Page 70 of His Surrender

How are you?

I’m sorry.

Don’t go.

I missed you.

Instead …

“I hope you and Liana had a good day.”

The instant the words leave my mouth, I hate them. Aubrey lets out the faintest, almost-disbelieving laugh.

But it’s not the amused kind of laugh. It’s hurt.

She keeps her head forward, still not willing to look at me. “We did.”

The elevator dings, and then the doors slide open into the penthouse foyer. Before they’re fully open, Aubrey is already reaching for the stroller with her other hand now.

“I’ve got her,” I say as I place my hand next to where hers is on the bar.

She lets me take hold of the stroller handle. I carefully steer Liana into the apartment.

Aubrey pauses only long enough to glance back over her shoulder. “Enjoy your evening”—a beat passes— “boss.”

The title lands like a slap. Then she disappears down the hallway without another look.

I remain standing in the foyer long after she’s gone. Somewhere down the hall, I hear Aubrey’s bedroom door shut.

I drag a hand over my face and let out a slow breath.

I spent one week convincing myself distance would solve everything.

Instead, all I managed to do was push her directly into another man’s arms.

And for the first time since she walked into my apartment a month ago … I’m not afraid of wanting her.

I’m terrified of losing her.

The silence in the penthouse is making my thoughts intensify.

I glance at the microwave clock for what has to be the fiftieth time—10:43.

She said dinner. Dinner doesn’t take four hours.

I swirl the amber liquid in my glass before taking another sip. The whiskey burns all the way down, but tonight, it does absolutely nothing to dull the restlessness crawling beneath my skin.

The lights throughout the penthouse are off. Darkness presses against the windows, turning the glass into mirrors.

I barely recognize the man staring back at me.

Barefoot, in only my black boxer briefs. One hand wrapped around a whiskey glass with the other planted against the marble countertop, hard enough that my knuckles have gone white.

This isn’t me.

I’m not possessive, and I’m not irrational. I’m certainly not the kind of man who stands in his kitchen, waiting for a woman to come home from a date.

She’s my nanny.