Chapter 2

I woke before my alarm, the first rays of dawn filtering through the curtains. Sleep had been elusive last night, my mind circling back to the new nanny and her unexpected effect on Lily. In the two years since becoming a single father, I'd learned to function on minimal rest, but this morning felt different—there was an unfamiliar anticipation humming beneath my skin.

After my shower, I stood at my bedroom window overlooking the east garden. The gardeners hadn't arrived yet, but someone was already there—Nora, walking slowly along the stone path with Lily in her arms. She'd started only yesterday afternoon, yet she moved through the space as if she belonged there, pointing out flowers to my daughter, who watched with rapt attention.

I hadn't expected her to begin so early. Most nannies kept to strict hours, treating childcare like the job it was. But there was Nora, her chestnut hair loose around her shoulders in the morning light, already fully engaged with my daughter before the workday had officially begun.

I dressed quickly and made my way downstairs, pausing at the kitchen door when I heard Lily's delighted giggle—a sound so rare it stopped me in my tracks.

"Look at you, such a clever girl!" Nora's voice carried from inside. "That's right, the spoon goes right there."

I stepped into the doorway. The scene before me was disarmingly domestic: Nora at the kitchen island preparing what appeared to be oatmeal, Lily securely fastened in her high chair, happily banging a plastic spoon against the tray.

"Good morning," I said, causing Nora to turn quickly.

"Mr. Martinez! I hope we didn't wake you." A faint blush colored her cheeks. "Lily was awake when I checked on her, so I thought we'd get an early start."

"It's fine," I assured her, moving to kiss the top of Lily's head. My daughter beamed up at me, more animated than I'd seen her in weeks. "I'm usually up early."

Nora nodded, returning to the stove. "I've prepared oatmeal with apple and cinnamon. There's plenty if you'd like some."

I rarely ate breakfast with Lily. Mornings were typically a rush of conference calls and emails, with Mrs. Patel, the housekeeper, handling Lily's routine. But something about the warmth in the kitchen held me there.

"Actually, I think I will join you," I heard myself say.

Nora's smile was small but genuine as she served three bowls, adding a touch of honey to Lily's portion. She moved with practiced efficiency, clearly accustomed to managing meals and children simultaneously.

"Have you settled into your quarters?" I asked, taking a seat across from Lily.

"Yes, thank you. They're more than comfortable." She hesitated, then added, "I appreciate the extra bedroom for my son. Though he'll only visit occasionally while I'm working."

I watched as she gently guided Lily's hand with the spoon, encouraging my daughter's attempts at self-feeding rather than taking over. The patience in her movements, the natural way she anticipated Lily's needs—it spoke of experience that went beyond professional training.

"Tell me about your son," I said, surprising myself with the personal inquiry.

Something flickered across Nora's face—caution, perhaps, or the instinct to maintain professional boundaries. But then her expression softened.

"His name is Noah. He's just learning to walk, and he's absolutely fearless about it—falls down, gets right back up." The pride in her voice was unmistakable. "He's with my mother during the day while I work."

"And his father?" The question slipped out before I could consider its propriety.

Nora's movements stilled momentarily, her focus on wiping a smudge of oatmeal from Lily's chin. "He died in a car accident last year," she said quietly. "When Noah was just two months old."

The weight of her words hung in the air between us. I knew loss—had lived with it daily since Lily's mother died during childbirth—but mine had been cushioned by wealth, by the ability to hire help, to retreat into work when grief became too heavy.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words inadequate but sincere.

"Thank you." She met my eyes briefly before returning her attention to Lily. "We're managing. Noah won't remember him, of course, but I keep his photos around."

The conversation shifted to lighter topics—Lily's schedule, her favorite toys, the upcoming doctor's appointment. Throughout breakfast, I found myself studying Nora when she wasn't looking: the gentle curve of her neck as she leaned down to Lily, the fullness of her lips when she smiled, the way her blouse stretched across her chest when she reached across the table.

I caught myself mid-thought and inwardly rebuked the inappropriate direction of my observations. She was my employee, here to care for my daughter, not to be...appreciated in that way.

"I should get to work," I said abruptly, standing and carrying my bowl to the sink. "I have calls starting soon."

"Of course." Nora nodded, already wiping Lily's hands with a damp cloth. "We'll be fine here."

I paused at the doorway. "I noticed you don't have a car. How do you get to work?"

"I take the bus, then walk from the stop," she explained. "It's not too bad, though the schedule can be unpredictable."

The image of her waiting at bus stops, possibly in bad weather or darkness, with the responsibilities of both my child and her own weighing on her, didn't sit well with me.

"I'll drive you," I said, the decision forming as I spoke it. "It makes more sense. I can drop you at your mother's on the way to the office and pick you up in the evenings."

Surprise registered on her face. "That's very kind, but completely unnecessary. I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

"It's not an inconvenience," I insisted. "It's practical. This way, you can spend more time with Lily and less time commuting."

She seemed about to protest further, but then Lily chose that moment to drop her spoon, splashing oatmeal onto Nora's blouse. The fabric immediately darkened with moisture, clinging to the curve of her breast.

"Oh!" Nora exclaimed softly, quickly dabbing at the spot with a napkin.

I should have looked away. Should have excused myself. Instead, I found my gaze fixed on the damp fabric, on the outline it revealed. A strange heat crawled up my neck, my pulse quickening in a way that had nothing to do with the morning's coffee.

"I'll get you a towel," I managed, turning quickly toward the linen drawer, using the moment to compose myself.

What the hell was wrong with me? She was Lily's nanny, a widow with a young child, not someone to be ogled like a teenager with raging hormones. I was Anthony Martinez, for God's sake—I ran a billion-dollar company, made decisions affecting thousands of lives daily. I did not get flustered over a milk stain on a woman's blouse.

Except, apparently, I did.

"Here," I said, handing her a clean kitchen towel, careful to avoid both the damp spot and her eyes.

"Thank you." Her voice was steady, professional, giving no indication she'd noticed my momentary lapse in gentlemanly behavior. "And about the rides—if you're certain it's no trouble, that would be very helpful."

"It's settled then," I said, already backing toward the door. "We'll leave at 7:30."

As I retreated to my office, I couldn't shake the image of Nora's profile as she bent to clean Lily's face, the gentle curve of her waist, the soft swell of her chest beneath that simple blouse. The attraction was unwelcome, inappropriate, and absolutely not something I could act upon.

But as I tried to focus on the quarterly reports awaiting my attention, I found myself wondering what it would be like to see that same gentle attention directed at me—and why that thought was suddenly so difficult to dismiss.