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“Be sure to come upstairs,” he calls after me.

I glance at him, up and down, before stepping inside. “Yes. For sausage.”

I scurry back inside, clutching the towel tightly. As I reach my apartment, it hits me once more—this is not my towel.

Stopping in my tracks, I spin around and grab the door before it shuts.

“Tyler?” I call out, even though I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be this close to him when I’m nearly naked. But my heart is racing, and my skin feels warmer. I feel alive in my body when I’m near him, and even though I know I should resist, I can’t seem to stop myself.

He turns, his hand still holding the freezer door open, but he angles the lower half of his body away from me. “Yes?”

“Is this…towel yours?”

The question feels incomplete, and I hesitate. I’m almost afraid to ask what I really want to know: Did you get this towel for me?

It’s a presumptuous question—too presumptuous to make landfall, so I keep it locked up.

But then he straightens up, letting the freezer door close, and turns fully toward me.

“No,” he says, pausing for a moment before adding, “I got a few for you. I wanted it to feel like your home. Is the color okay? ”

His words knock the air out of me. I try to fight off the smile tugging at my lips, but it’s a losing battle.

It’s stupid to be this excited about a towel. A towel. But it’s big, soft, and exactly what I needed.

“It’s perfect,” I say, and this time I actually leave, heading to the shower.

Once inside, I set the towel on the rack and turn on the water. Steam fills the space quickly, but as I step in, I can’t tell if the water is heating me up—or if it’s the other way around.

I finish the veggie sausage Tyler left for me, rinse the plate, and set it in the dishwasher just as the front door creaks open.

He steps inside, pausing—maybe to kick off his shoes—but then his footsteps fade into the distance. Did he go upstairs or…downstairs?

A few seconds later, the sound of footfalls resumes, and then he pads down the hall. Finally, he steps into the kitchen.

“The sausage was great,” I chirp. First, because it was, and second, because I don’t need to quiz my boss about what he just did after dropping off the kids.

“Good,” he says, his tone even, his voice deep. His movements are effortless now, unlike in the garage. It’s like he’s in control again as he pushes a hand through his messy hair and then reaches into the cupboard. He takes out a bag of coffee and waggles it in my direction. “Want some?”

I shake my head. “I’m naturally caffeinated,” I reply.

“Good trait in a nanny,” he says with a faint smile.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

He sets to work making the coffee, and I know I should excuse myself, especially since I’m on duty this afternoon while he heads to the arena.

But before I leave, I say, “The towel was lovely. Really thoughtful. I only had a couple of towels, and they definitely weren’t that nice.

Mine probably came from the discount bin, and yours are…

I don’t know—do they even make thousand-thread-count towels?

Are towels measured like that, or is that just for sheets? ”

The corner of his mouth quirks up as he turns and faces me. “Would you like new sheets too?”

“Oh my god, no. I wasn’t saying that. My sheets are fine. You don’t have to get me anything else,” I ramble, a flush creeping up my neck.

“I want you to be comfortable here,” he says, his tone soft but deliberate.

I’d be comfortable with you coming downstairs at night and ripping the sheets off me.

A wave of heat rushes through my chest at the inappropriate thought. I quickly shake it away. “You really don’t have to get me sheets,” I say, trying to sound casual.

He’s quiet for a moment as he measures the coffee, then licks his lips before speaking. “What if I want to?”

He pulls a mug from the cupboard and makes a show of plunking it onto the counter.

My breath catches. It’s that mug—the one I got him. The one that says: Sorry About Your St. Bernard Ex, But Here’s to Better Dogs Ahead.

His smile says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

But does he know how turned on I am because of a mug?

Except…it’s not the mug. It’s him. The man who’s spoiling me.

“Nice mug,” I say, trying for nonchalant.

“What mug? I have no idea what you mean,” he replies, his grin mischievous. The grin of a man who remembers the Night of a 1001 Confessions.

And as much as I want to stay, I leave. I rush downstairs to cool off because I’m less than twenty-four hours into my new job, and I already want to proposition my boss again.

I’ll splash water on my face, settle down, and work on some skating routines for Jasmine, Luna, and the other kids I coach. I’ll do my morning yoga. I’ll see my friends.

I stop in my tracks. A pink paper shopping bag with cute little handles sits in front of the door. I snatch it up and peer inside.

There are sheets. Pretty light blue sheets, and the label says they’re five hundred-thread count. I know nothing about thread counts, but something tugs at my brain. A question. I google it, and the Internet tells me that while there are thousand-thread-count sheets, five hundred is the best.

Warmth travels through my body, like the sun is shining on me. He got me sheets—the best sheets. Most of all, he did it before we joked about it. That’s why he was smirking like he had a secret a few minutes ago. He did it on his own. The man is entirely too thoughtful.

Especially since he left another note with the sheets. I read it.

I know you have some already, but…I wanted you to have these.

— T

Already, I like these better. Not for the thread count. But because he got them for me…just because. Stupidly, I hug them. I hold them close for longer than I should, then I go inside, a little giddy.

The door shuts behind me with a loud thud, breaking my thoughts. Breaking the trance too.

He hired me to work in his home. Of course he wants me to have nice sheets. It’s just thoughtful. It’s not a sign he wants to reconsider my offer from my failed wedding night.

And it’s for the best I stop reconsidering it too.

Later that morning, I pop upstairs to thank him and ask where the washing machine and dryer are. “So I can wash the sheets before I make the bed.”

“Right across from my bedroom,” he says, leading me upstairs and down the hall.

I try, I swear I try, not to look in his room.

But I fail, catching sight of the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. “Is that bigger than king-size? Is it what, emperor size?”

Tyler laughs, eyes twinkling. “Yes. It’s for my reign in the bedroom.”

And then both our smiles falter. At once.

One day at a time, I tell myself. One day at a time, and I’ll learn how to survive working for this man.

On Thursday morning I’m driving the kids to school after a skating lesson when Parker says from the backseat, “My mom knows what a shooting star is.”

Damn. This kid pulls no punches. “I bet she’s really smart.”

“She is. She likes science.”

He doesn’t say like me , but he doesn’t have to. It’s evident in his tone. “I’m so glad to hear that,” I say, hoping he can hear the sincerity in my tone. I peer in the rearview. “And I’m glad you and your mom have things in common.”

“Me too,” he mutters, then gets out at school with barely a goodbye .

Luna leans forward. “Boys are moody. But I’ll see you later.” She peers at the dashboard. “Oh, and you need a sign with our last name on it for the window to pick us up. I’ll get you one later today.”

I smile, a big relieved one. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She shrugs. “It’s easy-peasy.”

Then she takes off with a friendly wave that I’m more grateful for than I’d ever imagined I would be.

The next day, I pull up outside the kids’ school like a freaking pro.

I’ve got a blue sign in the dashboard window with the name Falcon on it, which honestly kind of makes me feel cool.

I’m there at exactly 3:02, which is precisely the best time to arrive for their three-fifteen exit.

Early enough so I won’t make a mistake. I cut the engine and wait, blasting Amelia Stone and singing along to her girl anthems. A few minutes later, right on time, the kids stream out and Luna and Parker pile into the backseat.

I haven’t won over Parker yet. But that’s okay. These things take time, and I understand that we all react to change in different ways. But I’ve got a plan for today. Tyler’s in Vegas for the season opener, and I’ve been managing just fine the last few days. Well, my fancy sheets help.

“How’s it going?” I ask as I turn the music down.

Luna dives right into chatter as she yanks on her seatbelt. “I aced my math test.”

“You go,” I say, lifting my fist in a rocker salute. “Math girls unite.”

“And my friend Hannah is having a sleepover this weekend, and I want to go. Can I go?”

“We need to check with your dad,” I say as I flick on the blinker .

Parker scoffs at his sister. “I told you she’d have to ask Dad.”

“Well, he is your father,” I point out as I pull into relatively light afternoon traffic.

“Yeah, but Agatha was able to make those decisions,” Parker says, but he’s less, well, mean than he was when he said it earlier in the week. Less hurt too, I think. Maybe more matter-of-fact.

I sense an opening. “Parker, do you have any plans for tonight?” I ask, evenly, not giving myself away.

“I don’t know. Do I?” he asks, curious, like a cat wanting to check out your new food offering but not sure he trusts you.

“You do now,” I say. Then I tell him what we’re going to do.

And in the rearview mirror, I see his jaw drop.