Page 17 of Sweet Distraction

“Fine. Great. Thanks,” he says. “You guys can stay on that end of the house. One room is ready. I’ll have to move some stuff out of the other one for you.”

“No need.” I smile and shake my head. “I said I’d stay on for the first week or two while you two adjust, and then I’ll work a more regular schedule.”

“No. That wasn’t the deal.” Panic once again laces his voice. He’s scared of being alone with her. “Sandra told me you were a live-in nanny.”

“I . . . that wasn’t—”

“Do I look capable of doing this alone?” he asks. “The deal is live here or the job is done.”

I bark out a disbelieving laugh as Poppy stirs to life. He’s so full of shit he stinks, but I’ll play along. “Okay. That’s fine. I’ll go. I’m sure there are plenty of other qualified nannies who—”

“Name your price.”

I try not to startle at his words. At his demand. The desperation in his voice speaks volumes. “It’s not a matter of price. I have an apartment. A life—”

“I’ll pay your rent while you’re here. I’ll double your salary. We’ll work out a schedule that suits you.” He holds his hands out, frustrated and probably used to getting exactly what he wants simply because of who he is. “Live here. Help me. Name your fucking price, just don’t leave.”

I close my eyes and draw in a long, deep breath. More money. Rent paid. That sound of desperation he just spoke with now embedded in my head as much as the way Poppy’s fingers tighten on the piece of my shirt she has gripped in her little hands. Two people desperate and scared.

“Fine, but there are conditions.”

“You already signed the contract,” he says, like my statement is as preposterous as it really is.

But clearly, I hold the leverage right now.

“I did.”

“You’re savvy, Willow. I like that.” It’s the first time I see his smile. The one that I’m sure has charmed the pants off more women than I care to count. And it takes me a second to remember where I am and what I’m supposed to do and that—

But then Poppy stirs. The playful moment is gone and the levity of the situation is suddenly back and weighing down the room.

“I mean it. I’ll stay. I’ll be a live-in, but I will not be her sole caretaker, and you will not shirk your duties with lame excuses like I’ve never done this before or I never asked for this.”

“The nanny has demands.”

“Yes. She does,” I state, and this time when he holds my eyes across the room, there’s more than fear and panic in his eyes. For the first time there’s a vulnerability there along with something I can’t quite place. I have a feeling I’m going to have to remember I once saw it though, because as soon as it’s there, it’s buttoned back up and gone.

“You’ll find I’m far from fucking perfect,” he states.

“Aren’t we all?”

“This isn’t . . . Just because this is being forced on me doesn’t mean I’m going to have to like it.”

There is a callousness to his tone. An edge that says he’s used to getting and doing whatever he wants, and this isn’t it.

He’ll come around. He has to.

As if he’s suddenly uncomfortable with this conversation, he glances to the bags he dropped to the side of the couch. “This is all she has?”

“The little one is hers. It’s what her mom’s friend thought she might need most. Yes.”

“Whatever else she needs, you can buy for her.” He moves absently around his family room. He picks up a bottle of water and then sets it back down without drinking it. He pushes a magazine a few inches to the right. He takes a step one way before retreating and then taking a seat opposite me. He’s doing anything and everything but look the one place it seems his eyes are drawn to. Poppy.

He’s nervous. Uncertain.

For a man comfortable in front of tens of thousands of people, he’s definitely out of his comfort zone right now, and I keep reminding myself that as I initiate this first interaction.

“You can look at her, you know,” I say softly.