by Ann, Jewel E
“Probably food. Don’t you tuck it into your shirt or flip it over your shoulder when you eat? That’s what my dad did.”
“No.” He tosses the soiled tie on the floor and snakes the red one around his neck, chin tipped up while he looks down at me.
“You’re serious? I need to tie it for you?”
“I think five grand should include a Windsor knot.”
Taking a step closer, I grab the ends to his tie and tug them. Nate grins. It’s so familiar. If I could freeze time, I would press pause on this exact moment, letting my eyes see beyond the familiar to the absolute, letting the fingers of my mind grasp something concrete. Every day it feels like I’m chasing a butterfly. Sometimes I think I could follow it over a cliff and not feel the loss of earth beneath my feet.
Professor Nathaniel Hunt shares space in my reality. Nate lives behind closed eyes, in the recesses of my memory—haunting my conscience, unraveling my existence.
“It probably should.” I twist my lips, trying to remember what I saw on the how-to video. “But I didn’t tie a Windsor knot, just a simple knot. Is the Windsor knot a requirement for you this weekend?”
He chuckles. “No.”
My gaze remains fixed on the red silk between my fingers, but I sense his eyes on me. The only thing more disturbing than the familiarity I feel toward him is the way he looks at me like he knows all of my secrets—even the ones I don’t know.
“I feel like an enabler. You know the saying about giving a man a fish versus teaching him to fish?”
“You know that saying about the more you know, the more that’s expected of you?”
I laugh, making a quick glance up at his cocky grin. He’s so handsome, especially when his lip quivers a bit as he attempts to control his amusement with me.
“I ate the ice cream sandwich,” I say with a meaning behind my words that’s greater than the actual words.
“Yes,” he says, drawing out that one word into something greater as well.
My focus returns to the tie. “I took something else too.”
“I know.”
“You do?” I whisper, adjusting the knot, feeling the heat of his chest beneath my fingertips.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because there’s nothing special about those silver and blue wrappers.”
I’m scared to look at him. I’m scared to not look at him.
“I stole a photo of you.” I inch my gaze up to meet his.
He studies me with the exact look he has in the photo.
Spellbound gaze.
Parted lips.
Vulnerable.
After a few moments, he nods slowly. “Okay.”
Okay? That’s not the right answer. I confessed to stealing something. What photo? Why? Those are the right responses. Not “okay.”
“Don’t you want to know why?”
He shakes his head, a soft surrender in his expression.
“Don’t you want to know which photo?”
He shakes his head.
“Why?” I whisper.
“Because Morgan—Daisy—used to say, ‘If I’m snoopy then you’re Charlie Brown.’”
“I don’t—” As I release his tie, his hands cuff my wrists.
“You said that to me.”
“Professor—”
“No. Not Professor. Nate.”
“What are you doing?” I close my eyes and bite my lips together. Whatever this is … it’s wrecking me from the inside out. I want to pull away, but I can’t because Nate’s touch comforts me in a way that it shouldn’t.
“Do you feel it?”
“No.” I force myself to pull away, turning my back to him. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Swayze, that’s not what this is and you know it.”
My lungs draw in a shaky breath. I don’t know what this is, but it scares the ever living hell out of me. And it hurts. The unexplainable should be miraculous and exhilarating—giving birth to promise and something greater than ever imagined. But this, whatever the hell this is, feels like it’s ripping me apart. Maybe Griffin’s right; I should walk away. But the memories will follow me.
“Yeah, well … I don’t know what this is.” I stab my fingers through my hair, taking a slow breath that fails to soothe my nerves. “I don’t know why I took a picture of you. And I don’t know why I can’t stop staring at it.” I turn. “And you don’t care that I stole something from you. You don’t care that your wife died months ago and now there’s this stranger in your house, watching your child, rummaging through your stuff.”
Creases line his forehead as his gaze slides to the floor between us. “For the record … I care a whole goddamn lot that my wife died.”
“Nate, I didn’t mean—”
His head snaps side to side, jaw clenched. “And I went through the proper process and background checks to hire you. I didn’t pick you up off the street to watch my daughter.” He brings his attention back to me. “Take whatever you need to take to figure this out.”
A stifled laugh breaks from my chest. “Me? What happened to us figuring this out? That day in the garage when I told you about the Spanish test you said we would figure it out.”
Nothing.
All he offers is a long look interrupted by the occasional blink.
“You think you have it figured out.”
“Yes,” he whispers.
I laugh. “Well, you’re wrong. So keep figuring.”
“I haven’t told you what I think. How can you know I’m wrong?”
No. I’m not acknowledging this. The words will not come from my mouth. “Goodnight.”
“Do you know how many times a day I think of the irony of your name being Swayze?”
Fuck him for going there. He’s going to ruin this.
“Yeah? Too bad my parents didn’t give as much thought to my name before they branded me with it.”
“Her eyes were brown.”
Keeping my back to him, I cover my face and shake my head.
“She was feisty and completely incorrigible. You have a meeker personality. That’s what makes you so good with Morgan. But with me … I see the spirited girl. You’re ballsy with me. I guess some things never change.”
“I’m not her,” I whisper to myself. She doesn’t exist in my head outside of the stories he tells me. I’m an extension of his mind. I see a part of his past. My ballsiness with him is me, not Daisy. He doesn’t know me. I’m not meek.
“Can you look at me?”
“Goodnight.”
“Ask me something about her. Anything.”
I’m not her. I’m not her.
“Did you have sex with her?”
“No. Ask me another question.”
He’s baiting me. I need to walk away, but I can’t. This story of their childhood together has become my addiction.
“Do you think she loved you as much as you loved her?”
“Yes. Another one.”
“Did you love her more than you loved Jenna?”
“No. Another one.”
“So you loved Jenna more?”
“No. Another one,” he demands with a bite of anger to his tone.
If my questions anger him, why keep insisting I ask more?
“You loved a fifteen-year-old girl as much as you loved the woman you married? The woman who’s the mother of your child? That’s insane. You were fifteen.”
“We don’t love with our brains, we love with our hearts. We love on instinct. Love is undefinable and resides in all of us. There are no requirements to love someone. Daisy was my first love. Jenna was my last love. Morgan is my forever love.”
I glance over my shoulder at him. “Did you make up with Daisy before she died?”
Emotion reddens his eyes as his Adam’s apple bobs once. “Goodnight.”
Do all the answers lie between his limit and mine? We may never know.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Swayze?”
I dr
eam of Griffin getting in a motorcycle accident. I’m not sure it’s a dream. It feels too real, the worst pain ever.
“Swayze?”
I stand next to his family as mourners file through the funeral home to give their condolences. The shiny metal casket is closed. People who die in motorcycle accidents don’t have open casket funerals.
“Swayze?”
As I blot my eyes with the same handkerchief my mom held at my father’s funeral, Nate appears, holding Morgan. She’s wearing a dress. It’s yellow like a Daisy, not black. I’m glad he didn’t dress her in black. Babies shouldn’t wear black. He holds her in one arm and pulls me in for a firm embrace with his other arm. My hand presses to his tie. It’s gray. I wonder who tied it for him?
After he squeezes another round of tears out of me, he tells me how sorry he is, but that he’ll be waiting whenever I’m ready. Ready for what? Then he leans in once more and whispers, “I love you, Daisy.”
“Swayze?”
“What?” I startle and bolt to sitting, squinting against the light shining into the bedroom from the hallway.
It was a dream. I blink back the tears that sting my eyes. Fucking hell, it felt real. I need to call Griffin.
“Um …” Nate clears his throat then looks back over his shoulder toward the hallway, rubbing his neck. “I’m leaving and …”
I start to adjust the spaghetti straps to my nightshirt and realize half my right boob is sticking out—half of my boob but all of my nipple. “Oh my god! You just saw my—”
“It’s fine.” He risks a quick glance before settling his gaze back onto my covered chest.
“It’s fine? Are you referring to my boob or are you brushing it off as no big deal?”
Meek personality my ass.
Nate’s eyes snap to mine. “Neither. Both.” He shakes his head. “The light’s off, I didn’t see anything. I just wanted you to know I’m leaving so you know to listen for Morgan.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. And … I didn’t see anything.”
“You’re a liar.” I pull the sheet up to cover my chest just for safe measure.
“I’m not lying.” He retreats to the door.
“I still don’t believe you.”
He chuckles. “Fine. When I get home tomorrow, I’ll sketch what I saw … which was your mouth open, snoring, one arm like a goal post by your head and the other draped over your chest. I don’t know why you had your boob out.”
I throw the pillow at the door, but miss him. “I didn’t have it out. It just …”
“Bye, Swayze.” He grins and disappears around the corner.
Without giving a second thought to the time (4 a.m.), I call Griffin. I need to hear his voice.
“Yeah?” His groggy greeting wraps around me like a warm blanket. It’s not sexy. It’s not filled with excitement. I’m not sure he looked at the screen to see it’s me.
But minutes ago my mind mourned him in the worst way. Stupid nightmares. He doesn’t have to be awake, sexy, or excited. I just need him to be.
“Hey,” I whisper past the lump in my throat, wiping away the tears running down my cheeks.
“Baby, is everything okay?”
“It is now.”
“Swayz … it’s the middle of the night. Why are you awake?”
“The professor just left for the airport. I’m going to go back to sleep, but I needed to hear your voice. I …” I sniffle.
“Baby, are you crying?”
“Bad dream. That’s all.” I wipe more tears. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Did something happen to me in your bad dream?”
I nod, unable to speak past the pain. It felt so real.
“Swayz?”
“Y-you … died.” I hold back the sob that’s dying to escape.
“I’m fine. Okay?”
Another nod that he can’t see. “Go back to sleep. I just needed …” I bite my quivering lower lip.
“I need you too,” he says.
Yeah. That. Exactly that.
“I don’t deserve my grocery store guy. But can that be our little secret?”
He chuckles. It’s a sleepy rumble. “You were a mess that day in the grocery store. Everything that came out of your mouth was a string of words tripping over themselves like dominoes. And you eye-fucked the hell out of me.”
“What? Not true.” My back straightens.
“Totally true. I felt thoroughly violated by the time I pulled out of the parking lot.”
“Griffin Calloway, you’re drunk or hungover. Where is this coming from? You’ve never said this to me before. Ever …”
More chuckles ensue. It makes my cheek miss his chest, my ear miss the thrumming of his heart. I love it when I’m sprawled out on his bare chest, our bodies tangled in sexed-up sheets while we talk about something that makes him laugh.
“It’s true. I thought, ‘Man, she’s a fucking disaster—a mumbling mess of hormones who has stripped me ten times over with those eyes that I think are blue, but I don’t know for sure because her gaze hasn’t ventured any higher than my chest.’”
“Thanks, Griff. I’m starting to feel less brokenhearted over you dying in my dreams.”
“But … are you ready for the good part?”
“Oh, wow! Is there really a good part to this?”
“The good part was dinner with my parents the night after we met. My mom asked about my day …”
I grin in spite of myself. That’s where he gets it.
“I told her I met a girl. Couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was just a feeling. You were this feeling inside of me that shook me to the core. It wasn’t any one thing—your looks, your words, your voice, your demeanor—it was all of it … or none of it. I still don’t know. I just felt like I’d arrived somehow. And I still feel it every fucking day.”
Right here, on the other end of the phone, is my old soul of a grocery store guy. “Come home to me in one piece. Okay?”
“I’ll try.”
“If you don’t, I’ll die.”
“That’s tragic. Don’t die, Swayz.”
“Just … come home. I want to play house with you.”
Griffin chuckles. “Play house, huh?”
“Yes. I’ll cook. You clean. I’ll do the laundry—”
“I’ll do the laundry.”
“That’s what I meant. You’ll do the laundry and clean. Well … let’s be honest. You’ll do most of the cooking as well.”
“Sounds like what I’ve been doing. How do you fit into the equation?”
“I’ll watch you work. Drool. Distract you with my body. Lick you up and down. Just … stuff like that.”
He clears the frog from his throat. “This could work.”
“I think so too.”
“Go to sleep, Swayz. I have dirty dreams to have about you before the sun comes up.”
“I love you. Don’t die, or I’ll kill you. Okay?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Love you too.”
He ends the call, and once again, I hold the phone to my ear just a bit longer, until I fall asleep. I want to dream of us, but I don’t. Hours later I awake to a crying baby and a line of sweat along my brow. I dreamed of Nate, not Daisy’s Nate or Morgan’s daddy. I dreamed of the photo Nate.
Young.
Hot.
Sexy Nate in the photo that’s still under the pillow.
I bolt to the nursery as if Morgan’s life depends on it, but in reality, I’m running from the dream—the one where I was having sex with twenty-something Nate.
What. The. Fuck?
“Good morning, sweet baby.” I hug her to me. “Are you hungry? Or did you have a bad dream? Bad dreams are going around.”
Dreadful dreams.
Inappropriate dreams.
“We should get you a dream catcher. Maybe we both need one.” I change her diaper and mix up her bottle of formula.
Griffin is my world. A livin
g fantasy. The winning lottery ticket. I need more scans of my brain. Something is wrong with me. I should never ever have sex dreams starring any other man than Griffin Calloway.
I didn’t steal the photo to fantasize about Nate. I took it to feed my curiosity and maybe find a spark of recognition that could piece this craziness together.
My phone chimes as I settle in the recliner to give Morgan her bottle.
Professor: Made it to the hotel. Give Morgan a good-morning kiss from me. Message me if you need anything. Try to keep it PG and professional. ; )
“Oh for the love of …” I shake my head. He’s all guy. I will forever be the nanny who sends blowjob texts by accident to her employer—and then has sex dreams about him.
Swayze: My mom is coming to have dinner with me and Morgan. I have to be on my best behavior. So don’t sweat it.
Professor: Don’t forget to show her the silver wrapper with blue writing.
Swayze: If you weren’t my employer, I would say something snarky.
Professor: I’m waiting in a mile-long line for coffee outside of the conference room. Humor me. What would you say if I weren’t your employer?
I grin. He’s good at baiting me. I shouldn’t take the bait. But …
Swayze: How’s your tie? If anyone compliments you on it, don’t forget to tell them your 21 yr. old nanny tied it for you.
Professor: Low blow
Swayze: Low blow would be the old man shoes you packed. Where did you get those? An orthotics store?
Professor: Lies. All lies. My students think I’m the coolest professor on campus.
I don’t doubt it. Professor Hunt is the teacher all the girls want to screw. Good thing I’m not his student. I only fuck him in my dreams.
I cringe. My stupid brain won’t let that go. He has a blowjob text. I have a sex dream. We’re even, only he doesn’t know it. And he never will.
Swayze: I remember what you looked like with zits. Not the coolest.
Professor: Two. Three zits tops. Your memory is not the greatest.
Swayze: Go be smart. I get to play with the world’s cutest baby. She loves me. Be jealous.
Professor: Incredibly envious of both of you. Have fun!
“Both?”
Morgan kicks and tugs at the nipple, a grin sneaking up her face.