The Two Week Arrangement (Penthouse Affair, #1) novel Chapter 28

Dominic

Sunlight flashes brightly through the windows of the limo. I keep my gaze on the passing landmarks and road signs, silently noting how much longer it will take to get home. My sweet little Emilia.

Fran called to tell me that the smaller of my twins had fallen and smacked her head on the marble floor in the kitchen. She’d called the pediatrician’s office immediately. Apparently, it’s nothing major. Doesn’t mean I didn’t lose my shit at the thought of my two-year-old having a head injury.

The sounds of the road and the glare of the sun don’t help this throbbing stress headache in the slightest. I don’t realize that my leg is bouncing incessantly until Presley puts a warm hand on my knee. She’s been sitting right next to me this whole time, quiet and close.

At her touch, my knee stills, but I can’t force myself to look at her. I don’t want her to see me like this. I have a hunch that the moment she looks into my eyes, she’ll see through everything I’ve been trying to protect, right past the guarded walls and into my personal life. I’m trying not to panic about that.

Presley is going to have questions. I had to pull her away from our arrangement abruptly, skipping breakfast and good-byes. Dragging her into my personal life was the last thing I wanted to do, at least under these circumstances. I appreciate how understanding she’s been, despite the strangeness of the situation, but she doesn’t need to be a part of this.

But I realize we’re already here, at my apartment.

I open the door before we’ve entirely come to a stop, ready to make a break for the entrance. Presley is scooting out right behind me. Before her feet touch the ground, I catch her hand.

“Don’t worry, the driver can take you home.”

“Is everything okay?” she asks in a small voice. The kindness in her eyes tells me she’s genuinely worried.

That makes two of us.

“I don’t know,” I admit. Eager to get inside, I make a snap decision I hope I don’t regret later. “Come on.”

The car door swings closed behind us, and we move quickly toward the building. I use my keycard to unlock the heavy glass door. I hold it wide for Presley, who then jogs to the first empty elevator and presses the up button.

She turns to me, her expression serious and calm. “Which floor?”

“Twelve.”

The usually charming ding of the elevator passing each floor is infuriating today as it rises excruciatingly slow and the doors take their damn sweet time opening. I jam my thumb onto the button repeatedly, trying to force the elevator to move faster.

Presley’s warm fingers find mine. My hand curls around hers, and I don’t miss the reassuring squeeze she gives me. When the doors finally open about ten years later, I drag her down the hall, then pull out my keys and unlock the door in one fluid motion.

“Fran?” I call into the empty foyer.

“Daddy!”

The familiar squeals of my girls precede their running feet, and in seconds, I’m on my knees with my arms outstretched. They maul me with their little hands, burying their faces in my shoulders. I examine Emilia’s head, finding a large pink lump on her forehead.

“Baby, what happened?”

“Boo-boo.” She whimpers with a big frown, her eyes welling up.

I pull her into me, kissing the top of her head. Lacey tangles her fingers in her sister’s hair.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, wiping away the tears that spill from Emilia’s bright eyes.

“Don’t cry.” Lacey hiccups, a sure sign she’ll soon be falling to pieces after her sister.

“All right, girls.” Fran hobbles around the corner and down the hall. She stops in her tracks when she sees us, tilting her head with an obvious question as she stares at me. Who is this beautiful young woman you’ve brought home with you?

It sure as hell doesn’t happen often. I don’t think Fran’s ever seen me with a woman, come to think of it.

Presley is frozen, her hands grasped in front of her. I almost chuckle when I see her expression—with wide eyes and her mouth hanging open.

“Hello, young lady,” Fran says, her voice warm.

“Hello.” Presley gives her a cautious smile.

“I’m the nanny, Francine.”

“Oh, I’m the—I’m . . .” Presley looks to me as if to say, What the hell am I to you?

“She’s a coworker.” I push to my feet, and the girls wrap themselves around my legs.

“Oh, a coworker.” Fran raises her eyebrows to me.

“So nice to meet you,” Presley says, one hand outstretched. It’s so fucking adorable how polite she is when she’s confused.

Fran gives Presley’s hand a brisk shake. “Nice to meet you.” To me, she says with a wink, “I’ll be off, then. Too many cooks in the kitchen.” And just like that, Fran has her coat and her mammoth purse in her hands, and she leaves us.