Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HAYDEN
I stare at the ceiling as the sun creeps over the horizon, pale light bleeding through the narrow gap in the curtains.
My restlessness used to be caused by the kids — midnight fevers, bad dreams, Presley climbing into our bed with her stuffed unicorn tucked under her arm.
But that phase has passed.
The kids sleep just fine now.
I’m the one who doesn’t.
Ever since Cora died, sleep has been…difficult. Elusive. Like something I no longer deserve.
After over a decade of sharing a bed with someone, it’s a struggle to sleep alone. The bed is too big. Too cold. Too…empty.
In the weeks following her death, I’d often dream she was still here, sleeping in the bed beside me, her skin warm, her chest rising and falling with her even breaths.
But her face was wrong. Blank. Still.
It was the same expression she wore when I was finally allowed into the ICU and they told me there was no neurological activity. No chance. No miracle waiting to happen.
The same expression she wore during the honor walk, the hallway lined with nurses, doctors, and staff as they wheeled her toward the operating room where she would give four people a second chance at life.
While her one chance was erased.
I’ve been on the other side of that conversation more times than I can count. I’ve delivered those words with practiced calm. Explained brain death. Advocated for organ donation. Tried to give them hope in its strangest, cruelest form.
Learning a loved one has died is never easy.
But after losing Cora, I wouldn’t wish losing a loved one to brain death on anyone, even my worst enemies.
Because the body lies to you.
The chest still rises. The monitors still beep. The heart still beats. It gives you hope when every rational part of you knows better.
I knew it was statistically impossible.
Yet as I sat beside her for those few days while they coordinated her organ donation, I prayed for a miracle.
That sliver of hope still keeps me awake, even a year later.
Despite knowing the impossibility, I still wonder if I gave up too soon.
All because I saw her chest rise and fall.
That image will probably stay with me for the rest of my life.
Abandoning all hope of sleep, I throw the duvet off me to stand. Moving toward the windows, I pull back the curtains to allow some natural light into the room, hoping it will help clear away the cobwebs.
But as I do, my eyes fall on a figure in my back yard.
Rowan.
She’s stretched out on a yoga mat, wearing dark leggings and a tank top that clings to her like it were made for her. She moves slowly, her body flowing from one pose to the next with ease.
The morning light catches in her dark hair, highlighting her slender physique. And her tattoo. The vines and roses curl over her skin, beautiful and intricate.
From this far away, it looks like any tattoo.
But I know what I saw last night.
A scar covered by ink, deliberately disguised.
I probably never would have noticed it if she hadn’t tugged her shirt higher. At first, I thought she was uncomfortable because it was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra.
And her nipples were rock hard.
But when she didn’t attempt to cover her chest and instead kept tugging her shirt higher, I noticed a red scar.
Now, I can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop wondering what the scar could be from. I couldn’t get a close look at it, so it could be from anything, from an accident requiring stitches to open-heart surgery.
Which is ridiculous, considering she’s in her twenties.
Healthy. Vibrant. Standing barefoot in the cold morning air, doing yoga like she doesn’t have a single care in the world.
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking off my concern.
Whatever that scar is, it’s none of my damn business. She’s my employee. The reason for her scar has nothing to do with her ability to do her job.
I force my gaze from her, continuing through the room and opening the rest of the curtains. But as I reach the last window, movement catches my eye again, and before I can stop myself, I glance back at Rowan.
She folds forward, giving me the perfect view of her ass.
And god… What an ass it is.
I clench my jaw, every muscle in my body becoming rigid.
Including the one in my pants.
It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted like this. Since my body reacted without permission. Grief and desire collide in my chest, confusing and unwelcome.
I close my eyes and press my forehead to the window, berating myself to get it together.
This is my employee, for crying out loud. She lives in my house. Takes care of my children. Not to mention, she’s only a few years older than my younger sister.
My twenty-five-year-old younger sister.
And I’m on the other side of forty.
The reminder alone should be enough to kill the feeling.
It isn’t.
My hand moves to the waistband of my pajama pants, and I wrap my fingers around my erection, giving it a few tugs. I moan, relief washing over me.
I should stop right now. The last thing I should be doing is jerking off while I watch my goddamn nanny do yoga as the sun rises in the distance.
But I can’t look away.
And I can’t seem to stop myself, especially as she lowers herself onto the mat, positioning herself on her hands and knees, her ass facing me.
It makes me imagine how she’d look if she were in the same position on my bed. Naked.
I rub myself harder, groaning at the image in my head.
What would she be like?
I may not know her all that well, but I have a feeling she’d be fucking incredible. She wouldn’t be timid or shy. Wouldn’t be remotely ashamed of exploring each and every one of her desires.
And I’d be more than happy to help.
She wouldn’t just lie there and make me feel like she were counting down the seconds until it was over, like it felt Cora did those last few years of our marriage.
No. Rowan would have sex the way she seems to do everything in life.
Without restraint.
Without fear.
Without shame.
I’m so turned on, I can practically feel her clenching around me as she screams my name. In reality, it’s my hand squeezing my dick and me who’s moaning her name as my release overtakes me.
I frantically jerk at my erection while thick streams coat my pajama pants, my orgasm never seeming to end as I ride wave after wave of bliss.
When the haze lifts, I don’t move for several seconds, breathing heavily as I struggle to wrap my head around what I just did.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Maybe my mom’s right.
Maybe it’s time I put myself out there again. Even if I’m not ready for any sort of commitment, I could use some physical intimacy in my life… As evidenced by the fact that I just jerked off fantasizing about my kids’ nanny.
I spin from the window and all but run into the bathroom, hastily shedding my pants and t-shirt, as if evidence of a horrific crime.
By the time I step into the shower, I’m wound tight with shame and guilt. The water is scalding, steam filling the room, but I don’t care. I need the pain, the burning sensation anchoring me back to reality.
Once I’m dressed in my suit, I slip out of my room and hurry down the stairs, checking my watch as I turn the corner into the kitchen…
And run right into a tall, lithe body.
Instinct kicks in, and my hand shoots out, steadying Rowan by the hip.
She inhales sharply, her eyes flying to mine.
I should let go. Put as much space between us as possible, especially when I feel that stirring in my pants, despite having just jerked off.
But my brain doesn’t seem to get the message. Instead, my fingers move of their own volition, caressing the sliver of exposed skin above her waist.
For half a second, neither of us moves. She doesn’t push out of my grip. And I continue to caress her soft skin.
She darts out her tongue to moisten her lips, and I snap out of my trance, dropping my hold on her as if I’ve been burned.
“Sorry,” she says nervously, lifting the baby monitor. “Jemmy’s stirring.”
“Of course,” I manage, allowing her to pass before rushing toward the coffee machine to make myself a cup.
Even then, the image of her lingers.
The warmth of her skin.
Her sweet perfume.
It’s only been one day, and yet she seems to have already weaseled her way under my skin.
And I have no idea what to do about it.