Well, on my end, it’s far from that. I can’t lie to myself about the way my body reacts to the sight of Corrigan’s bare legs, her curves, her smile, her dark blond hair shining in the sun. Even just her eyes meeting mine sparks electricity down my spine and straight into my groin.
But professional is what it should be. That’s what’s best for Grier.
This silence has stretched on too long. I cover up the awkward moment by asking, “Are you getting hungry?”
Corrigan shrugs. “I could eat.” She looks to Grier, her mouth quirking. “How about you, little architect? Break for lunch, or keep bringing your artistic vision to life?”
Grier stares at her, then at the castle. “Want food now.” She drops her toys and toddles off toward the picnic basket.
Corrigan laughs and, getting to her feet, scoops my sleepy angel into her arms. “No? You’re not tired at all, not even the littlest tiny bit?”
“Huh-uh.” Grier shakes her head lazily, her lashes fluttering.
Corrigan winks at me, and oh God, it does way too much to all my organs, but I take it for the purely practical cue she almost certainly meant it as. I gather up the basket, the blanket, and all of Grier’s stuff, and start back to the parking lot as Corrigan follows with Grier.
By the time I’ve unlocked the car, Grier is down for the count, her head lolling heavily on Corrigan’s shoulder. She only lets out a barely audible mumble, popping her thumb into her mouth as Corrigan maneuvers her into her seat like a rag doll and buckles her up.
At home, when I take Grier upstairs to bed, Corrigan surprises me by following. Together, we watch my sleeping daughter for a minute.
Finally, Corrigan says, so quietly I almost don’t catch it, “Today was nice.”
“It was.” It’s been a long time since I’ve had a casual day of fun like this, and even longer since I spent one with Corrigan. “Although now I’ve got sand in places a man should never have sand. I seriously need a shower.”
Her mouth quirks. “Well, let me know if you need any help.”
I can’t resist the opening. “Showering?” I ask, smirking.
“N-no, I meant with Grier,” she stutters, looking away. “Just text me.”
I clear my throat. “Right. I will.”
After I walk Corrigan back down to the front door and she’s gone, I let my head thud gently against the frame. Wow, Lex, great job keeping your shit together.
She’s only been officially working for me for one day, and I’m already losing my grip on sanity. I clearly need to get laid ASAP. But it won’t be with the hot-as-fuck babysitter. Nope, definitely not.
Dammit, what a disappointing thought.
11
* * *
CORRIGAN
“Hola! Hola! Hola!”
The sounds of Grier playing in the living room echo throughout the house, loud and clear, even over my working in the kitchen. I guess she’s getting G.I. Joe and Flapflap in the spirit of taco night. After almost four hours playing in the sandbox at the park today, you’d think she’d be more worn out than this. But no. My little ball of energy is wide awake, despite me having already changed her into her pj’s.
“And what does hola mean, sweetie?” I call into the next room, wondering how much actual learning she did today, and how much is just her repeating what she heard me say.
“Hola!” I hear her squeal, followed by the familiar thunk of G.I. Joe being tossed against the couch.
Poor G.I. Joe. That girl really puts him through it.
Stepping away from my homemade pico de gallo, I crane my neck to see into the other room, double-checking that G.I. Joe was the one hurt, not Grier. Sure enough, she’s happy as a clam, swinging Flapflap around by one wing.
“Hola!” she says, waving to me. “Hola is hello!”
Holy cow, she actually does know what it means. This toddler officially knows one tenth of the Spanish words I know, and three of mine are mas, cerveza, and por favor, which I’m certainly not about to teach her. Still, helping her learn something new does my teacher heart good, and listening to her make her toys repeat hola back and forth to each other does my heart some good.
“Whatever you’re cooking, it smells amazing,” a low, husky voice calls from down the hall, and Grier hops to her feet, squealing at the sight of her daddy.
Honestly, I can’t blame her. One look at him in that fitted navy blazer, and I could squeal too. It only gets better once he takes it off and unbuttons the cuffs of his white button-up, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows.
What is it about a man’s forearms, specifically this man’s forearms, that’s so freaking sexy? And when said sexy forearms pluck the pj-clad toddler up off the floor, holding her tight against his hip? The whole situation has me split somewhere between an “aww” and a “goddamn.”
“How was your day, baby girl?”
I hurry back toward the kitchen, biting down on my lower lip to keep from answering. That was not directed at me, no matter how much I secretly would have liked it if it were. I should really stick to my pico de gallo.
“Hola, hola, hola!” Grier babbles at her daddy, her holas getting louder as Lexington follows behind me.
I look up from my slicing to see his brows knitted tightly together. “Do I have a bilingual kid now?”
“That would require hiring a nanny who knows more than ten words of Spanish,” I say with a grin, adding a bowl of homemade guacamole to the spread of taco fixings I’ve laid out across the kitchen island. “I was just trying to use taco night as a learning opportunity.”
“Hola is hello!” Grier says proudly to her daddy, her smile spanning the full width of her face.
My smile is just as big. “You’ve got yourself one smart cookie there.”
Grier whips her head back toward me, her blue eyes suddenly wide and wild. “Cookie?”
Lex and I exchange a long, knowing look before bursting into laughter. Smart as she is, this little munchkin is still completely dessert driven.
“No cookies yet, love bug,” Lex says gently to a suddenly disappointed Grier. “But, hey, these tacos look just as tasty, don’t you think?” He pauses, looking back to me with narrowed eyes. “You know you don’t have to cook, by the way. This is above and beyond what I’m paying you for.”
I shrug as I head for the sink and rinse any remnants of avocado off my hands. “I enjoy it. And it’s one less thing for you to worry about.”
“Well, at the very least, you have to stay to enjoy this,” he says, motioning toward the spread. “As long as you don’t have other plans, that is.”
“My other plans would involve leftovers and an early bedtime,” I say. “And I can never say no to tacos. It’s a rule I live by.”
“Smart girl,” he murmurs with a chuckle.
While I situate Grier in her high chair with her trusty friend Flapflap, Lex takes the lead on building the perfect taco for her, all the while regaling me with a story of their last trip to a Mexican restaurant in New York. Apparently, one-year-old Grier had quite the thing for putting black beans up her nose, and dipping her fingers into the queso.