“Just for today,” he clarifies. Disappointment settles through me. Which is silly. Like I told Belle, I’m not a nanny. Even though I’m now without that substitute teaching job, I have a full schedule. But watching her for a day, that I can do.
“I know it’s a huge favor,” he says, studying me. “I’m sure you’re busy. I wouldn’t ask, but I’m shooting until late tonight, so I don’t want to take her to set with me again. Plus, she loves you. And she doesn’t love many people.”
“Of course,” I rush out. “Don’t give it another thought. I’m happy to.”
“I’ll pay you.” He names a figure that makes my eyes widen. He’s already been more than generous for the art lessons. This number is something else entirely.
It’s tempting. But I don’t feel right taking his money.
“No,” I say firmly. “I don’t need payment for this. I’m not a babysitter. This is a favor, not a job.”
He gives a small smile, and damn if it doesn’t make my breath catch. “In my experience, a person has to pay for everything.”
“Well, maybe you aren’t hanging out with the right people,” I challenge.
The way he watches me, like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to figure out, makes my stomach flutter. He shoots me a long, intense look, and I stare right back at him because I can. The view is extremely pleasing.
He breaks eye contact. “I don’t have time to argue now. But we’ll revisit this later.”
I may be a people pleaser, but not about this. I can wrangle a classroom of five-year-olds into submission, so he’s no match for me, even with all those pretty muscles. However, I don’t argue because I know he’s late and stressed, and it would add to his worry now. When we walk back into the house, Belle stares at us expectantly.
“Well? Are you going to be my new nanny?”
“I’m going to watch you for today,” I clarify.
“Yes!” She jumps up with a fist in the air. “We’re going to have so much fun!”
Ronan’s phone rings again. He answers with a short, “Yes?” He listens for a minute, then growls. “I’m on my way.”
When he’s off the phone, he’s all business. “The fridge and pantry are stocked. I have no idea when I’ll be back. This is for any activities or food.” He pulls out a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills and sets them on the kitchen counter. There has to be at least one thousand dollars there.
“Take the Range Rover. The car is in the garage. It has a booster seat in it. Here are the keys. You have my number, but if you need anything and can’t reach me, call this,” he says, handing me two keys and a piece of paper with a phone number and name scrawled on it.
“Emma,” I say, reading the name on the paper. That’s the girl he was on the phone with. “Your assistant?” I hope she isn’t a girlfriend.
He nods. “Sort of. Emma, my costar’s assistant, has been helping out since Belle came to live with me. She’ll make arrangements for a locksmith to change all the locks. I don’t want Tiffany returning.”
He leans down to Belle. “Be good for Poppy.”
She grins. “Poppy doesn’t need me to be good. She just needs me to be me. She says I’m perfect that way.”
“She’s right, as always.” His words give me a warm glow in my belly. He sets his hand on her head, ruffling her soft hair and messing up the intricate double braids. It’s been so chaotic since I arrived, I failed to appreciate the hairstyle.
“Are those braids your work or Tiffany’s?” I ask.
Belle snorts. “Not Tiffany’s. She said it was a ponytail or nothing. So Father did them. We looked up a new video. Tomorrow, we’re going to try a sock bun.”
“What in heaven is a sock bun?” I change my mind. “You know what? I don’t even want to know.”
“That’s smart. That way, you can be surprised when you see it,” Belle sasses, flipping her bright blond braids.
I try to hold back a laugh and fail. “You’re such a softy,” I say to Ronan. Even with his hectic shooting schedule and crazy morning, he still did his daughter’s hair because she wanted a fancy style.
It isn’t until he opens the door to the outside, a gust of cold air blowing in, that I realize I forgot to give him back his flannel. He grabs a gray coat from the rack next to the door and shrugs it on over his T-shirt.
“Wait, your shirt,” I say.
Silhouetted in the doorway, he appears larger than life. “Keep it. It looks good on you.” And with that mini heart-bomb, he’s gone.
