Broken Daddy: A Single Dad & Nanny Romance

by Blake North

  “Thanks.”

  “Why is there a car outside our building by the way? There’s no parking.”

  “Oh, that’s my driver. Well, Ridge’s driver. He’s supposed to take me wherever I want to go.”

  “He’s just gonna wait there?” She asks suspiciously.

  “I guess so. I’ll text and say I’m going to be a while. He can go get a frozen yogurt or something.”

  “Is he allowed to have dairy when he’s on the clock?” Angela teases.

  “Okay, yeah, he’s waiting,” I say, “I texted and he says to take as long as I need. That it’s no problem.”

  “Bet it bugs you that he’s waiting,” Angela says.

  “Yeah. I don’t like making people wait. It’s why I’m early all the time.”

  “I know. Believe me. But since he’s gonna wait, at least tell me how it went. Did you have to solve a Rubik’s Cube before time ran out or defuse a real bomb? What did Paranoid Daddy have you do at orientation? Crawl under barbed wire?”

  “No. He gave me a lot of information about the little girl and he, well, he explained why he’s so hardcore about her safety right now. There’s a possible threat against him through work. I still think he’s overboard, but he’s got his reasons.”

  “You like him. Does he look like that English guy from The Nanny?”

  “No. I loved that show when I was little, though. Ugh, but I don’t want to think about that. I’m there to take care of Lydia—she’s adorable, total handful, though. It’s definitely not going to be boring. And Mrs. Whitman, the housekeeper, is an amazing cook. I haven’t really got to talk to her yet, but—”

  “Sorry if I don’t care much about the old lady. Tell me about the guy.”

  “There is no guy. Are you referring to my boss?” I say, hedging.

  “The guy you said was as hot as the Rock. And you know how I feel about the Rock. That was a serious comparison.”

  “I work for him. I wish he was old or ugly or, you know, married, which would be easier. I’m there to do a job.”

  “Are you okay there?” she says. She puts her hand on mine, and I know she’s concerned for me. I nod.

  “I’m good. I’ve got a really nice room and my own bathroom. I have all the access codes. I have a panic app on my phone in case shit goes south. I’ve been all over the house and there’s no Bluebeard’s chamber, no west wing from Beauty and the Beast. Nothing but some high-tech security that is in place to keep Lydia safe.”

  “It sounds creepy. Are there bars on the window?”

  “No! Although there’s probably alarms and bulletproof glass if I think about it. Anyway, how was work for you?”

  “Work was boring as usual. I brought home leftover cream horns if you want one.”

  “If I want one? When have I ever been awake and not wanted a cream horn? Did the Muffin Hottie not come in again today?”

  “It’s been three days. I’m afraid he’s gone low carb. Look, I manage a bakery. The customers are mostly fat women like me. The lone attractive man needs to stick to his schedule. I wasted eyeliner three days running. He didn’t show up. I made Jill promise to call me if he came in on my break. I mean, sure he’s never said more than five words to me, but a woman can dream.” She sighed.

  “Maybe he’s working up the courage to ask you out, because you’re beautiful and funny and you save you best friend cream horns. Who wouldn’t want a woman like that?”

  “Even though you have a driver and a housekeeper now,” she points out.

  “You know I’m gonna miss you. And the first day off I get, I’m taking you out to a fancy brunch. Pick the place and we’ll go. Mimosas, Eggs Benedict, the whole kitchen sink,” I promise.

  “I’d love that. Unless Muffin Hottie has an imaginary crush on me, in which case I’ll be too busy banging him, and I won’t be able to make brunch.”

  “We’ll reschedule. Once you’ve tired him out, we can go for coffee while he naps,” I giggle.

  “Do you think he quit coming in because he knows I long for him? I probably stare,” she says.

  “No way. Maybe he’s got a cold or something.”

  “I thought he was writing me sonnets and picking out an engagement ring,” she protests with a laugh.

  “That too. He’s writing sonnets, but he’s all snotty, which is so not romantic. He has to wait until he’s healthy to win you over like the gentleman he is.”

  “I’d go out with him if he was unconscious.” She admitted.

  “I think that’s illegal,” I say dubiously.

  “I don’t mean I’d drug him! I mean he could be puking in a bucket, and I’d still go out with him.”

  “Do you have a lot of bakery customers come in puking in buckets? Because I am NOT coming to see you at work anymore.”

  “No, it was just an example. You know, he’s probably married. Anyone who looks like that has to be taken.”

  “Oh, I promise that’s not true. I have never seen anyone as gorgeous as Ridge Carter outside of a movie screen, and he’s single! Best I can tell, he doesn’t even date.”

  “Men like that don’t have to date. The women from the deli counter and bakery counter throw ourselves at them. They don’t have to even buy us lunch,” she says, joking.

  “I don’t think he’d bring a woman home where Lydia would see her. I have no idea what he does. Business trips? A mistress?” I pause and finish my Diet Coke, “I should go. The driver’s waited long enough.”

  “I’m glad you came by. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Love you,” I say.

  “Don’t stay up too late trying to figure out your boss’s sex life,” she smirks.

  Even though she’s joking, I know there’s truth to it. I shouldn’t wonder. I shouldn’t think about it at all. I would never have looked at any of my coworkers at the charter school the way I looked at Ridge today. Okay, so they were all women except for that one old guy who taught music, but I’m an adult and a professional. I should know how to keep my personal feelings, let alone my most intimate feelings separate from my job.

  When I go back to the house, he’s not out in the living room so I don’t have to talk to him. I’m happy to avoid him, I tell myself. It’s for the best except I feel disappointed. He’s exciting to be around. Going to unpack my stuff and to take a shower isn’t exciting at all.

  The new room is pretty and comfortable. I put my clothes in the dresser and closet, humming the addictive tunes from the Trolls soundtrack that I was forced to listen to today. I put my books and photos on the shelves and stay up way too late, but it looks a lot less like a hotel room when I’m done. I sit in the big comfy chair with a magazine while my hair dries, but I fall to slumber.

  A light knock on my door wakes me. I call for them to come in, thinking it will be Lydia making sure I’m still here. It’s Ridge. He eases the door open, waits for me to invite him in. He hands me a glass of wine, says we should make a toast to surviving my first day on the job. He sits on the ottoman at the end of my chair. I curl my legs beneath me, aware of my damp hair, my pink pajamas that are worn and cozy. I’m not wearing a bra, so I cross my arms self-consciously to cover myself, nervous. I set the wine on the table.

  “Why are you really here in my room?” I ask him boldly.

  “For this,” he says.

  Ridge leans toward me, his hand beside my head braced on the chair. His mouth covers mine. Oh! I almost shout at the shock of sensation when he kisses me because it’s so invigorating. Once he’s touched me, I’ve lost all restraint. I run my hands greedily across his muscular chest. He’s the sexiest, most manly man I’ve ever touched. He’s so big and powerful looming over me in the chair with his eyes gone dark and lusty. His thigh nudges my legs open. I’m hot and wet for him already. I feel sweaty and restless, my fingers plucking at his buttons as his tongue works in my mouth. I’m moaning and riding against his thick thigh, rubbing hard, desperate for friction. I’m not embarrassed, not inhibited at all. I’m clutching him, tea
ring at his clothes, reaching for what I know he can give me.

  Ridge kisses my neck, sending shivers of long-awaited delight through me. He strips off my pajamas and his hands are rough and delicious on my hot skin. The scrape of his palm on my nipple makes me bite his lip. He buries his face in my breasts, licking and sucking first one nipple and then the other. I’m tossing my head back and forth on the chair cushion, driven out of my mind with wanting him. When he puts his fingers between my legs, I start to cry out in so much pleasure it’s almost painful.

  Ridge covers my mouth with his hand. My eyes fly open in fear. “Hush, no one can hear!” he whispers urgently, the hard ridge of his erection against my leg. I shudder with even more excitement. It’s forbidden. It’s secret. We have to be quiet. I can’t scream no matter what he does to me. Oh, this is going to be even more amazing. I nod, lick his palm to let him know I want him, that I want it this way, hot and silent and furious.

  He kisses me again, taking my cries into his mouth as he works his fingers, his wicked, taunting fingers around my wet, aching core. I’m silently begging him with my whimpers. I want him so much. My whole body throbs with need, with the focus of my entire body and consciousness in that one spot where I need him to please.

  I hear the rasp of his zipper and I nearly scream for him to fuck me already but I bite down on his shoulder instead, to keep myself quiet. He makes a low growl as he presses the slick, velvet tip of his cock against my cleft. I dig my fingers into his shoulder blades, whimpering a plea for him to hurry. I can’t stand it. I can’t wait another second to have him inside of me. I’m saying his name. Ridge. Ridge!

  At last, when I think I will faint if he doesn’t take me soon, he grabs my leg, pushing it out straight, hitching the other knee up to my chest so he can go deeper. He thrusts into me, one full, hard push all the way in to the hilt. The pressure, the fullness of him inside me is a shock. He’s so big and so hard for me. I start grinding against him for even more sensation. I wrap my free leg around his hips to keep him close.

  Ridge is looking in my eyes while he’s deep inside me. It’s so intimate, such a flash of almost supernatural closeness that I reach up and kiss him. I can’t stand not kissing him. He’s an incredible kisser. He brings shivers to the very tips of my fingers when he slides his tongue in my mouth. He’s thrusting, ramming his giant member inside me as I pant against his lips. I’m clinging to his shoulders. His arm goes around me, pulling me against his chest, flattening my achy breasts against all that hard muscle. He is masterful, moving, stroking, holding me tight and taking me higher. When I start to groan, start to make needy sounds, he covers my mouth with his to swallow my cries as he pulls me tight against him and thrusts. I feel the clench of my inner muscles, the flash of pleasure through me. My whole body feels like it lights up, awash in fiery bliss under his hands and the onslaught of his thrusts. I’m saying his name again and again like it’s the only word I know.

  Ridge.

  Ridge.

  Ridge.

  He’s moving against me, his tongue in my mouth, and I start to come again before the last climax is over. I hear the keening wail come from me. I clap my hand over my mouth.

  The sound wakes me up. It was just a dream. I was dreaming about Ridge, my boss, and what a dream it was. I have my hand on my mouth to stop the noise I was making. My other hand is between my legs, rubbing furiously and absentmindedly. I shut my eyes and feel the hot shame redden my face. I stop my actions even though touching myself released so much tension. I just woke up on the edge of orgasm from a dream about my new boss. What if he had walked in? What if Lydia had come looking for me? I’m in their home for fuck’s sake. I am so embarrassed. I jump off the chair, turn off the light and plunge into bed. I pull the covers up to my shoulders, curl stubbornly on my side and ignore the pulsing need of my body. I won’t finish. I won’t do that. Not when thoughts of Ridge litter my mind—what if I said his name aloud? What if he had heard me? I bury my face in my pillow. It’s a long time before I can sleep.

  * * *

  I’m exhausted the next morning when my alarm nags at me, but I make sure I’m dressed and ready, two cups of coffee in, when it’s time to wake Lydia. I walk softly into her room. Her hair is messy across her pillow, her mouth open, and arms clutching a plush kitty. She looks so little, even younger than she does when she’s awake and animated and talking nonstop. I sit on the edge of her bed, brush her hair back from her face.

  “Hey, little girl. It’s time to wake up,” I say in my softest cheerful voice. “It’s Reva, I’m here to wake you up. Morning time now.”

  Lydia doesn’t budge. I put my hand on her shoulder, “Come on, sweetie, it’s time to get up,” I whisper a little louder.

  Still no response from the kid. She’s either a deep sleeper or she’s as stubborn as I think she is. I jiggle her shoulder a little. “Wake up,” I say brightly in my normal voice, “Good morning, Lydia!”

  She grunts and rolls over, her back to me. It was not an adorable sleepy grunt. It was the kid equivalent of “Bite me, bitch, I’m sleeping,” I’m pretty sure. When I jiggle her shoulder again and say her name, she grunts and makes a whining sound, her hand waving back to swat at me. She does not like mornings, I’m guessing. The more I talk to her, the more I get furious, offended groans and whimpers from her. After about five minutes of no progress apart from Lydia trying to swat my hand away, I get up, scoop her up and stand her on her feet.

  “You’re getting up, kid. Sorry, but it’s time,” I say. I still have her under the arms or she’d be in a heap on the floor because she is refusing to stand up. She will not unbend her legs and stand.

  “Stand up,” I say decisively.

  “Errrnnn!” she gives a whine and shakes her head.

  “I’m letting go of you. You can stand up or you can land on your bottom. It’s up to you,” I say. She looks at me, a cartoonish angry frown on her little face. I let go of her. She drops on her bottom and sits there. She gives a frustrated howl, then tries to climb back up into bed. “Nope,” I say, and I pick her up and take her to the bathroom, “Use the bathroom, wash your face and hands and come to breakfast,” I tell her.

  I stand in the hall and wait. Eventually the toilet flushes and I hear water running. She grumbles and shuffles her feet to the breakfast table. Mrs. Whitman brings her a plate with waffles and fruit on it. She pokes it with a fork and leans her face on her hand.

  “Okay,” I say, accepting my own plate, “eat up. We’ve got to get you ready for school.”

  “I don’t wanna.” She mumbles.

  “You don’t wanna eat or you don’t wanna go to school?” I ask, impressed that she’s actually talking now.

  “Sleep!” she says, bringing her fist down on the table and rattling silverware. I grab my goblet of orange juice to stop it from sloshing.

  “Enough,” I tell her, “You’re not three years old, so stop acting like it. You’re a big enough girl to get ready for school without throwing a fit. But you have to act like you’re five—”

  “Five and a half,” she says.

  “Or you won’t get the privileges of a big girl. That means your screen time. If you’re going to have a fit and act like a preschooler, we can spend your iPad time learning your letters.”

  “I know my letters,” she says hotly, obviously insulted, “I have twenty sight words already, more than anybody in my class!”

  “Really? That surprises me, Lydia. I would have thought a girl big enough to read was big enough to eat her breakfast. Do I need to feed it to you and make the airplane sounds like I used to when my brother was a toddler?” I say, picking up her fork.

  I’m pushing it, but if I don’t want a war of wills every morning, I’ve got to put my foot down now.

  “No!” she says, grabbing for the fork.

  “Are you going to eat properly or continue to fuss?” I ask mildly, holding the fork out of her reach.

  “I’ll eat. But only six bites.”

  �
��That’s up to you. Your body knows if it’s hungry or not. But I’d hate to see you get tired and grouchy at school because you didn’t eat breakfast.”

  I hand her the fork and she eats a strawberry, glaring at me.

  “I eat faster if I watch TV,” she says.

  “We eat at the table in this house,” I state.

  She shrugs and eats part of her waffle. When she seems to have quit and is just playing in the syrup, I take her to get dressed. I put her fresh jumper and blouse and knee socks on the bed for her and tell her to put them on.

  “I don’t want that one,” she says, “I want the other one.”

  “They’re all the same,” I say, staring blankly at the row of uniforms and wondering why the kid needs a personal shopper when she wears the same thing to school as everyone else.

  “No, this one has the itchy tag!” she says, pointing at it.

  “Fine, I’ll get out one other shirt. You can pick which one and put it on. If you’re not dressed by the time I come back in, I get to pick which one you wear,” I demand.

  I go finish my orange juice and take my dishes to the sink. I tell Mrs. Whitman the waffles were wonderful.

  “She ate well,” Mrs. Whitman says, surveying Lydia’s plate, “That one eats like a bird most of the time.”

  “It was a battle,” I admit.

  “It always is. Looks like you’re winning though,” she applauds and I smile at her.

  Lydia is dressed when I return. I take a brush and some rubber bands from her dresser drawer and tell her to sit down.

  “I can wear a headband,” she says.

  “You did that yesterday. Your hair was all over the place when you came home. The rules say your hair has to be pulled back with a simple band or barrette or secured in braids. Today, braids.”

  “What? I don’t like braids.”

  “You haven’t had my braids,” I tell her, “I used to have really long hair, and I loved to mess with it. Here,” I brush her hair and French braid it in pigtails flat against her head and pin them up in back.