The realization is so clear, so undeniable, that I'm surprised she can't read it on my face. I'm standing in my living room on a Saturday night, staring at my daughter's nanny, and all I can think is that I'm utterly, terrifyingly in love with her.
"You're home early," she says, setting her book aside.
"The party was terrible." I force myself to move, to act normal, to not blurt out what I just realized in the car. I drop onto the couch next to her, maybe closer than strictly necessary. "How was Harper?"
"Perfect. Asleep by seven-thirty." She's watching me with those hazel eyes, concern creasing her forehead. "You okay? You look... I don't know. Different."
Different. Yeah. Because I just realized I'm in love with you, and I have no idea how to tell you without scaring you away.
"I'm good," I lie. "Just tired of team parties."
"That bad?"
"Reaper was Reaper. Some woman tried toflirt with me. I left as soon as I could." I lean my head back against the couch, closing my eyes. "All I wanted was to come home."
There's a pause, and when I open my eyes, she's staring at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"You got hit on?"
"Yeah. But I turned her down."
"Why?"
Because she wasn't you. Because no one is you. Because I'm in love with you and everyone else is just background noise.
"Wasn't interested," I say instead.
We sit here in comfortable silence, and I'm hyperaware of every inch between us on the couch and the way her shoulder is almost touching mine. Of how easy it would be to close the distance, and how badly I want to tell her what I just realized.
But I can't. Not yet. Not when she's still calling herself ‘just the nanny’ and maintaining boundaries I'm desperate to cross. Not when telling her might make her run.
"I'm glad you're home," she says quietly.
"Yeah." I look at her, really look at her, and let myself feel it fully. The love, the wanting, the certainty. "Me too, Red. Me too."
She smiles at me, soft and warm, and goes back to her book. And I sit here next to her, heart beating too hard for a man doing absolutely nothing, my hands loose in my lap so they don't do something stupid like reach for her. I’m in love and terrified, and trying to figure out how to tell her without ruining everything.
21
NORA
Harper's checkup is at 10 a.m., and Tyler takes the entire morning off before I've even mentioned it.
"You don't have to come," I tell him over breakfast. Tyler is on his third cup of coffee, checking his phone, then setting it down, then picking it up again. "It's a routine checkup. I can handle it."
"I want to be there." He doesn't look up. "She's my daughter. I should be at her appointments."
He says it simply, as if it has always been obvious, as if he hasn't been terrified at every appointment she’s had so far. I watch him check his phone one more time and put it in his pocket.
We arrive fifteen minutes early, and the waiting room is full of other parents with babies and toddlers, the morning rush, all of us here with our appointment reminder cards and diaper bags. Tyler carries Harper in her car seat, setting it down gently before lifting her out.
She grabs his face with both hands immediately, and he goes cross-eyed trying to look at her, and we both start laughing. She’s six months old now, and I swear she’s started doing this on purpose.
A nurse brings us back for paperwork, and we settle into chairs side by side while Tyler holds Harper. She examines her ceiling tile options and finds them satisfactory.
"Weight?" I read from the form.
"Fifteen pounds, eight ounces as of yesterday," Tyler answers immediately.