His proximity pins me in the corner.
“What are you doing?”
“Uh—” We’re trapped in a cramped hallway with his broad shoulders. There’s nowhere else to look but right at him. “Using your bathroom?”
“I meanhere.In my house. Telling Caroline you’re my nanny.”
I place a hand over my chest and tip my chin high. “If byhereyou mean Boise, then I live here. You were the one who invited me into your home. And I think what you mean to say isthank you, Summer, for saving me.”
“I had everything under control.” He tucks his hands in his pockets.
“Everett, we’re opening presents now,” Caroline calls from the living room, and a muscle tightens in his jaw.
“Yeah, no. I can see that. Control is the top priority here.” I pat him on the shoulder.Twice.
His stare is so intense it’s intoxicating. Eyes roam my face and down my neck—sweep my collarbone, and appreciate the tattoo he finds just below it. I feel heat creep into my cheeks. Panic follows it.
It’s a heart tattoo with the wordstayin it, Summer.He wouldn’t make the connection.
I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time thinking about our encounter at that concert, but I think this moment might top it.
He leans in closer, and my back meets the doorframe. My eyelids flutter and threaten to close as his breath ghosts across my skin. Not a single part of him is touching me, yet I feel him everywhere. My neck, my chest, my hands, a warmth that’s spreading down my spine at his proximity. It spins up a tornado of butterflies that have lain dormant since the last time we spoke. I swallow down the embarrassing sound that fights its way up my windpipe, focusing instead on pulling an inhale into my lungs deep enough to ensure I won’t faint when I finally let it go. He lifts a hand, and for a moment I think he’s going to thread it through my hair. I anticipate his touch…click.
“You left the fan on,” he grunts.
Then he’s pulling away. Disappearing down the hall and leaving me breathless. And I ask myself, for the second time since I entered his home,What the hell just happened to me?
I take a few deep breaths. Gather myself before bolting down the hall. I whisk a cupcake from the counter and whisperMcDonald’sin Henry’s ear. I know it’s the only way I’ll be able to get him out of here early without a scene.
Forget saying goodbye; most of the adults I didn’t even meet, and the one I did is shooting daggers at me with her eagle eyes for interrupting Quinn’s present-opening. She won’t care thatI’m gone. And Quinn is four. In a week, she won’t remember any of this.
My plan works. Henry runs willingly to the front door and slips on his light-up shoes. With a good tug on solid oak, we’re home free. I stand on his front steps facing the reporters again, and the reality of the last thirty minutes sinks in.
I think I might be Rhett Dawson’s nanny.
6
EVERETT
People like to warn you about the lack of sleep you get as a parent, but nothing prepares you for the seven a.m. alarm chanting for pancakes as you hit the best REM cycle of your life.
Nope. The next time you get sleep as a parent is when you’re dead.
I shield my eyes with a forearm, blocking the aggressive rays that like to beat through my east-facing window. I miss the retractable roman shades of my Nashville house. Instead of a convenient remote, I’m left pawing the surface of a rickety nightstand, almost knocking a lamp to the floor before my fingertips close on the temple of my glasses. The once fuzzy edges of an ornate chest of drawers come into focus.
This house was furnished when my parents bought it—there are rules for living on this street. Agreeing to maintain the historical integrity of the outside of your home is one of them. The outdated clutter on the inside is not. They could have replaced everything and had the means to do so but appreciated its “antique charm.” I glower at the dresser that’s serving as a second reminder of how much my life has changed.
The mattress squeaks when I fling off the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. An irritating stiffness made a home in my neck from sleeping on this ancient thing. I make a mental note to order a new one while my parents are gone. They’ll never know the difference. But I have thirty minutes before Quinn starts school, which is not enough time to worry about it right now.
There are zero unread messages on my phone. I don’t know why I even check it when the one guy I’m waiting to hear from isn’t living with his own personal rooster. Todd’s on East Coast time, and he’s never productive before noon.
My feet fight the leg holes of a pair of jeans before I cross the hall to my sister’s old room. It’s the only space in this house that doesn’t look like a mausoleum of my childhood. Mom insisted on fixing it up for Quinn before she left. Said she wanted it to feel more like home for her. I didn’t have the heart to tell her a pink bedspread and dresser wouldn’t matter much. The only part ofhomeQuinn ever really cared about was having her mom in it.
With the door ajar, my daughter clomps right past me in last night’s compromise—the rain boots and Spiderman underwear she insisted on sleeping in.
“Good morning to you too,” I whisper to the empty room.
In a thousand ways, El was a better parent than me. Bedtime routines, good-night stories, and comforting kisses all came natural to her. The only thing I was ever good at was fun.
