Three months of this woman in my house and I'm going to lose my mind.
I show her the list of emergency contacts. “Dad is first on the list, then my brother Slade. Then next on the listis my youngest brother, Tanner. Then my sister Josie. She’s living in Florida now, but she’s a nurse, so you can call her with any non-urgent question too.”
“Got it.”
“Jonah's up at seven. He'll tell you he's allowed to have pancakes for breakfast every day. He's not. Eggs and toast or oatmeal with berries.” I open the fridge and gesture inside at the ingredients. “Lunch is provided at camp but Jonah doesn’t like the chicken salad they make, so you’ll have to pack him something on those days. He likes turkey sandwiches, no crust.”
“Okay.”
I close the fridge and turn around.
That's a mistake.
Sadie is standing in the middle of my kitchen with her arms loosely crossed, watching me with those bright eyes, and she looks… perfect.
She’s in another sundress, this one green, and with that red hair, she looks like a flower. Like a bouquet you put in the middle of the room to bring color and life to it.
I swallow hard.
Any woman would have the same effect, I tell myself. Just so happens there hasn’t been a woman in this house yet.
Besides Margaret, of course. But even though she was Jonah’s nanny too, it wasn’t exactly the same.
And why is that?an inner voice taunts.Could it have anything to do with the fact that Margaret is a warm, grandmotherly type, and the woman standing here now is a gorgeous little firecracker? Is that why she’s been here two minutes and you’re already composing song lyrics about her in your head?
I ignore that voice.
I lean back against the counter and cross my arms.
“You can leave here at seven-forty to get him to camp ateight. Camp runs until three.” I keep my voice even. “Don’t worry about cleaning. I have a service that comes. And I’ll be out before you're up most mornings.”
From my back pocket, I pull out a credit card and hand it to her. “Put any expenses on here.”
She turns it around in her delicate fingers. “Metal. Fancy.”
“Pretentious bullshit,” I mutter.
She takes a wallet out of her purse that’s on the counter and slides the card into a slot. “What about dinner?”
“I handle that. Once I’m home, you’re off the clock. Dinner and bedtime is all me.”
“And weekends?”
“They’re off.”
She looks relieved. “Cool.”
I bite back the impulse to pry. To ask her what she’ll be doing on the weekends. To ask her if there’s someone she’s hurrying back to.
Like a boyfriend.
It stupidly hasn't occurred to me until now that a girl as pretty as Sadie probably has someone waiting eagerly for her to run back to his arms.
On her weekends off she's probably driving back to him. He’s probably very aware of how she looks standing in his kitchen in the morning light, and he gets to lift her onto the countertop and push himself between her thighs and taste hereverywhere.
I’m not going there. I can’t go there.
But it prompts me to say, “No guests. I’m not gonna make you sign a non-disclosure agreement or whatever bullshit, but I don’t want strangers here.”
