From the NYT Bestselling author of MISTER O, comes a sexy new standalone romance…
Let me count the ways why falling into forbidden love is not my wisest move…
1. She works with me every single day.
Did I mention she's gorgeous, sweet, kind and smart?
2. She works in my home.
Playing with my five-year-old daughter. Teaching my little girl. Cooking for my princess. Which means…
3. She's the nanny.
And that makes her completely off-limits…But it doesn’t stop me from wanting her. All of her.
The other nannies in this city don't call him the Sexy One for nothing. My boss, the amazingly wonderful single father to the girl I take care of every day is ridiculously hot, like movie star levels with those arms, and those eyes, and that body. Not to mention, the way he dotes on his little girl melts me all over. But what really makes my knees weak are the times when his gaze lingers on me. In secret. When no one else is around.
I can't risk my job for a chance at something more…can I? But I don’t know how to resist him much longer either…
Releases: October 17, 2016
Lauren Blakely writes sexy contemporary romance novels with heat,
heart, and humor, and her books have appeared on the New York Times, USA Today, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and iBooks bestseller lists. Like the heroine in FAR TOO TEMPTING, she thinks life should be filled with family, laughter, and the kind of love that love songs promise. Lauren lives in California with her husband, children, and dogs. She loves hearing from readers! Her novels include Caught Up In Us, Pretending He's Mine, Playing With Her Heart, Trophy Husband, and Far Too Tempting. On November 21, she'll release the edgy new adult novel THE THRILL OF IT. She also writes for young adults under the name Daisy Whitney.
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“Your language skills are better than your French-braiding skills,” she teases as she shuts her iPad.
I pretend to be insulted. “So not true. I can do French braids with my eyes closed.”
She shakes her head. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
“I’ll prove it to you.”
She tilts her head, and her hand freezes on her purse. “Prove it?” she asks quietly.
Somehow I’ve thrown a gauntlet I didn’t realize I was tossing. I do the only natural next thing—follow through. “Sure. Got one of those hair tie things?”
She nods slowly. “Yes, but . . .” Her voice trails off. Then she resumes the thought. “You really learned to French braid?”
I nod. “Hayden insisted on it,” I explain then study her face. Her pupils are dilated, and she blinks. Ah hell, I’ve made her wary with my remark. “I don’t have to prove it. I was just teasing,” I say, giving her an out. Mildly flirty comments are one thing—hands in hair are another.
A small grin spreads on her face, as she dips her hand into her purse and produces a black elastic band. “No, I insist. You were horrible last time. Have at it.”
She drops to the floor, scoots over to me, and with her shoulder, she nudges my right knee.
Hello, slippery slope. Funny to see you again so soon.
Her other shoulder bumps my other knee. There’s no need to think—I widen my legs more and let her settle in between them. I’m seated on the couch, she’s on the floor, and she waits for me to braid her hair.
As I stare at her lush, blond locks, the breath escapes my lungs. For a moment, it’s as if I’m hovering in a state of suspended want. Like this is the real line we’re crossing. Not me bringing her dessert, or touching the corner of her lips, or gazing at her face longer than I should. Not even sending texts about a pair of wild birds or making comments about showers and nudity.
Touching her hair.
Fuck, I love her hair.
I slide the tie over my wrist, then gather up some strands near the top of her head. “Confession,” I say in a quiet voice. “I watched a few YouTube videos after you taught me.”
She leans back, and I can feel her smile. “Like I said, prove it.”
“It’s on.” I focus on the task of separating her honey-blond hair into three sections, running my fingers through them like a comb. I lift the first strand and lay it over the middle one, then the left, gathering more hair into the next section.
After I failed at her first French braid lesson, I took it upon myself to learn. I don’t like not being able to master basic skills. A man should be able to braid his daughter’s hair.
And his woman’s hair.
“How does it look?” Her voice sounds a little breathy.
“Like it was braided by a man who learned by watching YouTube videos,” I answer.
She laughs lightly and leans into me more, inching closer. My hands still for a moment. I feel like I’m in high school again. Like I have a crush on a girl, and I don’t know what to do, where to go next, what to say.
The thing is, I do know. I just don’t know that I should. But I know what I want. There’s no doubt in my mind. I want to touch her, to kiss her, to feel her body press against mine. Even the chance to touch her like this is intoxicating, a rush of blood to the head. Her waves of hair are soft, and they feel spectacular falling through my fingers. I can’t picture a single thing besides running my hands through these strands as I kiss her, as I touch her, as she moves beneath me.
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