“See what I made,” Belle says when she spots Tiffany, holding up her painting.
“It’s not bad,” Tiffany says. “Though I told Ronan that taking language lessons would help you more. The children I was a nanny for in New York City spoke three languages by your age.” She frowns. “Are you ready? I have to pick up our dinner order before we head home. Even though your dad will be late, I want to make sure he has something nice waiting for him.”
“He won’t be home to put me to bed?” Belle asks, twisting her hands on her painting and making the paper bunch at the edge.
Tiffany’s focus has returned to her phone. She looks up. “Pardon?”
“Never mind,” Belle mumbles.
“Belle asked if her father would be home in time to put her to bed,” I say, gritting my teeth at the oblivious nanny. Ronan Masters is toppling off the pedestal I’d put him on. This woman may look good in stilettos, but she’ll crush the sensitive girl’s spirit. It’s obvious Belle desperately misses her father. Shooting a movie is bound to be stressful, but he’s rich and powerful. Surely he can arrange for a better fit to care for his child.
She looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Who are you again? Oh yes, the art teacher.”
She glances at Belle and says in a sugary-sweet voice, “You know that your father is a busy man. He doesn’t have time to put you to bed. That’s why I’m here.” She shoots me a calculating look. “That’s why I’m in charge. Now, enough dawdling. We have to go.”
Belle follows her out of the room with sluggish steps. At the door, she waves goodbye to me.
I wave back, a lump in my throat. I know it’s not my business. But, I decide, my jaw firming, if Ronan Masters is home on Sunday at the art class, he’s going to get my opinion of the new nanny. I hate confrontation and avoid it at all costs. Unless one of my students’ happiness or welfare is on the line.
CHAPTER8
71 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS
Poppy
I arriveat the lake house for Belle’s art lesson on Sunday at 10:00 a.m. Just like last week, I balance my art supplies and canvases. As I walk up the stairs, Tiffany barrels out the front door, wrestling with two large pieces of designer luggage.
Her face enraged, she glares as she passes me on the stairs, almost knocking me over. “Good luck with the brat. And don’t think I can’t see through your sweet girl-next-door act. You wanthimtoo. But if he didn’t go for me, he sure as hell won’t go for someone like you, with all that frizzy red hair and freckles.”
She storms down the rest of the stairs in mile-high boots, her obviously expensive luggage banging behind her in a way that makes me wince. I watch, shocked, as she fights to get her bags into the trunk of a black car I’d parked next to, slides into the driver’s seat, and reverses down the long driveway, almost running into the mailbox.
As her car’s tires screech in the distance, I debate whether I should go in and what I’ll find if I do.
I doubt it will be the idyllic scene of last week, with Ronan greeting me at the door, post-workout gleaming, and Belle’s sunny smile.
Squaring my shoulders, I decide they might need the distraction after whatever that was. On the bright side, I no longer need to break the news to Ronan that his nanny’s not Mary Poppins. Clearly, he realized that on his own.
“Hello!” I call a little hesitantly and rap on the door. On my fourth knock, it swings open.
“I told you to get the hell—” Ronan’s frown is fierce, but his breath whooshes out when he sees it’s me.
“Poppy.” He runs a hand through his long hair. I’ve never seen him look frazzled before. He’s always calm, watchful, self-contained. Now, I can feel the anger rolling off him.
“Hi!” I chirp, dropping all my equipment on the porch. What does it say about me that my first instinct is to take this man in my arms—if they can even fit around him—and comfort him? “Is everything okay?”
“Poppy!” Belle peeks her head out the door. In contrast to Ronan, she’s elated.
“It’s my favorite artist,” I say.
Belle is blissfully unconcerned with any drama that just transpired. I’m relieved that whatever happened hasn’t affected her. But it makes me that much more curious.
“Did you see? Tiffany left.” Her smile is radiant.
“Yes, we…er…ran into each other on her way out.”
“Father scolded her for not being nice enough to me. And she got mad. And then he overheard her say that she took sneaky pictures of him and was going to sell them to a tabloid.”
“W-what?”
