I get the feeling he’s just lonely, so he makes up some excuse to come here.
I head down the hallway toward the exam rooms, pulling up Mr. Alba’s file on my tablet. As I’m about to knock on the door, my phone buzzes again.
A ridiculous spark of anticipation rushes through me, and I quickly open Rowan’s message.
It’s another picture. But this time, it’s a selfie of her and Jemmy, roaring at the camera like dinosaurs.
Rowan:
Jemmy says ROAR!
My chest tightens. Jemmy looks happy. Really happy.
And Rowan looks so alive. Like joy is her default setting.
I wonder what it would be like to go through life thatway. To find joy in even the small things. I trace my gaze over her face. From her bright blue eyes. To her button nose. To her high cheekbones with a hint of pink. To her full lips.
I quickly shake my head, pocketing my phone.
Rowan’s my nanny.
Myemployee.
I’m older. A single dad still grieving my wife’s death.
Or maybe that’s the excuse I’ve been hiding behind for too long now.
Either way, as I see patient after patient, Rowan’s smile lingers in the back of my mind.
And for the first time in a while, I don’t hate how it makes me feel.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROWAN
Music fills the kitchen,low but steady. I genuinely don’t understand how anyone cooks without music. It’s like trying to shower in silence. Technically possible, but deeply unsettling.
Presley stands on a stool by the island, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, sleeves pushed up. Jemmy sits in his high chair, reading a book to one of his dinosaurs.
The house smells like garlic and basil.
In other words… Heaven.
I might be overstepping. Technically, I was hired to help with the kids, not cook dinner. But after learning Hayden usually doesn’t sit down to eat with them, I couldn’t help myself.
I know what it’s like to have parents who can’t be bothered to eat dinner with you.
I don’t want that for these kids.
Plus, I’ve been itching to cook something real.
Not that there’s anything wrong with grilled cheese. I love a good grilled cheese. But there’s something deeply satisfying about breading chicken, simmering sauce, and making a mess you can justify because it ends in a delicious meal.
To my surprise, Presley wanted to help.
She’d probably learn more from Dylan, considering she went to culinary school, but I’ve always loved cooking. There’s something grounding about it. Predictable. Safe.
Presley seems to feel that way, too.
