Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
And that was when the real work set in.
I figured Grace would lose interest after a few minutes of repetitive up-and-down, up-and-down stitching, but she didn’t. Mostly because Riley was doing a project of her own on the cat T-shirt she bought, and in working side-by-side with Grace, she kept her engaged and entertained through the whole process.
I think Riley might be Mary Poppins, after all. In disguise, of course, but she definitely seems to have a bag of tricks she keeps unexpectedly pulling stuff out of.
It’s the only explanation for the way she’s turned my roller coaster of a daughter into one who sits, smiles, and talks for hours and is now putting on a fashion show, twirling around the family room.
“I love it,” Grace whispers, looking down at the skirt and touching the seam she created with her own two hands. “Thanks, Riley.” She rushes at Riley, who’s still sitting on the floor with her also completed project in her lap, and wraps her arms around her in a tight hug.
I swear there must be dust in my eye or something. That’s the only explanation for why they’re suddenly watering.
“No problem, Grace. You had a vision for it. I just helped you bring to life. And now, you can create whatever you want.”
“Yeah, I can!”
With Grace distracted by her skirt, Riley meets my eyes. I expect to see ‘I told you so’ in her gaze, because I definitely deserve that, but what I find instead is a sparkle of happiness, and that makes me smile almost as much as my daughter’s reaction to learning to sew.
“Your turn,” Grace proclaims, pointing at Riley’s cat shirt.
Riley’s cheeks turn a surprising shade of pink, nearly matching her hair. “Oh, that’s okay,” she stammers, but Grace isn’t having it.
Not one to take no for an answer—and I should know—Grace pulls Riley up and pushes her toward the bathroom to change. “We want to see. Right, Dad?”
Fighting to contain my laughter, I press my lips together. “Yes, of course. Strut the runway, Tyra.” I gesture at the edge of the rug Grace has been twirling along.
“Alright,” she concedes, not sounding sure about this but willing to go along for Grace’s sake.
A moment later, she returns and my mouth goes as dry as cotton. I don’t consider myself a man with base, primal desires. I’m not attracted to women who rely on their looks, and I’ve never been one to chase T&A. I respond to people who are accomplished and capable, which Riley certainly is, but that’s not what I’m reacting to right this minute.
Riley is still wearing the black leggings from today, but she’s replaced her tank with the cat T-shirt, which should be ridiculous or even childish. It’s not, not on her and not now. I watched her add thick red stitching to the hem and around the cat image to outline it but didn’t realize the full scope of stitch witchery she performed on the shirt, cutting it several inches shorter so it shows even more midriff than she usually does. And when she walks past me, I can see the bottom swell of her breasts from my seated vantage point. She’s definitely not wearing a bra.
I shouldn’t care. Fuck, I shouldn’t have even noticed. And I definitely shouldn’t be shifting in my suddenly too-tight jeans, searching for some relief that my zipper won’t provide.
But I do care, and I did notice, and I am rock hard. All over a stolen peek at her breasts. Not even all of them, just the barest edge, which somehow only makes me hungry to see more.
Hand on her hip, Riley pivots, embodying a runway model’s sass for a moment before dissolving into giggles with Grace. Somehow, the whole thing is sexy as hell, which is so very wrong.
She’s the nanny. She’s young. She’s my employee. She’s not Michelle.
“What do you think?” Riley asks Grace.
“Mee-yow,” Grace answers, curling her fingers like cat claws and grinning. “Don’t you think Riley looks cute, Dad?”
Riley’s eyes bounce to mine, and I try to smile. I swear I do, but something she sees in my expression causes her bright grin to fade and instead, the air between us grows thick.
Or maybe that’s just your dick, asshole.
Smile. Say something nice. Quit staring at her like you want to touch her.
“Yeah, cute.” My voice is gravel, the lie caught in my throat. Riley doesn’t look cute at all. She looks fuckable.
Like a pink-haired fairy that I want to ruin with my darkness.
And that’s a problem. A big one.
Riley licks her lips, and my eyes zero in on her tongue and then her parted lips as she inhales slowly. She knows exactly what I’m thinking about. It’s obvious, and I expect her to say something snappy to remind me of our situation. Or at least to be repulsed by my creepy old pervert ogling.