“Belle, who do you like doing your hair better? Your father, with his big, clumsy paws? Or me? Who gave you the triple twist braid bun? Hmmm?”
“I object. That’s leading the witness.” The little cheater. I’m competitive, even in the art and science of hairstyling.
Belle bites her lip in serious thought, then grins shyly. “Both,” she proclaims, pleased with herself.
“Very well played,” Poppy says with a laugh. “Now, go to your room, and I’ll be up in a few minutes to help you with your bath.”
I watch my girl run up the stairs and marvel at the change in her. Like me, she’s lighter, happier.
I turn my attention back to Poppy and can’t help noticing that she looks good in formfitting denim that’s faded and frayed. Her T-shirt proclaims that “Artists Do It Better.” I want to find out if it’s true. Her feet are bare, with toes painted a surprising red, making me wonder if maybe she has other surprises hidden beneath her casual clothes.
She gazes at me expectantly, and my mind draws a blank. My brain waves are still focused on what type of underwear she prefers. I immediately decide on white cotton, with delicate flowers, soft and pretty yet practical. But maybe, just maybe, her racy nails echo in her choice of lingerie. Skimpy, delicate red lace. It’s a conundrum I’d love to unravel.
I rub my jaw, trying to banish the sexy images that keep popping back up like the whack-a-mole game I once played at a local fair.
“Are you sure you don’t mind getting Belle ready for bed while we wait for the pizzas? I need to look over the revised script for tomorrow. Then you can take the night off, and I’ll put her to bed. You deserve some time to yourself. I haven’t been around much.”
“Oh—of course. You must want some time alone with Belle,” Poppy says, but her smile seems forced.
“No. I don’t mean—Not unless—” And that’s when I realize that this is different. She is different. With the other nannies, as soon as I got home, I couldn’t wait for them to retire to their room. I hated if they lingered after dinner, wanting to talk or flirt. It’s usually awkward having a stranger in my space. I can’t relax or breathe easily, and Belle normally prefers it to be just us.
But this is Poppy. I want her to have dinner with us. I want her to laugh and smile as we put Belle to bed together. I want to walk back downstairs and listen to her talk as the fire roars in the hearth and the wind blows outside. Peace and companionship. Friendship and heat. It’s something I’ve never known, never knew I even desired.
Now, I see how many empty spaces there are in my life. Spaces that Poppy and Belle are filling.
“When we were in California, we started playing cards at night,” I say. “Would you want to play a game tonight with us?”
“Sure, like Go Fish?”
“I’ve been teaching her poker,” I explain. And then realize how that sounds.
“You’ve been teaching a seven-year-old poker?” She tries to look disapproving, but she’s fighting a smile.
“She’s really good. She’s like a card-sharp savant.”
“I’m good at poker, as well. My dad taught me to play, and he’s merciless,” Poppy boasts. “Winner gets to choose the book for story time.”
“It’s adeal,” I say with a straight face at my terrible joke.
“Ronan Masters, your fan club will be so disappointed. First, you can’t rescue us from an elevator, and now, instead of sarcastic wisecracks, you’re telling dad jokes.”
But she doesn’t look disappointed.
She looks at me in a way that turns me inside out. And that scares the hell out of me. Makes me think that it’s safer to walk out the door with Belle and not stop until we’re back in California.
* * *
Poppy
I’m eatingdinnerwith Ronan Masters. I’m playing poker with Ronan Masters. I’m living with Ronan Masters. That refrain has been playing in my head all night, throughout our simple, sweet night of pizza, poker, and bedtime rituals.
I try to chill myself out, but I catch myself watching him, marveling at how large he is, at the icy blue of his eyes and the slash of dimple in his right cheek on the rare occasion he laughs. I recall him laughing a lot tonight. He’s different—relaxed, open.
After putting Belle to bed, I’m my typical awkward self. Ronan and I chat outside her door. Our whispers make it seem more intimate than it is. He asks if I’m going downstairs. For a moment, I hope he’s asking because he wants me to keep him company. But I can’t tell from his wary expression, and even though I’d give up triple chocolate chunk ice cream for a night in his company, he probably wants the house to himself.
I’m an employee. He has to share his house with a stranger. Of course he wants to chill rather than make small talk. I imagine he spends a significant part of each day fending off admirers. The poor guy doesn’t need one more in his home.
So instead of spending the rest of the night sipping wine in front of a romantic fire with him as I’d like, I sit in my new room,dreamingabout doing just that.
