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“Well, you’d better find it,” Sabrina says, urging him along. “It’s really important to put it on the ceiling. Also, I think you should add the Andromeda Galaxy and the Milky Way Galaxy, so you can be prepared for their collision.”

He rolls his blue eyes, but it’s playful, not patronizing. “Okay, those are way too big to represent with stickers,” Parker says.

“I don’t know. That seems like a challenge you’d definitely be up for. Come on, Mister Lego,” she teases.

“Oh, those are fighting words,” I say.

This is helping matters. This back-and-forth between the two of them is helping. Because I’m focused on that now, instead of the way she looks—entirely too tempting in baggy jeans and a short white shirt.

Parker hands me more stickers and tells me where to place them. I follow his instructions religiously, stretching to reach the ceiling while craning my neck to make sure I get the placement right. This repetitive task is far more helpful to my overactive libido than looking at Sabrina.

But an hour later, with a crick in my neck and a ceiling covered in stars, I climb down and find myself face-to-face with her again.

Wincing as the pain shoots through me, I stretch my neck from side to side. Sabrina flashes me a quizzical look while Parker admires the ceiling. “Are you okay?” she asks, her eyes full of concern.

“I’m fine,” I say, rubbing my hand against the back of my neck where a dragon’s laid an egg, “but I have a new sympathy for Michelangelo now.”

“Aren’t you a Renaissance daddy,” she says, then pats my shoulder.

Hello, zing. That is not supposed to feel so good.

I am a grown man. A father. And I’m affected by my kids’ nanny like a fucking thirteen-year-old boy. But I practice my vaunted dick control, imagining—who would have thought this would be a boner killer—skate blades.

Ha. Take that, hormones. You’re not going to get the best of me.

“All right,” I say to Parker, rubbing my palms together, focusing on business, the task at hand. “What do you think? Does anything need to be adjusted?”

My son is lying on his bed, staring critically at the ceiling with narrowed eyes. “I think I need to be in the dark to know for sure.”

“Well, fortunately, you have blinds.” I move around his room to pull down the wooden shutters. It’s evening, but it’s still not dark enough.

“Why don’t I grab some dark sheets?” Sabrina suggests, then hustles out of there, quickly returning with a set of black linen from the closet in the hall.

Without using thumbtacks or anything else, she loops them around the top of the wooden blinds as footsteps grow louder—Luna must have emerged from her room to check things out.

“That’s impressive,” I say with a low whistle as I appraise Sabrina’s work .

“I’m a little crafty,” Sabrina replies as Luna pops into the room, her ponytail bouncing.

“That’s true. Sabrina makes her own costumes,” Luna says.

Why does that excite me? I don’t even know, but I turn to Sabrina for confirmation. “You made your own skating costumes?”

“Necessity is also the mother of invention. I had to, so I taught myself to sew,” she says, twisting the final sheet into place. “What do you think?”

I think I want to know why she had to , but I also think she doesn’t want to talk about it this second as the room transforms. The ceiling glows with thousands of stars.

Parker gasps. “This is amazing,” he says.

“You did good picking these out,” Sabrina says to him with a smile visible in the darkness.

“Thank you for helping,” Parker says, a little guilt and gratitude in his tone. He’s not angling to be her best friend. He doesn’t treat her the same way he did Agatha. But he’s warming up to her, and I’m glad for that.

“Yeah, I kind of like them too,” Luna says, admiring the stars, then tapping her chin. “But I’d want a disco ball instead.”

Sabrina’s eyes light up. “Disco balls are so cool. I wanted disco balls in my room so badly when I was a kid.”

“Did you have them?” Luna asks, hanging on Sabrina’s every word.

She shakes her head, her shiny blonde hair swishing. “My parents said I couldn’t. They thought it was too immature. But I was a kid—I was supposed to be immature.”

“Hello! That’s what being a kid is. And now I really want a disco ball,” Luna says, clasping her hands together as she turns to me, batting those big brown eyes. “Can I get a disco ball for the ceiling, Dad? ”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. But it’s hardly a no. It’s more like how can I say no to you ? When I let go, I look at Sabrina with a playful accusation. “Look what you’ve unleashed.”

But Sabrina has no remorse. She points to me. “You unleashed it. You put the stars on the ceiling first.”

Luna shimmies her hips. “I guess that means I can get a disco ball!”

“Why do I feel like I’m outnumbered already?” I ask.

“Because you kind of are,” Luna says, grabbing Sabrina’s arm in solidarity.

“She speaks the truth,” Sabrina says.

Parker cuts in. “I think there’s one set of stars that needs to be adjusted.” He points toward Orion’s Belt. At least, he’s told me it’s Orion’s Belt. “There are a couple extra stars and they need to be moved.” His brow knits. “I can do it.”

But he’s a little afraid of heights. I go to intervene, but before I can, Sabrina pops up. “I’ll do it,” she says, and my body heats with warmth that she knows so much about my son already.

In no time, she climbs the ladder, stretches her arms toward the ceiling, and everything starts to rise.

And I do mean everything.

I clear my throat, cough, then make up an excuse about needing a drink. I exit the room so I can cool the fuck off. My chest is a furnace. My skin is sweltering. She is too much.

Down in the kitchen, I fill a glass with tap water and pace. This is the occupational hazard of wanting to bang your nanny: the risk of getting turned on around your kids.

I add ice cubes to my water and consider putting them down my pants.

But the potential deflation is achieved faster than I’d expected. Hell yes. I’ve still got good dick control.

When I head back upstairs, Sabrina is stretched out on the carpeted floor next to Parker and Luna, all staring at the ceiling, arms parked behind their heads.

“Dad, come look,” Luna says. “We can figure out exactly where my disco ball should go by studying how everything looks.”

“Your room will never be as cool as mine,” Parker says.

“I bet it will,” Luna says.

“I bet it won’t,” he replies.

It’s not one-upmanship, it’s just basic teasing, and I love that they do that with each other.

“Siblings,” I say to Sabrina, like what can you do.

“I wish I had a brother or sister,” she says, a little wistfully.

“You sure about that?” Luna teases.

“You’d want a brother. One as cool as me,” Parker says.

I kneel down to ruffle his hair, but inside my heart tugs for what Sabrina missed out on. For the little comments about how she grew up—with strictness, and rules, and little support. For what her parents are like.

Luna pats the floor, but the only open spot is next to Sabrina. I lie down and my hand brushes hers. I swallow, fighting off the chills that race through me, ignoring the way my skin buzzes, doing my best to stay in this family moment.

This is what matters. She’s good with the kids. That is all that matters.

Even though I understand now why I was so excited to learn that she made her own costumes. Because I like learning everything about her. Because I fucking like her. More than I did a week ago, a month ago, at the start of the year.

And that is getting to be a problem.

But my neck’s a problem too, so I keep rubbing at the knot. Or trying to .

Sabrina’s studying me with those pretty blue eyes of hers. “You know, I have a Theragun if you want to use it.”

I have my own, but I say yes so fast. Because accepting her offer means I can follow her downstairs to her place. Where my restraint will be legendary. This will be the perfect test of my dick control and I’ll ace it.

I tell the kids it’s time for a reading break, and since both are voracious readers, they happily grab books and settle into their favorite reading spots.

I head downstairs with Sabrina. Once I make it to her apartment, my gaze drifts immediately to the corner where she has a purple yoga mat set up.

“Are you doing yoga every day?”

“Yes, Renaissance daddy,” she says.

I hold up my hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was checking up on you.”

She gives a playful little shrug. “Maybe you were, maybe you weren’t.”

Is she being flirty? Or am I far too hopeful?

And the answer is, I’m far too hopeful, because whatever that was ends as she heads to her bedroom. And immediately, I’m wondering what it’s like in there. I want to peek around the corner, see her in her element.

I have to fight the urge to follow her.

Seconds later, she comes out waggling the massage gun. It looks exactly like a heavy-duty power tool, and it vibrates like one. While my rational mind knows there’s no way she’d use it in bed, my dirty mind wanders there anyway, picturing other vibrating tools and her.

“Sit down on the couch,” she tells me.

“Who’s bossy now?”

“Me. I can’t have my boss going to work with his neck all jacked up,” she says, like she enjoys saying that word. “ Especially when I can fix it.” She looks at the massage gun, then at my neck. “Tell me where it hurts, boss.”

She’s enjoying saying that far too much. I’ve got to stay in control, so I lift my hand and rub the back of my neck, indicating where it’s killing me.

She presses the button on the gun, and it vibrates with an intensity that feels like it could send me across the room.

“That thing is supercharged,” I say, speaking over the buzzing.

“Oh, it is,” she says, sounding way too pleased. But she doesn’t press it to my skin. Instead, she studies the vibrating end with some concern before turning it off. “I don’t think I’m supposed to use this on your neck. It’s too strong.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” I say, disappointment creeping into my voice.

Then, in a light tone, she asks, “Do you want me to rub it out?”

If I were drinking something, I’d do a spit take. Because yes. Absolutely yes.

“Sure,” I mumble, because I’m too deep into this to say no. Actually, that’s a lie. I could say no, but I don’t want to. I want her hands on me. Badly.

And I’ll take what I can get. She moves behind the couch, pressing her thumbs and her full weight into my shoulders. Her touch is electric. It vibrates through me as she kneads and rubs.

Holy shit, she is strong. Soon she’s working over my neck, rubbing out the soreness, getting rid of the knots, and making me feel so damn good that I am groaning.

Yep, I’m sighing and moaning, turning into putty under her hands.

“Mmm. That’s fantastic,” I murmur.

I can feel her smile. Then hear it in her voice, soft and warm. “That’s the point. ”

“You’re definitely making the point,” I say.

She digs her thumbs into the knot at the base of my neck, and I’m enjoying this way too much.

Especially since my kids aren’t around. It’s just her and me. I’m free to think about how much I want to reach for her hands, cover them with mine, pull her over the couch and into my lap, and kiss the breath out of her.

Instead, I reach for the gun on the cushion next to me, so I keep my hands to myself. I busy myself looking at it, pretending it’s an oddity I’ve never seen before. “So…you keep this in your bedroom?” I ask, even though I should keep my mouth shut about how she uses it.

“I do.”

I should stop. I really should. “What do you use it for?”

She presses her thumb deeper into the muscles of my neck, harder, massaging out the dragon’s egg. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says, teasing.

“I would,” I rasp out. “Does it work?”

“It works so well,” she purrs.

My famous dick control? Gone. There’s no way it’s going down while her hands are all over me. So I shut up, close my eyes, and just let myself savor this unexpected massage.

The closeness of her. The way her talented touch works wonders. How she’s so willing to help.

I sink into the couch and sigh happily.

Sometime later, I startle awake and look around with a yawn. Shit. The kids! What time is it? Is it night? It’s not dark though. I glance at my watch. Oh, it’s only forty minutes later.

But I should go check on them. Especially since…I look around Sabrina’s place, at her sparse yoga corner, still decorated with only a mat. It’s dead quiet in here. I’m all alone. I push up, scratch my jaw, then get the hell out of here.

Once I hit the main floor, I find Sabrina curled up on the living room couch, reading a book about coaching techniques. She looks up from it and says, “I checked on them as soon as you fell asleep. They’re reading, but I figured it’d be best if I stay here in case they needed anything.”

Like a responsible adult.

Wincing, I scrub a hand against my neck, relieved but disappointed in myself. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“No problem,” she says.

Sure, this isn’t the first time I’ve crashed midday on them.

They’re old enough to entertain themselves while we’re under the same roof.

One time, we were watching an animated movie about a plucky dog leading some kind of resistance movement when I conked out on the couch only to wake up with a bandit mask over my eyes—part of Parker’s Halloween costume and pretty damn clever.

Another time, I found a cardboard placard on my chest that said World’s Greatest Snorer .

Still, I should do better. I can’t be napping at the nanny’s.

Sabrina rises, closing her book with a quick snap. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says. “I really should prepare for my lessons next week anyway.” Once again, she helped out on her own, going the extra mile, like she did with the stars and moon.

“Thanks again,” I say as she makes her way out of the living room.

Before she leaves though, she turns around. “I use it on my calves. The Theragun. They get sore.”

And you know what? That’s still fucking hot. And I still want to be the one to use it on her.

“Let me know if you ever need help,” I say, my voice a little gravelly with remnants of sleep.

“I will,” she says, her gaze…is it hopeful?

I head to the staircase to check on the kids.

Before I reach it, she says, her voice tinged with nerves but also excitement, “Tomorrow’s your home opener. I can bring the kids. We should really all go, don’t you think? To cheer you on.”

I can’t think of a thing I’d rather have right now than all of them in the stands. “Yes.”