“We could get extra-large beanbags, Daddy,” Belle says.
There’s no room left on the bottom bunk, so I kneel next to Ronan. He reads the story like the actor he is, playing all the parts, even using a falsetto for the mommy mouse.
He’s almost on the last page when his phone rings.
He looks at the screen, and his face darkens. Tension seems to roll off him.
“It’s your mom,” he says to Belle, and he answers the phone with a clipped yet civil, “Hello.”
Belle frowns and hugs the book they’d been reading.
Belle’s mom has called to speak with her a few times since I started working here. I’m not sure what the conversations entail, but she’s usually withdrawn after.
“Your mom wants to talk to you,” Ronan says, passing the phone to Belle.
“H-hello,” she says.
“I’ll just leave now,” I whisper, not wanting to intrude. “Good night, little one.” I leave as quietly and quickly as I can. The peaceful room now has a heavy energy. I shut the door and walk down the hall until all I can hear are muffled voices.
I stand in front of my room, deliberating.
I could get ready for bed and have an early evening. But I’m feeling as restless and overstimulated as Belle was earlier. When I get like this, painting helps empty my mind and bring me back to equilibrium. And I’m still not finished with my last painting for the charity auction.
So I spend the next few hours in my new art room, hoping Ronan will come downstairs to talk after putting Belle to bed, but he never does.
I know he’s fighting this because I’m the nanny.
But I want him to let me in. I feel like so much more. And I decide that when I get a chance to tell him that, I will. To hell with consequences. Ronan has been inspiring me to take charge of my own path. And it’s leading straight to him.
CHAPTER22
11 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS
Poppy
Sharp cries wake me.
I jolt out of a deep sleep and race to the door, full of fearful possibilities.
Ronan’s door on the opposite end of the hallway swings open, and we reach Belle’s room at the same time.
I enter just after him, relief spreading through me when I see her safe, asleep in her bed.
“Daddy!” she cries out, thrashing, her eyes half open and face sweaty.
“It’s a night terror,” he whispers. “The child psychologist in LA said not to wake her.”
We watch over her in silence. A few minutes later, she settles down and rolls over into a more peaceful sleep.
We walk out together, my heart rate settling back to normal, and I shut the door with a soft click.
Now that the worry over Belle recedes and the tension dissipates, I notice Ronan is dressed in low-slung boxers and nothing else.
My heart speeds right back up.
His gaze rakes over my state of dress—or undress. My shirt falls to mid-thigh, and all I’m wearing underneath are my day-of-the-week bikini briefs. Today’s proclaim that it’s Wednesday, which was what day it was when I first fell asleep. It’s past midnight, so it’s technically Thursday now.
Derek was not a fan of my quirky underwear.
