9. Chapter 9
Naomi wanted to find a hole and crawl into it. How had something as simple as baking cupcakes turned into such a monumental disaster? Her stomach still knotted every time she pictured the bomb squad robot gingerly lifting the white bakery box.
“I’m so sorry!” she blurted out again, her voice low and urgent, her hands fluttering helplessly before she shoved them into her pockets.
“It’s not your fault,” Tony replied evenly.
His voice was steady, grounding, even though his eyes were still sharp, continuing to scan their surroundings as if danger might spring from the sidewalk cracks.
“And this revealed a serious hole in my security protocols. I should actually thank you. I have some issues to fix now.”
Naomi looked up, squinting against the bright sun.
His height forced her to tilt her chin higher than she expected, but it gave her a good look at the hard lines of his face.
Too good a look. “You’re not just a bodyguard or security analyst, are you?
” she asked, suspicion threading through her tone.
He didn’t answer. Instead, his hand returned to the small of her back, warm and steady, nudging her forward. He guided her away from the house and the insanity she had unknowingly unleashed.
That hand. That heat. The pressure was barely there, but she felt it everywhere.
It should have been disturbing—being maneuvered like that—but it wasn’t.
Or at least, not in the way it should have been.
It was… comforting. Thrilling. Oddly dangerous.
Her thoughts betrayed her, imagining what it would feel like if he draped that arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to his side and let the whole world know she was his.
Which was why she quickly inched away, deliberately creating space. She needed air, perspective, distance.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, stopping abruptly, frowning down at her quizzically.
“No!” she replied too fast, her tone coming out higher than she wanted. She winced. “I was just… I know you’re a kind man and I shouldn’t… I just thought that—”
“I’m not.”
His voice was flat, decisive, and the way he crossed his arms over his chest made the denial even more intimidating.
The movement pulled his tee-shirt taut over thick muscle.
Naomi’s eyes flicked down before she could stop herself, catching the play of muscle and the light dusting of hair on his forearms. Her thoughts betrayed her again, wondering if that same hair covered his chest. She hoped it did—light, masculine, not a ridiculous pelt, like Austin Powers or some parody of a seventies villain. Just… real. Just him.
“Naomi?”
She jumped, mortified to realize she’d been staring, thinking, while her imagination ran away with her.
“I’m sorry!” she blurted. Her face burned.
Tony chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating through her chest. He stepped closer, closing some of the space she had worked to create. “What were you just thinking about?”
Heat flamed in her cheeks so fast she thought steam might pour from her ears.
She spun away, walking briskly away, down the sidewalk.
“Nothing important,” she huffed, refusing to look at him.
Her pulse drummed so loudly she barely heard herself add, “I should get back to work. Mr. Peterson took the boys to his office this morning, giving me a bit of free time. But I imagine they’ll be back any time now. ”
“He’ll keep them at his office until lunchtime,” Tony said calmly, as if her panic wasn’t obvious, “and then take them out to his club for a meal.” His hand had returned to her lower back, steering her with subtle pressure, this time guiding her left. “You have until at least one this afternoon.”
“Oh,” she whispered. The word came out faint, betraying her sudden awareness that he knew more about her employer’s schedule than she ever could. She stopped abruptly in front of the corner café, blinking up at the glossy lettering on the glass.
The gourmet coffee shop.
Naomi had walked past it dozens of times, but had never stepped inside.
Ten dollars for a latte? Ridiculous. Coffee was coffee.
But with Tony beside her, his presence like a storm cloud and a shield all at once, she hesitated.
For the first time, she wondered what it might be like to walk in with him, to sit across from him at a tiny café table, sipping overpriced drinks while his dark eyes drank in her every word, every movement.
The thought made her knees feel weak.
And terrified her all over again.
She hesitated in the doorway, glancing up at him. He held it open, patient, waiting for her to step through first. “There’s a place on the next block with cheaper coffee,” she suggested hopefully.
“This place is closer.” His palm pressed lightly to her back, guiding her forward with that steady pressure she was beginning to recognize.
She grimaced up at him. “Do you always get your way?”
“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth quirked, the sound that came out was rusty, like he was out of practice. “Always.”
Naomi huffed, half irritated and half amused, then shrugged. “Fine. But I don’t have my wallet, so I’ll just get some water.”
Another laugh rumbled out of him. It startled her more than the first. She joined the back of the line, acutely aware of him standing so close behind her that she could feel his body heat radiating against her back, like a furnace.
Apparently, muscle generated warmth. A lot of it.
She fought an insane urge to lean back, to test if his chest was as solid as it looked, to imagine his arms wrapping around her.
A shiver traced her spine at the thought.
“Naomi?” His voice was low, coaxing.
She turned, breath catching as she met his gaze. He was so close. Too close. “Yes?”
“The line moved forward.” His eyes glinted with something unreadable. “Are you ready to order?”
Her cheeks burned as she turned back. Sure enough, the barista was waiting, smiling with polite patience. Then her gaze turned to Tony, lingering. Naomi’s chest tightened with a sharp, unexpected pang. Not jealousy. She had no right to be jealous. But still…
“I’ll just have some water, please,” Naomi murmured.
That was when she felt his hands, warm and firm, settling on her hips. Her breath stuttered, her heart pounding.
“She’ll have a latte with chocolate syrup,” Tony announced firmly. “I’ll have a double espresso.”
He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and plunked them on the counter. Naomi should have protested. Should have said something. But speech deserted her when his hip brushed against hers—solid, unyielding, far too perfect.
“And a blueberry muffin,” he added casually, as if nothing about this moment was out of the ordinary.
The barista’s smile faltered, the interest in her eyes dimming.
Naomi didn’t miss the subtle shift—the silent acknowledgment that he wasn’t available.
A strange surge of satisfaction ran through her, even though she knew it wasn’t true.
He wasn’t hers. Not even close. And yet, for the briefest moment, she didn’t mind letting the world think otherwise.
Tony’s hand slid from her hip to her waist as he nudged her toward the pick-up counter. Naomi followed, dazed, obeying his silent guidance. Their drinks were called, and when their fingers brushed reaching for the cups, she pulled back sharply, the spark of contact startling in its intensity.
“Why don’t we sit over there?” he suggested, nodding toward a small corner table by the front window. He gathered both cups, balancing the muffin neatly on top.
Since he had the drinks, Naomi threaded her way through the tables first, grateful the café was quiet at this hour. The commuter rush had passed, and lunch was still far off. The lull gave them a little island of privacy.
She slid onto a chair and folded her hands in her lap, suddenly uncertain of what to do with them. He set the coffee in front of her, the muffin beside it, and lowered himself into the opposite chair.
“Thank you,” she said softly, peeling back the lid of her latte.
Steam curled into the air, warm and fragrant.
She took a sip, the sweetness flooding her mouth.
“And I just have to say again how sorry I am about this morning. I truly didn’t mean to cause so much chaos.
” She sighed and traced her fingertip along the cardboard sleeve of the cup.
“I’m sure your boss is very angry with you. ”
“My boss is an ass, and has more important things to focus on this morning,” he told her flatly, lifting his espresso to his lips. His tone carried no apology, only certainty. “How did you get the job with Peterson?”
Naomi appreciated the subject change and relaxed a little, curling her fingers around the warm cup though she wasn’t cold.
She took a sip, buying herself a moment to think.
“He had an urgent need for a nanny for his two boys. Jacob will start kindergarten next year. Peterson wanted him to start this year, but he wasn’t ready.
There’s no way he could pass the test.” She smiled faintly, thinking of the little boy’s stubborn face as he scowled at flashcards.
“We’re working on his number recognition right now. ”
Tony gave a grunt that could have meant approval or disapproval. With him, it was hard to tell.
But he kept asking questions.
For nearly an hour, he let her talk. About teaching children to read, about what it was like growing up with a single mom, about her old neighborhood, her favorite childhood book.
He didn’t offer much in return, only short answers and thoughtful glances.
Every time she turned a question back to him—about where he grew up, what he liked to do, why he lived here—he deflected with maddening ease.
Changing the subject. Redirecting the spotlight back onto her.