dreamed it. It was real.

He texted a few times from the store, seeking clarification on a couple of the items on my grocery list Post-it Note. Once again, nothing out of the ordinary.

Today was a blur. Every task I completed was done on autopilot as I thought of nothing but Max. Is he going to bring up last night? Was it a one-night moment of insanity? Or is it going to happen again? What does it all mean? Does he have feelings for me, or was he really just helping me out?

It could happen. God knows he’s helped out loads of women.

What’s one more? Plus, do I even want him to have feelings for me?

Of course not… I don’t think. This is my job, and he is my boss.

I didn’t take the job to become anyone’s wife or mother.

I’m simply the nanny. Are the lines getting blurred?

Maybe. Max makes me feel like part of his little family unit.

Over the past couple of months, we’ve become a close-knit trio, and if I’m honest, I love it.

While I feel like I’m crossing some sort of boundary when I think of Max and Caroline as my family, I also realize that it would be difficult to think of them as anything else.

Unlike my other positions, I live here and am submerged in life with these people twenty-four hours a day.

The definition of family is a fluid one, but I’d have to say it feels right.

But romance—or, more accurately, orgasms—can’t be part of the definition. It will only make things so much more complicated.

“Hey!” Max calls as he steps into the foyer.

“We’re in the kitchen,” I call back.

He walks in with reusable bags looped around each wrist, his cheeks pink from the cold. “There are my girls,” he says, flashing a smile that’s almost too beautiful to look at. His eyes soften with real affection as he bends to press a kiss on Caroline’s cheek.

The way he dotes on his daughter—and the casual way he just claimed me, even if unintentionally—does something wild to my insides. Okay, maybe he didn’t officially claim me… but it’s close enough to make my stomach flutter.

“Okay, I have returned from the battlefield,” he announces, holding up the bags like a trophy. “And I come bearing spoils.”

“Battlefield?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Close to,” he scoffs. “A million people were there. Maybe it was payday for everyone on the weekend before they were all hosting holiday parties. I don’t know, but it took major grit getting down some of those aisles.

Plus, your list had me looking in places I never knew existed in the store before.

“Do you know there is a whole section of gluten-free cookies across from the gallons of water? I’m talking like dozens of brands I’ve never seen before.”

“We’re not gluten-free, and there weren’t any gluten-free cookies on my list.” I press my lips together in a smile.

“I know.” He grins, setting the bags on the counter. “I got lost looking for the fresh dill.”

“Fresh dill is in the refrigerator section, not in the aisles by the bottled water.” I chuckle.

“I know.” He waves his hand in front of him. “Did I mention all the people? Total maze. Long story. All I’m saying is I went through some stuff to get the items on your list.” His smile nearly melts me.

I raise an eyebrow. “Okay, well… speaking of my list. Did you get everything on it?”

He hesitates. “Define everything.”

I groan, causing him to laugh.

“In my defense”—he takes a step toward the counter and begins to unload the bags—“who knew that ‘the yogurt in the green cup with the white lid’ is apparently the unicorn of yogurts? I swear I walked the same dairy aisle five times. I asked a guy stocking milk if he knew where it was, and he just blinked at me like I was speaking Latin.”

“It’s literally the only brand we’ve used all month.”

“Yes, well, clearly, it evaporated from existence. So I got this one instead.” He holds up a container that is most definitely not the same.

I eye it suspiciously. “That’s mixed berry, and it’s diet, which means it has artificial sugars. She’s six months old. She needs full-fat plain Greek yogurt.”

He winces. “Oh. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be right.

Okay. Rookie move. I’ll eat that one.” He sets it aside like it personally offended him and moves on.

“I did, however, find the exact brand of the baby wipes, thank you very much. And—bonus—I got you the good oat milk you like. It was a complete guess, but I remembered the fancy script font on the carton.”

“Nice save,” I say, crossing my arms and biting back a smile.

He grins. “Oh, and they were out of dill, or at least, I never found it. So instead...” He reaches into the last bag and triumphantly holds up a small plastic container. “Dill pickle hummus. Totally counts.”

I burst out laughing. “That’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“Sure it is. It has dill. And it’s... tangy?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you.”

Caroline kicks from her seat in the highchair, squealing and slamming her palms against the tray. Max turns to her immediately.

“Hey, Care Bear,” he says, his voice softening. He crosses to her, brushing a kiss on her forehead and then her cheek. She grabs his finger in her tiny hand and brings it to her drooly mouth. He doesn’t even flinch.

“What’s up, huh? Did you miss me? Probably not. You’ve got Laney here taking care of you like a champ.”

“Of course she misses you. You’re her only dad, after all.”

He lifts her from the chair and balances her on his hip, nuzzling her cheek until she erupts into giggles.

“She was starting to get sleepy,” I say. “Probably due for her nap in a few minutes.”

“Perfect timing,” Max says. He lifts a soft blue Care Bear plush from one of the grocery bags. “Also, I saw this on an endcap and couldn’t resist. I mean, how many plushies are too much?”

“I’m not sure, but I think we’re getting close.” I chuckle.

My chest tightens as Caroline grabs the bear and immediately shoves its ear into her mouth. He starts rocking her gently as he walks around the kitchen, humming something under his breath. Caroline rests her head against his shoulder, still clutching the bear.

I can’t look away.

This isn’t fair. How am I supposed to feel normal around him when he’s like this? He’s mind-numbingly sexy without even trying.

Max looks up and catches my gaze. “Do you mind if I take her up and put her down for her nap?”

I nod, and my throat feels tight. “Of course not.”

“I’ll just figure out what to make for dinner with pickle hummus.”

“Can’t wait.” He grins, shooting me a wink.

He starts toward the stairs with Caroline snuggled close. He pauses at the base and glances back at me. “There’s some of those oatmeal cookies you love in one of the bags. Thought you could use a treat.”

“Thanks,” I say, but it barely comes out.

He gives me a casual smile—friendly, easy, completely unreadable—and then he disappears up the stairs.

I stand alone in the quiet kitchen, heart hammering. Turning toward the counter, I pull the cookies from the bag. Stuck to the top of the box is a pink sticky note in Max’s handwriting:

Thank you for taking such great care of us.

My chest tightens. That note makes me feel all sorts of things.

Ever since he noticed my habit of leaving messages—for both of us—on sticky notes, he’s started doing the same.

Even though we use a shared family calendar app to track everything from his work schedule to Caroline’s appointments, he still takes the time to leave me notes.

It’s endearing, and every single one brightens my day.

There’s just something about that little square of colorful paper, his handwriting scrawled across it—a tangible reminder of him that I can hold in my hand—that makes me smile.

And they’re not just reminders about the baby or his schedule.

Sometimes they’re inside jokes we’ve shared, silly anecdotes, or personal little notes like this one.

I’ve kept every single one. From the blue Post-it that said, Be home by six, to the one he left after he finally pulled ahead in our ongoing rummy game that said, I’m sorry…but who is winning again? Each note keeps him at the front of my mind, making me want him just a little more.

Now, he’s brought me my absolute favorite cookies.

These cookies are one of the few memories I have from the good ole days with my parents before the cheating, fights, and gaslighting.

Sure, that stuff was probably still going on, but I was just too young to recognize it.

To a child, ignorance really is bliss, I suppose.

During that time, our happy family lived next to a CEO of this cookie company, and he would give me packages of these cookies whenever he saw me.

I loved them, so soft and chewy. I’ve loved them since.

To my knowledge, I’ve never once mentioned my affinity toward them to Max.

Granted, I’ve purchased them a couple of times myself, so he probably figured it out.

Yet that isn’t guaranteed. I don’t feel most guys would’ve taken note of the brand of cookie I like.

Hell, I once dated a guy who failed to notice I had bright blue streaks put in my hair for two weeks. I was going through a phase.

But seriously, guys are not observant. At least not the ones I’ve known. Max is—at least when it counts. So what if he couldn’t recall the yogurt brand? He remembered these because they’re important to me.

I put away the remainder of the items in the grocery bag, all the while thinking of last night.

The thoughtfulness of the cookies made me want Max something fierce.

I think I’m actually becoming obsessed with him.

Thoughts of his fingers, his tongue, and his satisfied breaths fill my head, and I’m desperate to feel it all again but more.

The fact that he’s been so normal and unaffected halts my fantasies. He hasn’t shown an ounce of awkwardness or desire. He is treating me exactly as he has for two months.

Meanwhile, I’m unraveling. Wanting things I shouldn’t. Replaying memories that weren’t supposed to happen. Craving something as simple as his touch. The memory of his hands on me makes me feel completely undone.

He did say I only have to ask.