“Fuck yeah, I’m awesome,” I said to myself, sipping from a travel mug Felicity had gotten me for Christmas with a picture of a Petoskey stone on it that said Dad, You Rock.
Taking another sip from the mug, I remembered how surprised I’d been when each of the girls had handed me a gift perfectly wrapped with holiday paper I didn’t recognize. How had they gone shopping for presents without me?
Later, Felicity let it spill that Frannie Sawyer had helped them pick out a couple little gifts for me online one afternoon while she was watching them. She’d had them shipped to her, then brought them over to be wrapped and placed under the tree. Frannie was like that, quick to step in when someone needed something, and always with a smile on her face. It was Frannie who’d offered to cut back her hours at the inn last summer in order to help me out with childcare after Carla took off. I’d nearly fallen to my knees with gratitude. She’d been a godsend.
At Christmas, I’d had them pick out a box of chocolates for her, which they gave to her at the staff holiday party. That was the night she’d given me the small sewing kit, and I’d felt guilty I hadn’t put my name on the card with the chocolates.
She’d looked even prettier than usual that night, and she’d smelled good too. I remembered impulsively hugging her (after a couple beers, no doubt) and thinking how long it had been since I’d had my arms around a woman, or held one close enough to catch the scent of her neck as she hugged me back. I didn’t have any female friends outside work, and I certainly didn’t date. Being that close to Frannie had been a shock to my senses, and I’d let her go quickly before my body betrayed my thoughts, which were something along the lines of Hey, I know you’re the boss’s daughter and the nanny (also my kids are right over there), but you smell amazing and your body looks perfect in that dress and I haven’t gotten laid in a reallllly long time, so what do you say we sneak into my office and fuck? I promise it will be quick, probably shamefully so, and not at all awkward to see you at work on Monday. Thanks.
Later that evening, she’d had the idea to take the kids for a ride in Cloverleigh’s old-fashioned horse-drawn sleigh. It was a refurbished antique Portland, with a curved dash and one single, red velvet-lined seat onto which the five of us squeezed, our laps covered with thick wool blankets. Somehow she’d ended up wedged in right next to me, and the scent of her perfume as well as the feel of her leg alongside mine kept me warm even as our noses and fingers and toes grew numb from cold.
Long after I’d taken the kids home and said goodnight, I lay in my bed thinking about her. I could still hear her laughing right along with the girls, see the roses in her cheeks and the snowflakes clinging to her long, wavy hair. It had made me wish she was still there next to me. How long had it been since I’d had someone warm and soft and sexy to mess around with in the dark?
Before I could help it, I was frantically getting myself off to the thought of her naked body beneath mine. Her breath on my lips. Her gray-green eyes closing. Her hands clutching the sheets. Her moan in my ear. I felt so guilty about it, I could barely look her in the eye the next time I saw her.
Didn’t stop me from doing it again, of course. In fact, she’d sort of become my go-to fantasy. I shook my head and finished what was left in my mug. What a pathetic fucking cliché I was: Divorced Dad Lusting after the Babysitter. As if a girl like her wanted anything to do with a guy like me—one with three kids and a bitter ex-wife.
But this morning, I was doing all right.
I pulled into the drive at Cloverleigh, parked in my assigned spot and headed into the inn through the front door, passing Frannie at reception on the way back to my office.
I may have done that on purpose. There was a back door closer to the administrative offices, but her smile had a way of making a bad morning good and a good one great.
She gave me one, her whole face lighting up. She’d been fidgeting with the ends of her sandy-colored hair, but she dropped her hands when she saw me. “Morning, Mack.”
“Morning, Frannie. How was your weekend?”
“Pretty good. We had that wedding party here the whole time.”
I paused with my hand on the door to the back hall. “Oh, that’s right. How did everything go?”
“Good.” She nodded enthusiastically. “Except the bride broke a strap on her dress and I had to use that little sewing kit I got you to fix it.” Her expression turned nervous. “I hope that’s okay.”
I smiled to reassure her. “No problem. It’s there when you need it.”
“Thanks.”
“Have a good one.” I pushed the door open and disappeared down the hall just as my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.
“Hello?”
“Hello Mack, it’s Mrs. Ingersoll.”
Miriam Ingersoll, a widowed friend of my mother’s, was my other babysitter. Monday through Wednesday she picked up Winifred from pre-school at eleven-thirty, met the older two at my house after they walked from the bus stop, then watched them all until I got home around five or six. On Thursdays and Fridays, Frannie was on duty.
“Hi, Mrs. Ingersoll. Everything okay?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not. I fell on the icy sidewalk this morning and broke my leg.”
“Oh, no.” I felt like an asshole, but immediately I thought about what this would mean for me and the kids. Then I remembered my manners. “Are you all right?”
“Not really. I’m at the hospital now, and my daughter is with me. I may need surgery.”
Closing my eyes, I set my messenger bag with my laptop in it on my desk. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s me who’s sorry, Mack. What about the kids?”
“Don’t worry about them. I’ll figure something out.”
“Are you sure? I could send my daughter to get them. She’s here with me now.”
I pressed my lips into a grim line. “No, that’s okay. You just focus on recovering. Have your daughter call me and let me know how you’re doing, okay?”
“Okay. Please tell the kids I’m sorry, too.”
“That’s all right. Get better soon.” We hung up and I sank into my chair. “Shit.”
“Everything okay?”
I looked up and saw Henry DeSantis, the winemaker at Cloverleigh in my office doorway. “Yes. No.” I set my phone down and ran a hand over my jaw. “My sitter broke her leg and can’t drive. I need to figure out what I’m going to do with my kids this afternoon.”
“Sorry. That sucks.”
“I’ll figure it out. What’s up?”
“Wanted to run some numbers by you before we meet with Sawyer regarding the repair of the bottling lines versus the purchase of new ones.”
I frowned. Sometimes the promotion to CFO seemed like more trouble than it was worth. But I’d needed the salary bump, and I liked the challenge. Plus, it was good to actually put my business degree to work. “Oh, right. What time is that meeting?”
“Ten.” He paused. “Need to reschedule?”
“No, I just need to—”
“Morning, Henry! Hey, Mack.” Chloe Sawyer ducked around DeSantis and edged into my office. “Got a second?”
“Actually, I—”
“I wanted to talk to you about the distillery idea I mentioned to you last week. I keep trying to talk to my dad about it, but I swear to God he’s dodging me.”
“Yeah, we do that when we know our daughters are about to ask for things we can’t afford.” I reached for my mug and found it empty. “I need more coffee. Preferably with some whiskey in it.”
Chloe laughed. “If we had a distillery on site, I’d have some for you. Are you having a bad morning?”
“Kind of. My sitter is out of commission and I need to find a replacement before Winifred gets out of preschool at eleven-thirty.”
“Just have Frannie pick her up.”
“Frannie’s working. I don’t want to do that to her.”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “She’s at reception. On a Monday morning. In February. It’s not
like she’ll be busy. I’m sure Mom can cover for her.”
“I’ll come back a little later, Mack,” DeSantis said, backing out of my office. “If you get time, great. If not, no worries.”
I gave him a grateful look. DeSantis was a good guy. “I’ll find the time. Give me thirty minutes to make a few phone calls and get the kids squared away.”
“I’ll go get you some coffee,” Chloe said.
“Thanks.” I picked up my phone again. Who could I ask to bail me out? My mother had a few friends left around here, but I didn’t have contact info for any of them. Mrs. Gardner next door was an option, although I wasn’t sure I wanted her driving my kids around in the snow at her age. While I was still sitting there frowning at my phone, I heard a voice.
“Knock, knock.”
I looked up and saw Frannie coming into my office with a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. “Here you go,” she said, setting it on my desk.
“Thanks.”
“Chloe said you need someone to watch the kids this afternoon?”
“Yeah.” I frowned. “Mrs. Ingersoll broke her leg and can’t drive.”
Frannie shrugged, tucking her hands in her back pockets. “I can do it.”
“What about the reception desk?”
“I’m only scheduled until one, and my mom is working too. We’re not that busy today. I have some social media stuff to do, but it’s nothing urgent.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind, really.”
“Are you sure?” I asked slowly. “I was trying to think of someone else who could help, but not having much luck. I could even run and pick her up and bring her back here so you don’t have to leave the desk too early.”
“That’s perfect. I’ll get her some lunch here, and then we’ll head back to your house in time to be there when Millie and Felicity get home.”
Picking up the cup of hot coffee, I looked at Frannie, half expecting her to sprout wings and a halo and float away. “You’re the best. I owe you one.”
Her cheeks went a little pink. “It’s nothing.”
“Right now, it’s actually everything. Thanks, Frannie.”
Blushing deeper, she smiled at me once more before leaving my office.
I tried not to look at her butt as she left, but her black pants were kind of tight and her shirt was tucked in. She had a great little figure—petite but curvy.
Alone again, I got to work, but Frannie’s smile stayed on my mind throughout the morning. And her pink cheeks. And her cute little ass.
Jesus, what was wrong with me? She was practically a kid, for chrissake. No way could she even be thirty, and soon I’d be pushing forty. And she had an innocence about her that made me feel even worse … yet it also made her more appealing.
For fuck’s sake. Stop it, you perv. She’s doing you a huge favor and doesn’t need you drooling over her like a starving dog. It’s not her problem you haven’t had sex in over a year.
Truth—I couldn’t even remember the last time Carla and I had done it. The sex had been so blah for so long, so disconnected and rote, that neither of us had bothered to initiate it much toward the end.
But that didn’t make it okay for me to get all worked up over Frannie. Even if she did seem like she might be a hell of a lot of fun in bed. Playful. Energetic. Eager to please.
Christ, MacAllister. Enough.
If ever there was a girl off limits, it was Frannie Sawyer. Shifting in my chair, I adjusted the crotch of my pants and put her out of my head.
Frannie
“Hi, Winnie!” I gave her a smile, my heart thumping hard at the sight of Mack holding his little girl’s mittened hand as they walked through the lobby. “How was school?”
“Good,” she said.
“My goodness, you’re getting big.” My mother shook her head as Mack brought his daughter around the desk. “You’re going to be as tall as Frannie soon!”
I groaned. “She probably will. Millie only has another couple inches to go.”
“Good things come in small packages.” Mack winked at me, and my belly fluttered. He had the most beautiful deep blue eyes.
“Would you like to come up to my apartment for lunch, Winnie?” I asked.
“Sure!” She grinned happily.
“Great. You can help me make it.” I held out my hand and she dropped her dad’s to take mine. Then I looked at Mack. “Can I bring you something? A sandwich? Soup?”
He looked guilty. “I’ll probably work through lunch.”
“You shouldn’t work through lunch,” my mother scolded. “Let Frannie bring you something.”
“That’s okay.” He gave me a tired smile and put a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, though. For everything. You’re an angel.”
He was touching me. He’d called me an angel. I could hardly speak. “You’re welcome.”
Quickly, I turned and led Winnie out from behind the desk and across the lobby toward the stairs to my suite, so he wouldn’t see the goofy grin on my face.
I lived above the inn’s garage in an apartment my mother liked to refer to as the “old carriage house,” which made it sound bigger and fancier than it was. “Did you hear Mrs. Ingersoll broke her leg?” I asked Winnie.
“Yes,” she said, trudging up the stairs next to me. “What does it feel like to break your leg?”
“I don’t know.” I unlocked my door and pushed it open. “I’ve never had any broken bones.”
“Me neither,” she said as we went in.
My place wasn’t very big, but it was enough room for me. My bedroom and bathroom were off to the right, and the kitchen was open to the living room. I did have a tiny fireplace, which I loved, and my oversized couch was crazy comfortable.
“Need to use the bathroom?” I asked Winnie.
She shrugged off her backpack and dropped it to the floor. “No. Is this where you live?”
“Yes. Do you like it?”
She nodded. “It’s like a doll house.”
I laughed. “It is kind of like a doll house. A little bigger, maybe, but not much. Are you hungry?
“Yes.”
“Me too. Let’s see what we can find.”
In the kitchen, Winnie and I opened my fridge and took out a big container of chicken noodle soup I’d made over the weekend. In my tiny pantry, she found some Ritz crackers, and counted out four for each of us while I rinsed and sliced an apple.
When everything was ready, we sat at the counter next to each other. While we ate, I asked Winnie about school, about her sisters, and as usual, I snuck in a question or two about her dad. That was how I’d learned that he wasn’t a very good cook and they were used to eating a lot of chicken nuggets and fish sticks for dinner, that he never got mad when Winnie wet the bed, and that he was okay at brushing hair but terrible at styling it. Today I learned that over the weekend, he’d accidentally turned everyone’s white socks pink, even his own.
I laughed. “Did something red get in the white load of laundry?”
She slurped her soup. “I don’t know.”
After lunch, I asked Winnie if she’d ever had a macaron.
“What are those?” she asked, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.
I gasped in mock horror as I stood, collecting our bowls. “What are those? You mean you’ve never had a macaron?”
“No.” She smiled and asked hopefully, “Is it a treat?”
“It’s only the most beautiful, most fancy treat ever!” I carried our dishes to the sink and grabbed the bakery box sitting on the counter. Inside were a few macarons I’d set aside Saturday when preparing for the Radley wedding. I had hazelnut, white chocolate malt, and rosewater cream. “Peek into this box.”
I set it in front of her and she leaned over to look inside. “Ooooh! Can I have one?”
“Sure. Which one would you like?”
“The pink,” she said, pointing at the rosewater cream.
“Good choice.” I took one from the box and put it on a plate for her, along with a white chocolate malt for
me.
“Did you make them?” Winnie asked.
“I sure did. I can make about twenty different colors and flavors, and I’m always testing out new ones.”
“Really? Can you make a gold one? That’s the Hufflepuff color.” She tucked her legs underneath her on the stool and picked up the pink macaron.
“Yes. It’s lemon chiffon, another one of my favorites.” I took a tiny bite of the white chocolate malt, thinking again about what Mrs. Radley had said to me Saturday night about my own business. Since then, her offer to discuss the possibility had crossed my mind a hundred times. I hoped she’d get in touch.
Winnie gobbled hers up and licked her fingers. “Mmmm. Can you teach me how to make them?”
“Well, they’re a little complicated and take a lot of practice. But we can work on it. Tell you what—if you’re a good girl and take a little rest now that you’re done with your treat, we’ll make some lemon chiffon macarons at your house this afternoon when your sisters get home, okay?”
She nodded eagerly, her mouth full. “Can I watch Sofia the First when I rest?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll find it on my TV for you. And I have this really fluffy blanket you can use. It’s so soft, it feels like a cloud.”
Her face lit up. “Okay.”
A few minutes later, she was snuggled up in my white faux fur blanket, her eyes drifting shut almost immediately. I sat at the other end of the couch with my phone and posted a few things on Cloverleigh’s social media—a graphic on Facebook advertising an upcoming wine dinner that Chloe and Henry DeSantis had organized, a photo on Instagram I’d snapped of the macarons on the dessert table at the weekend’s wedding, and a tweet congratulating Mr. and Mrs. Radley along with a picture from their ceremony.
Finally, I returned direct messages from a few brides, answering their questions if I could, and forwarding April’s information if they’d requested specifics on availability or pricing. I was just finishing up when I got a text from Mack.
Irresistible: Cloverleigh Farms Standalone Page 3