“What do you think of Rowan?” I ask as I rinse the suds away. “Would you want her to play with you during the day?”
He looks at me. “Dino?”
I laugh. “Yeah, bud. I’m pretty sure she’d have no problem playing dinosaur with you. Or building racetracks. Or playing giant in the forest.”
His eyes brighten, as if I just promised him a pet T-Rex.
“Does that mean you think I should hire her?”
“Yes,” he declares.
Then he picks up his dinosaur and dive-bombs it into the tub, another tsunami of water splashing over the ledge.
By the time I carry a now-dry version of Jemmy downstairs, the house feels different. Cleaner. Brighter. Like someone turned the contrast up.
The smell of burnt cheese and bread that had permeated the kitchen twenty minutes ago is gone. In its place is something clean and lemony. The clutter that once covered every surface has vanished. And there’s music playing in the background. For a second, I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and am in a different world.
Until my eyes land on the kitchen table. Rowan sits beside Presley, both of them taking turns making doodles and sketches in Presley’s pad. Even better, Presley’s plate has essentially been wiped clean, only a few crumbs remaining.
But that’s not what stops me in my tracks.
It’s Presley’s smile.
I don’t think she ever smiled around the other nannies.
Hell, I don’t think she’s smiled much this past year. She hasn’t had much to smile about.
But it warms my heart to see it again.
Jeremiah wiggles, his tiny arms extended toward Rowan. “Play dino.”
Rowan snaps her head up, her eyes locking with mine. And for the first time, I really look at her. Her dark hair falls in soft waves to her mid-back. She wears a pair of light jeans and her socks have tacos all over them. She’s wearing a t-shirt that says “it’s a good day to read a book.” I squint slightly, noticing what looks like part of a tattoo snaking along her collarbone. It makes me wonder what the rest of her tattoo looks like… And where it goes.
Which is the last thing I should be thinking about,considering I may very well hire her as my kids’ nanny. But there’s no denying it.
Rowan is beautiful.
And probably more than ten years younger than me.
“Are you ready for your grilled cheese, Jemmy?” She scoots back from her chair and heads toward the stove, as if she’s lived here for months.
“I can do it.”
She gives me a pointed stare. “The evidence suggests otherwise.” She puts a small pat of butter on the pan. “Apparently, culinary skills don’t run in the family.”
I put Jemmy back in his high-chair, along with some crayons and his coloring book, then head toward the stove.
“I’m normally not this bad,” I say, leaning against the counter. “While Dylan is definitely the chef in the family, our mom taught all of us how to cook. It’s just…” I blow out a long breath. “It’s been a day. Hell. A year.”
Why am I telling her this?
I never share this kind of thing with anyone, my family included. But there’s something about her that makes the truth slip out easier than intended. Like she gets it. Like she won’t make it weird.
I felt that way around Cora, too.
We’d grown close when I took my father to his doctor appointments after he’d been diagnosed with ALS. Cora worked at the sandwich shop next to my father’s neurologist’s office where I’d often wait. She always kept me company between customers. She didn’t ask how I was coping with my father essentiallyreceiving a death sentence. Instead, she spoke to me without that look of pity I got from everyone else in town.
Just like Rowan.
