“That true?” I asked as I slid in after Theo.
Brock didn’t answer but held out his phone. “Number, please, for Mr. West.”
I punched my phone number in and figured Brock was probably one of those silent types. Man of few words. Always on alert for danger. It took restraint not to roll my eyes at him when he peeked back at me in the rearview mirror. The man could at least fake a little small talk.
I buckled my seatbelt. Theo kept chatting about his favorite players on the Ice Dog team and how his friend Mitch once got his stick signed by the goalie. I listened, half-absorbing, half-studying him.
As a miniature version of Griffin, he held the same gaze with a sharp jawline and storm-gray eyes, though cuter around the edges with his baby fat still present. His hair, a tousled chestnut brown, completed the picture of boyish mischief and charm. But unlike Griffin, Theo’s smile came easily.
Bright, curious, a little too confident for his age—all compensated for his father spending too much time at the office, I’d bet. But Theo was endearing as hell.
As he talked, an ache grew in my heart, imagining him years from now, hockey skates slung over one shoulder, teasing the little brother or sister growing inside of me.
I prayed for a girl. Griffin already had a boy. I wanted to give him a girl. Would Theo be the protective type, the big brother who’d stand guard over her, warning off the first small-town asshole who tried to put the moves on her when she was twenty-one?
The thought stole my breath, the idea as terrifying as it was comforting.
I was still trying to wrap my head around the morning’s chaos. Seeing Griffin again, my heart had nearly launched out of my chest. Even more sinfully gorgeous than I remembered, especially barefoot and in sweats. That deep, steady voice rising above the chaos like he ruled the world. Which, technically he kind of did, given his wealth.
Theo continued to talk and talk, but I didn’t mind. I took in every word, analyzing it for valuable information, like about his favorite subject—recess. How the nanny he had three nannies ago made the best cookie-brownie combo bars and how much he loved eating them every day after school until Dad found outand fired her for not following the food plan. How he hoped Dad would make it to his game tonight…
My phone buzzed with incoming orders from Griffin.
Instructions arrived one after another, like perfectly organized little soldiers:
Theo’s Schedule: Drop-off and pickup times. A list of approved after-school snacks.
So much for baking cookie-brownies.
Hockey bag: Leave in the SUV until practice. After every game and practice, make Theo take the gear back home and clean it in the guest bathroom and hang it to dry. Brock will buy him a new gear bag today.
Medical Info: File attached.
Emergency Contacts: Spreadsheet attached.
I peeked at the list, which included him and his brothers. And a woman’s name, Elsa. Presumably, Theo’s mother. The name alone sounded elegant enough for designer handbags and a size-zero wardrobe.
House Access: Building management has your name and permission to let you in.
There was even a labeled folder—Nanny Onboarding. Complete this application for employment records.
Then came the kicker:For professional reasons, it’s best we keep things all about Theo, okay?
My hand dropped to my stomach.What about the baby?
Needless to say, this morning didn’t go as I’d planned. I’d come to New York thinking I could handle facing Griffin again. Bringing a message he probably never anticipated in his orderly life. Clearly, I’d overestimated my abilities.
I scrolled through, torn between being impressed with his efficiency and mildly terrified and irritated with myself. One thing became clear: Griffin ran his life like a business.
I glanced at Theo, still talking a mile a minute, having moved on to chatter about a video game he loved. Cute kid. Clearly in need of attention.How hard could this be?
I’d helped raise two younger sisters. A nine-year-old boy couldn’t be that different. But once my news came to light, once the baby was acknowledged, would things change? Or what if Griffin refused to believe the child was his?
I hoped I wouldn’t regret this. I’d help him today by watching over Theo, but we’d see what this evening brought once Griffin and I talked more.
Ten minutes later, Brock pulled smoothly to the curb in front of an elite-looking private school with stone arches and wrought-iron gates. Kids clamored everywhere in The Thompson School-approved navy sweatshirts, sweaters, and khaki pants and skirts, and hurried through the doors, backpacks bouncing.
Theo unbuckled and turned to me. “See ya later.”
