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SUPER NANNY

Sabrina

It’s better than I remembered.

The chocolate, the nuts, the peanut butter, the caramel—it’s chef’s kiss good.

I take another bite of the NutRageous bar that Tyler left on the kitchen counter for me this morning.

I don’t think he found it while trick-or-treating with the kids. No idea how he got it this fast. But it’s delicious. And it’s mine.

Just like the house is today.

The kids are at school, then heading to Elle’s tonight. Tyler has morning skate and a game this evening. By the time he comes home in the afternoon to rest before puck drop, I’ll be teaching.

It’s good—this structure, this routine. It’s kept me from thinking too much about last week.

The week where I took a misstep—hard.

If I were making a list of what not to do, right at the top, I’d write: Don’t grind against your boss. Don’t tell him how much you want him.

But I’ve been Super Nanny since then.

I want him to know I can do what he needs—pretend it didn’t happen. So I’ve been excellent at pretending.

Perfect, really.

Isn’t that what all my training was really about? Being perfect. Nailing something. Achieving excellence.

I set the half-eaten NutRageous bar on the counter. I’ll finish it later.

For now, I grab the laundry basket I brought upstairs earlier and haul it to the next level, where I toss my clothes into the washing machine.

And that’s when I hesitate.

Just for a second.

I could check out his room. Just a quick glance. What would that hurt?

But what if he has a camera in there? And wouldn’t I deserve to get fired for sneaking around his bedroom like a curious cat?

I keep walking away.

Except...when I pass his room, I linger.

Just a little.

His bed is muted green, the pillows a dark gray. The nightstand has a couple of books and a phone holder.

I inhale sharply and force myself to walk away.

Back downstairs.

Back to reality.

I settle in at my laptop, editing some of the videos I shot last week. Then, I post one of my morning routines—a long session where I skated like my soul was on fire.

Pretty sure I was thinking about Tyler.

My phone alarm dings. I hop upstairs, switch my clothes to the dryer, and start the sheets. Once I move them into the dryer, I have to take off for my afternoon lessons.

By the time I leave, he’s still not home.

It’s for the best. Truly. It is.

Late that night, with the stars winking in the sky, the garage opens.

Then the door to the house.

I hear his footsteps, and my chest tightens.

I already checked the score. They didn’t win.

Tomorrow, he’ll be gone on a road trip. That’ll be a good thing. I’ve made it through the week, pretending nothing happened.

I curl up on the couch with my coaching strategies book, trying to focus, but I’m mostly listening to the house.

I know the moment he goes upstairs. The moment he gets into bed.

I yawn, stretching. It’s probably time for me to go to sleep too.

But when I walk into my bedroom, I curse.

I forgot to grab my sheets from the dryer earlier today. They’re my favorites, so I’ll just quietly grab them. No big deal.

I tiptoe upstairs, careful not to make a sound.

The house is dark and quiet, the carpet soft beneath my toes as I move to the second floor, then tiptoe along the hall toward the dryer.

I pull it open, grab the now cool sheets, then quietly pad back down the hall when I hear a noise.

A low grunt from his bedroom.

With the sheets in my hands, I freeze.

Did I really just hear that ?

I strain to listen, taking one more careful step.

Everything goes silent. The house is still, and I’m keenly aware of the darkness, the distant sounds of a city quieting for the night, and the hair on my arms standing on end.

Heart pounding, I inch closer, straining to listen.

Then the sound starts again.

A staggered breath.

A grunt.

Through the dim light and the slight crack in the door, I can’t really see much. Some movement under the covers, and my brain scrambles to process the scene.

No way. That’s not?—

Is it?

My breath catches. My pulse skitters wildly, beating so fast it’s like a cartoon character scampering down the street at a million miles an hour.

For one wild second, I debate pushing the door open, verifying with my own eyes.

But self-preservation kicks in. And respect for privacy.

I bolt.

Rushing along the hall, then flying down the stairs, I slip away before I’m caught. Before he realizes I was lingering outside his bedroom door for a few dangerous seconds.

Wondering.

Hoping.

Warring with myself over whether I should push that door open or not.

I land in the kitchen and press a hand against my chest. Swallow. Rewind and replay. Again and again.

I’m warm everywhere. My skin buzzes, adrenaline rushing through me.

I better move, though, just in case he gets up, calls out, “Who’s there? ”

I hurdle down the stairs to my apartment, fumble with the keypad, yank the door open, and slam it shut behind me.

A long beat.

I imagine him pushing out of bed, pulling on shorts, padding downstairs, knocking on my door, and asking with a cocky challenge in his gravelly voice: “Did you want to come in?”

Or maybe…

“Why did you leave so quickly? Are you afraid it’ll turn you on too much?”

A burst of pleasure flickers inside me, then ignites like a firework lighting up the night sky. It radiates from my chest, down my arms, to my fingertips. I tingle everywhere. I’m electric.

And wickedly, completely aroused.

The thought of that sexy man taking matters into his own hands is doing wild things to me.

I can’t catch my breath. I’m not even sure I want to. I just want to linger in this hazy, heady sensation where everything is golden and hot.

But I have to get it together.

Make my bed. Go to sleep. Do my job tomorrow at the skating rink since I have lessons.

But even as I yank off the quilt and smooth out the sheets, I can’t unsee what I almost saw.

What I wanted to see.

I yank the sheets over the corners, trying desperately to focus on the mundane act to distract my mind.

But once I’m in bed under the covers, I picture him again, filling in the paint-by-numbers of a man alone in bed at night.

His strong body stretched out. His forearm flexing.

Veins protruding. Fist curled around his cock, stroking hard.

I gasp. Then moan.

Oh god .

This is not helpful. I am not going to sleep like this.

I fumble for my phone, needing something—anything—to distract myself.

A book? A podcast? Texting with friends?

All appealing.

But what I should do is focus on work. Yes, that’ll do the trick.

I hop onto my social media to check for messages from potential clients. The perfect distraction. When I land there, I see a notification waiting for me.

My brow furrows.

It’s a heart on the skating video I posted this morning.

From Falcon Defender.

Oh. My. God.

I click on the profile.

It’s Tyler.

He doesn’t post much, but this is him. This is definitely him. There are pictures of him with the kids. Laughing. Taking them on a picnic. Visiting an animal rescue. At a hockey game.

And then—nearly a year ago—a photo of him and me the night I performed at a game.

“Big figure-skating fan!”

That’s all he says, and it’s lovely. But that’s not what lights me up. It’s the timestamp on the heart on my video.

From five minutes ago.

Five minutes ago.

When I was in the hall outside his room.

Five minutes ago.

When I heard that grunt.

My stomach flips again. He was watching my video in bed.