Nanny for the Millionaire's Twins

By: Susan Meier



 Ty’s gaze darkened until it was almost black, and she felt his cool withdrawal. Leaving the half-full bottle, he headed towards the deck doors, stopping for just a moment beside her. She could feel the heat from his body and the crisp scent of whatever aftershave he wore surrounded her in a cloud of masculinity. “Miss Ferguson.” He nodded, then continued on his way. The click of the French door let her know that he was gone in a swell of country music that was immediately muted; she couldn’t bear to turn around and watch him stride away.

 She hadn’t meant it how it sounded. She’d only been thinking of the idea of being held close in a man’s arms. The very prospect was laughable. Dancing was so intimate. The one thing she still hadn’t managed to shake in all the therapy sessions and the time that had passed was her aversion to having her personal space invaded. She hadn’t been held by a man since walking away. It triggered too many memories of how Jackson had held her and told her he loved her, only to turn around and use those same loving hands to…

 She shuddered. But she knew how it must have sounded to Ty. It had been an indirect invitation on his part and she’d refused before he’d been able to take a breath. Right after he’d called himself the adopted bastard. He’d looked at her lips and she’d acted like she was repulsed.

 He would think she considered herself just like Amy—a cut above. But he was wrong, so very wrong.

 Tomorrow she’d have to face him. He was living here now, and she would be here every day, helping Molly with the household chores and putting Virgil through his physio exercises. It would be incredibly awkward at best if they left things the way they were now. She should at least explain that it wasn’t him, right?

 She rolled her shoulders back and resolved that she would not have an anxiety attack in the next fifteen minutes. Instead she would take another step towards having a normal life. She couldn’t lean on Angela and Sam any longer. “Living in fear is not living,” she repeated to the empty room. Wasn’t it about time she started putting that mantra into practice? Wasn’t it time she did something about the one thing that still held her back?

 Her hand tightened on the handle of the French door. She’d be able to face herself—and Tyson Diamond—in the morning.

 It was time to move on.

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