The Ten-Day Baby Takeover(16)

Aiden furrowed his brow. “Sarah’s no fun,” he said to Oliver. “I don’t know about you, but I’m good for at least another fifteen minutes.”

She smiled. “The water will be freezing by then. And don’t forget the schedule.”

“Ah, yes. The schedule.”

Aiden lifted Oliver out of the bath and handed him to Sarah, who had a towel at the ready. She wrapped up the baby, holding him close, gently drying his hair with an extra washcloth. Her vision drifted to Aiden as he climbed out and planted one foot on the edge of the tub and bent over to scrub his leg with the towel. She nearly bit right through her lip. His back was long and lean, his posture flaunting the definition—a railroad of muscle running north to that thick, touchable head of hair and south to a pleasingly tight rear view.

He dropped his foot and turned. Either she hadn’t had time to turn away or she hadn’t had the will. A devilish half smile crossed his face—a grin that said he knew she’d just committed his backside to memory. Sarah was petrified. If she shied away, she’d look even more guilty. It’d be tantamount to blurting, I had to look. You’re too hot not to look. But if she kept staring, it would be hard to stop and that would further chip away at her resolve. No falling for the impossibly handsome single dad with the adorable baby.

“You’re wet.” Aiden nodded in her direction, wrapping the towel around his waist.

Sarah shifted Oliver to her hip. Her dress was streaked with dark patches and clung to her thighs. “Oh, shoot. Yeah. I should probably get out of this thing.”

“Might as well get comfortable since we’re in for the night.”

“Comfortable?” No, not comfortable. I need to get uncomfortable.

“Unless an evening gown is more appropriate for story time. I’m still learning here.” He took the baby from her. They were ridiculously cute together—Aiden bare chested and wearing a towel, Oliver bundled up in his arms. “If Oliver gets to wear pajamas, that’s what I’m wearing, too. You might as well join us.”

“I didn’t pack for a pajama party. All I have is one of my nightgowns.”

“I haven’t seen your work yet. If I’m going to help you with your business, I need to know what you’re selling.”

“I’ll show you pictures.”

“Why? Too sexy?”

“No,” she blurted, not taking the time to think.

“Then what’s the problem?” He cast her a look of admonishment that left her quaking. “If this is what you do, you have to own it. You have to live it or it’ll never work.”

“I do live it. I do own it.”

“Then show me. I promise I’ll contain myself.”

She stifled her exasperation. “Fine. Everything you need to get Oliver dressed is on your bed. I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t take too long. I’m still figuring out this whole diaper thing.”

Sarah hustled down the hall in her bare feet, muttering to herself. “Great job, Sarah. First you get caught staring and now he talked you into half-naked story time.”

How had she ended up in this situation? Aiden. He was everything she hadn’t expected. Once she’d gotten past the get-out-of-my-office exterior and been invited into his inner sanctum, he’d shown her a different side, one that was unfairly appealing. He was nicer, he was more amenable, he was generous. And then there were the things his physical presence did to her, making her tingle in places that hadn’t tingled in more than a year. Not since she’d discovered that her employer Jason had been taking her to bed when he was in town and doing the same with countless other women when he traveled for work. She’d allowed herself to get caught up in their lives, and crossed the line no nanny should, and she’d paid the price. Her heart had been trampled by Jason, and even worse—she’d had to say goodbye to Chloe, his sweet, adorable daughter. That had hurt like nothing else. She couldn’t repeat that mistake.

She ducked into her room and closed the door, sucking in a deep breath to reclaim some semblance of control. She would not be her own worst enemy. Time to get her act together.

Her eyes darted to her suitcase, perched on the bench at the foot of her bed. Unless some different pajamas had magically made their way inside, she had exactly one of her designs with her—a midthigh bias-cut nightgown with thin straps. The black raw silk held a subtle shimmer, embroidered with delicate silver threads at the hem and demure neckline. It didn’t scream sexpot, but it wasn’t anywhere close to frumpy either. Just risqué enough to give her an anxiety attack. Her shoulders dropped in defeat.