“Now we bread the chicken,” I say, pointing to the bowls lined up on the counter. “Flour first, then egg, then breadcrumbs. Want me to show you?”
She nods, her eyes focused.
I pick up a piece of raw chicken and coat it in flour, tapping off the excess before dipping it into the egg mixture, then pressing it into the breadcrumbs.
“Want to try?”
I wasn’t sure I’d find anything that would pull her away from her sketchpad, but the second I asked her to help, something shifted. Like she’s used to being overlooked because she’s quiet.
Quiet doesn’t mean incapable.
Presley carefully sets the chicken into the flour, coating every inch with determination. But when she transfers it to the egg, it slips off the fork, egg splashing everywhere, including my hair and shirt.
Presley freezes, shoulders tensing, her eyes darting away like she’s bracing for impact.
I laugh and gently squeeze her arm. “It’s okay. You don’t want to know how many times I’ve done that.”
She looks up at me, relieved, then smiles before moving the chicken to the final bowl and pressing it into the breadcrumbs like I showed her.
She sets the fully coated chicken on the plate beside mine and looks at me expectantly.
“Great job! Want to do another one?”
This time, she doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for another piece of chicken and starts the process all over again.
While she works, I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, turning on the burner. By the time I’m done, Presley is finishing her last piece of chicken and adding it to the plate.
“You did amazing. These look better than when I do it.”
She beams, pride physically oozing from her.
The sound of the front door closing echoes through the house, and we both look toward the doorway.
A few seconds later, Hayden appears, stopping short as he takes in the kitchen.
My first thought is the mess — flour on the counter, remnants of garlic on the cutting board, splashes from the sauce on the stove.
“I promise I’ll clean everything once dinner’s in the oven,” I assure him, hoping he won’t use this as a reason to fire me.
It’s a strange thought, considering being a nanny orholding down any sort of long-term job was the last thing I wanted twenty-four hours ago.
I still can’t say this is a long-term thing, but I’d like to stay here more than a day.
“It’s fine. I just…” He trails off, looking between Presley and Jemmy. “Usually by this point, the nannies I hired would be on the couch and the kids would be glued to the TV.”
“I’m not like most nannies.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.” His tone is low and soft as his gaze drifts over me. Not in a way that feels inappropriate, but enough to send a small thrill through me, awareness prickling my skin.
I look away, needing to focus on something other than the way my body responds to his presence. Especially when he looks at me like this.
“I hope you like chicken parmigiana.” I set a sauté pan on the stove and ignite a burner. “I figured it was a safe bet. I mean, who doesn’t like chicken parm?”
“You don’t have to cook for me. Just the kids.”
“I can do both. That way you can all eat together. Plus Presley likes it.” I gesture to the plate of breaded chicken. “She did all of those.”
He looks at her. “Is that right?”
