Chapter 8
Eight
ELLIS
“ Merde ? * ,” I curse under my breath, clicking the connect button on my computer for the third time in a row. As if moving two feet to the right will make any difference to the fact this building has stone walls. While I’m hardly an expert in technology, it seems obvious that four-hundred-year-old chateaus were not designed for their occupants to enjoy reliable internet connection.
Jean-Luc Perdue, the late owner of this estate, seemed to have strange priorities when it came to modernization of his ancient home. For example, the mirror in my en-suite comes equipped with adjustable LEDs, to provide the user with the most flattering light possible while brushing their teeth. Meanwhile, the stove appears to be at least a century old, and was filled with terra-cotta pots when Josephine went looking for a pan this morning.
Frustrated as I currently am, my lips twitch as I remember her bemused expression when she turned to face me, gesturing helplessly to the contents while Zoe and I picked at stale croissants.
That was the last I saw of them today, having headed straight for the library and didn’t emerge for lunch. It’s a comment on how well Josephine handled the trip with Zoe that I’m not anxious about leaving the two of them alone for long periods of time. I’m confident they’ll be fine.
I, however, seem likely to begin tearing my hair out before the week is out.
Not having a stable internet connection will be a problem and considerably slow down the process. I pride myself on knowing rather a lot about rare books, but I’m not such an expert I can make determinations based on memory and opinion alone. I need to research dammit, and by the looks of it, I’ll spend half my days going back and forth to the pantry—which Perdue evidently considered an optimal location for the wireless router.
When the failed to connect alert pops up yet again, I curse and snap my laptop closed, looking around the massive room with—not the first—stirrings of panic. I’m scheduled to present my preliminary findings to Weston’s board of directors at their Monday morning meeting. I was hoping to have some progress to report, but all I can honestly say I accomplished today was fantasizing about fucking President Sutton’s daughter over every surface in the room.
I really need to get that under control.
Casting one more desperate glance around, I redirect my focus towards the door. I need to send an email to Weston’s technology director for her recommendation, but the jet lag has been brutal. As the day has progressed, I’ve found myself staring at the same things for god-knows how long, my brain lapsing into some kind of exhaustion induced hibernation.
Even if I stand here for another three hours, nothing else is going to get done today, and I really ought to check on Zoe and Josephine. The upset in her sleep schedule, combined with a drastic change in routine and the addition of a new person in her life, is bound to have made today a little rocky. It’s only our first day here, and I’d rather not send her nanny running for the hills so soon.
Strolling down the carpeted hall which stretches across the center of the house, I shove my hands deep in my pockets, scanning the eclectic mix of contemporary and antique art hung in ornate, gilded frames. Most of the rooms are closed up, their furniture covered in canvas cloths and curtains drawn. Thankfully, the housekeeper took the time to clear out one of the living rooms across from the kitchen, and that’s where I expect to find Josephine and Zoe. But when I pause in the doorway, I find it’s empty.
Frowning, I’m on the point of going to check the gardens, when I hear warm female laughter coming from the kitchen. I freeze, listening.
“Oh no!” comes Jo’s playful exclamation a moment later, her voice lifted with amusement. “Careful, honey girl.”
Zoe’s familiar humming follows this, and then the sound of a mixing spoon gently tapping the side of a bowl.
Regaining control of my limbs, I move in a trance toward the kitchen.
The girls don’t see me at first. Zoe is standing on a chair at the counter, her face, arms and hair all covered in flour, and something sticky on her shirt. Standing at her side, Jo is in much the same state, and her smile is wide as she leans forward, holding the large mixing bowl in place so it doesn’t go flying as Zoe stirs.
As I watch, my daughter gets a little overzealous and a portion of batter spills over the edge, splattering on the countertop. Immediately, she looks at Jo, wide eyed in alarm, but the nanny only smiles, wiping away the mess. “No big deal,” she assures Zoe brightly. “There’s still plenty. Do you think Papa will be surprised you made him dinner?”
There are times I’m not sure Zoe is engaged at all with what we’re doing, or what’s going on around her. Often, she seems lost to her own world, one I’m not privy to, but that isn’t the case now. At Josephine’s words, she smiles toothily, bobbing her head as she resumes stirring. Enjoyment and excitement are evident in every corner of her face.
Behind them, a pot is simmering on the stove, filling the entire kitchen with a mouthwatering, savory scent.
“I think he will be very impressed,” Jo continues, and her hand hovers behind Zoe’s back to ensure she doesn’t fall in the few seconds it takes her to lean away and retrieve the salt shaker. “Will you cook with me every night? It’s so much more fun with your help.”
If someone offered me a million dollars to look away, I’m not confident I could do it. The way she talks to my girl… Merde .
Zoe notices me first, her eyes catching on me in the doorway and instantly going wide with excitement. With a happy yell, she hops off the chair and I kneel as she races across the kitchen, throwing her arms around my neck.
“Did you have a good day, mon coeur ?” I murmur, kissing her hair, and inhaling her familiar scent. “Have you been a good help to Jo?”
Looking up, I see the nanny hurriedly wiping off the counter, her cheeks pink. “I’m so sorry, it’s a mess in here. I was going to clean up before you finished up for the day.”
“Don’t apologize.” I’ll never let her apologize for a single thing as long as she keeps being so good to my child. Zoe untangles herself from my embrace and bounds back to Josephine’s side as I straighten up. Hovering in the doorway, I watch Zoe retake the spoon with enthusiasm. “Do you want me to take over? You must be exhausted. ”
She shakes her head, smiling at me reassuringly. “We’re fine! Almost done here.”
“What are we having?” I edge closer to them, hands buried in my pockets.
“Oh!” For some reason, Jo isn’t looking at me now, busying herself with gathering up items to return to the pantry. “It’s crepes. With chicken and vegetables. I’m not really familiar with French cooking, but I found a recipe book—” She hazards a glance up at me, and her words trail away.
What must I look like right now? Shocked? Awed?
“If it’s terrible, there’s pasta in the pantry.” Jo breaks the silence with a nervous laugh. “I have Zoe’s chicken nuggets on standby, too, just in case this doesn’t go over well. They’re the French brand, but I let her pick them out. I just remembered what you said about not eating many home-cooked meals, so I thought?—”
“It’s wonderful,” I cut across her worried rambling. Something is happening inside me, a growing warmth that has absolutely nothing to do with her lovely face or the curves of her body, and everything to do with her heart. Her heart, which I now suspect is somehow—miraculously—even more beautiful than the woman it rests inside.
Oh, for Christ’s sake. It’s been one day and any of my earlier hopes that living with her would prove we aren’t compatible have already been thrown to the wind.
“I’ll set the table.” Still, even after I’ve made the offer, I don’t move, watching the two at work.
Zoe’s occupational therapist is always reminding me to do the fine motor skill exercises she provided, but it’s an intensive, exhausting process just to get through a single set. Zoe hates it, I hate it, and by the end we’re both close to tears.
Right now, she’s cheerful and engaged, performing the same movements which have been such a struggle to teach her. Jo holds out her hand with a few tablespoons of flour resting in her palm and Zoe reaches out to put it, pinch by pinch, into the batter. The exchange is so casual, anyone would think the two had done it a thousand times before.
Moving further into the kitchen, I pass behind the girls to take some mismatched plates out of the cabinet. As I turn, however, I nearly run into Josephine.
Small, feminine hands come out, pressing against my chest to steady us both. “Sorry!” she squeaks, and seconds later, the whole thing is over. She’s gone, and I’m moving in the direction I intended, half wondering if I just hallucinated. The warmth where her hands touched my chest seems to suggest not.
I’m also hard. Painfully so.
As I set the plates on the table, I pause, closing my eyes and attempting to exercise some control over my body. It’s futile, and my mind is flooded with memories of her body moving with mine, taking mine . What is wrong with me? I’m not a damn animal. Surely I have more control over myself than this.
Opening my eyes, I look over my shoulder, and my gaze drops like a stone to the curve of my nanny’s ass through her leggings. Apparently, no, I do not have more control over myself than this.
I gripped that ass as she ground herself over my cock. It was weeks ago now, and I can still feel the tight, hot grip of her cunt surrounding me, hear her breathy moans in my ear, taste— stop it. I grit my teeth, despising myself for my weakness.
I need some air.
“Would you mind if I stepped away for a shower?”
Jo turns to look at me, smiling reassuringly and oblivious to my inappropriate preoccupation. “Of course. We weren’t expecting you to be done so early, so dinner won’t be ready for a bit. Take your time. I promised Zoe we could walk back to the stream tonight, but you’re welcome to take her if you’d like some family time.” Her comment is offhand, but I can tell she’s trying to gauge where she stands in this new dynamic.
I wish I knew the answer.
While keeping professional boundaries seems vital considering my reaction to this woman, it isn’t lost on me that Zoe and I are Josephine’s only connections in a foreign country. How could I not, at least, treat her as a friend? Especially given how good she’s proving to be with Zoe.
Hands tighten on my shoulders as she begins to ride me, our foreheads pressed together, stealing kisse s— “Please join us,” I hear myself say, and warmth spreads through me as she brightens.
Jo tucks a dark curl behind her ear and glances up at me as she moves to wipe the flour from Zoe’s neck. “You’re sure?”
As if I could change my mind seeing how happy it made her. I back toward the door, nodding. “Absolutely.” Absolutely not . “I’ll be back shortly. I just want to get rid of the dust.” Fleeing when she makes me hard is not a viable long-term strategy to getting past this, but it will have to do for now.
As soon as I’m out of earshot of Jo and Zoe, I break into a jog, taking the grand staircase two stairs at a time and striding down the thickly carpeted east corridor to my room. I’m frustrated beyond belief, my cock hard as stone and unable to think of anything but the young woman cooking with my daughter just downstairs.
What is happening to me?
Yes, she’s a wonderful person. Yes, she’s excellent with Zoe and turns me on like no one has in my entire life. She’s also twenty-two years old and the daughter of a woman who could end my career with a single signature. Before we came here, I swore this would end. Now, one day in, and I’ve somehow found myself in deeper than I was before.
If I ever had a chance with Josephine, it’s gone now, and even if it weren’t, nothing has changed , except the fact that I’m her employer now, too. She’s not interested, and I refuse to be the sort of man who objectifies his much younger, very beautiful employee.
I don’t need to shower, but it would look strange if I walked back down to dinner with dry hair. For the sake of appearances, I stride into the bathroom, glowering at myself in the bathroom mirror as I undress. As though I can intimidate myself into not jerking off to the memory of Josephine coming on my cock.
I’m only half paying attention to what I’m doing, but as I go to set my phone on the bathroom vanity, all it takes is a quick glance at the screen for me to go hurdling back to reality.
Incoming Call: Miranda Perkins
Well, on the bright side, my cock isn’t hard anymore. Though even the most extreme case of blue balls seems like a good trade-off for not having to answer this call.
Gritting my teeth, I turn off the water and accept the call.
“What do you want?”
Through the phone, I hear the distant sound of traffic before a cool female voice responds, one that was once so familiar to me but now only turns my stomach. “Hello to you, too.”
“You’re not calling me to make pleasantries. Either you tell me what you want, or I’ll hang up.” I pace out into the bedroom and pull the curtains, staring out at the grounds.
Miranda sighs. “I’m just checking in. I got your email about taking Zoe to France. How long will you guys be staying?”
The email I sent over a week ago? “A while,” I reply vaguely. Movement catches my eye at the edge of the garden, and I watch as Zoe bounds into sight, her hair shining in the afternoon sunlight. Jo follows a moment later, and I can see her smile from here.
More traffic sounds in the background when Miranda finally responds. “I’d like to visit while you’re over there. I’ll be in Brussels in a few months for the UN convention. Are you staying with your mother?”
“No.”
A quiet noise of frustration follows this. “Okay. Thanks for the clarification. How is she?”
Birdsong filters in through the open windows. It’s warm today, but not overly sticky and hot. I’ve been working to get a reliable internet connection all day, and have been struck dumb with lust for my nanny. The last thing I want to do right now is talk to the woman who set my life on fire and walked away.
Jo and Zoe kneel beside one of the raised garden beds, Jo pointing to things, her mouth moving in words I wish I could hear. “She’s wonderful,” I admit, wishing I could throw the phone at the wall and it would dismiss Miranda Perkins from my life forever. “I think the country will suit her. She seems to like it here. The transition hasn’t been difficult so far.”
Miranda laughs airily. “The land of her people. She always was a lot more like you than me.”
“How would you know?” I lash out, unable to contain the sudden rise of bitter frustration. “You left when she was three years old.”
It’s unnecessary to be this hostile. I know that. So much tension could be avoided if I simply got over it and learned to live with the knowledge that neither I, nor our daughter, was enough for my ex-wife. How can I, though? When she insists on keeping one foot in our life and the other out, neither staying for good nor leaving forever .
For a moment, I think she’s going to hang up, and it fills me with a surge of vicious pleasure that I’ve hurt her even a fraction of how much she’s hurt me. Then, “Well. It was a pleasure as always, Ellis,” Miranda says, sounding more weary than anything else. “I’ll be in touch when my travel plans become a little more concrete.”
“You’re not coming to see her,” I snap, watching Jo show Zoe how to cut what must be herbs from the raised garden bed. My daughter looks so happy, so carefree as the pair head back to the chateau, racing ahead with her hair streaming in the breeze.
How could her own mother not see how incredible she is? What a miracle? My heart wrenches and, before Miranda can do more than make a noise of protest, I end the call.
Below, Josephine has paused, looking back across the grounds. Her head falls back, enjoying a few seconds of sunshine on her face, and my breath catches in my throat. How could any man look at her and not be struck dumb? Is it any wonder I can’t keep it together when she looks like that in leggings?
The breeze ruffles the ends of her hair as she looks up, and, as though she can sense my gaze, her eyes turn up toward the house. I freeze, suddenly conscious that I’ve stripped down to my briefs and that getting caught staring at my twenty-two-year-old nanny while barely clothed is hardly a display of the professionalism I promised her.
The sun is bright, though, and I relax slightly as she turns back toward the house, following Zoe without any indication I’ve been caught.
I groan, staring down at my erection, which is straining and just as viciously hard as it was before I got Miranda’s call. God help me.
Turning on my heel, I stride toward the bathroom. Before I get in the shower, I turn on the water as cold as it will go.
* ? Shit