Daddy Secrets

by Mia Carson

  “George, for the love of God, do you want your shed back or not?”

  Remy choked on her mouthful of food. She knew her dad loved his shed and only offered it to her to use so Abbey would stop throwing fits about paint in various places of the house. Anytime she moved out to live with a family, George reclaimed the space as his workshop, and though he told Remy time and again he didn’t mind her taking it back when she moved home, she knew he did.

  “You have a point,” he said, and Remy smirked. “But if you feel uncomfortable at all with this man, I want you to move right back home. We’ll negotiate on who gets the shed.”

  Remy patted his arm. “You’re something else, Dad. I hope you know that.”

  “Damn straight I do. Why do you think your mother sticks around?” he teased, winking at Abbey.

  “Be still my beating heart,” Abbey replied wistfully, placing a dramatic hand over her chest.

  Remy spent the remainder of the evening packing what she could of her current art projects and tucking them away until she knew if she would have space to bring them with her. Leaving it all felt like leaving a limb behind, but not every house had a place for her messy hobby. When she turned the light off in the shed before going to bed, she glanced at the sculpture piece covered in plastic.

  “I’ll finish you eventually,” she told it. “Maybe I’ll have some better inspiration.”

  The light clicked off and she walked to the house, her thoughts turning towards tomorrow and how she would deal with a family newly come together under such tragic circumstances.

  Chapter 4

  Stan stared out the front window, waiting for the car to arrive with the new nanny. She sounded pleasant on the phone, this Remy Reagan woman, but anyone could fake nice over the phone. He didn’t even know how old she was, but from her voice, she wasn’t an old biddy like the nanny he grew up with.

  “Stanford!” Stephanie hollered, and Stan flinched in his chair.

  “What did I do this time?” he muttered to himself as he rolled back into the entryway. “What?”

  “You’re kidding me, right? You didn’t get his room set up yet? It’s Saturday.”

  “They’re not coming back until Monday,” he reminded her. “Calm down.”

  “Have you even seen the upstairs of your house? Or the kitchen? You promised me you would bring in help to clean. I was gone four days this week and everything looks exactly the same.” She gripped the stair railing so tight in her hands, he saw her knuckles turn white from the ground floor. “What did you do all week?”

  He tried not to look guilty. “I took care of what I could get to.”

  “You could have gotten up here, too.”

  He shot a glare at the electric chair lift on the staircase. “I’m not using that thing. It’s for old people.”

  “And people with disabilities.”

  He stiffened at her words. “It can’t be that bad up there, can it?” he said, hoping to change the subject. “Stephanie?”

  “I quit,” she snapped.

  Stan swore he didn’t hear her right. “What?”

  “I said I quit. You let your damn pride get in the way every time, and I am not going to watch you fail at raising your son. I won’t! I quit—finished, done, and you can keep my damn bonus!” She stomped down the stairs, rushing past him in his chair as he followed her to the front door. She snatched up her purse and handed him a key. “Here, this is yours.”

  “Stephanie, please,” he begged, but she shook her head.

  “No. You told me you would get it done and you didn’t, just like all the other times. I can’t deal with you and your crappy attitude any longer.” She yanked open the door as a black car pulled up out front. “Damn rich men and their egos always getting in the way.”

  Stan eyed the driver as he stepped around and opened the back door for the passenger to step out. “Can you at least help me get her settled in?”

  Stephanie grabbed the strap of her purse hard as she leaned down so she was eye level. “For once, help yourself, Stanford. Goodbye.”

  Stan watched her go, waving stiffly towards the woman with long, chestnut-colored hair trailing over her shoulders, and walked to her car. She swerved as she floored it down the long drive and disappeared from sight. The woman Stan assumed was the nanny eyed the spectacle for a moment, her brow furrowed, then squared her shoulders and walked towards him.

  “Hi,” she said and held out a hand to him, not reacting to him in a wheelchair. “You must be Mr. Wellington? I’m Remy Reagan, the nanny.”

  Shaking himself from his realization that Stephanie had actually quit, he took Remy’s hand and shook it. “You can call me Stan if you’d like.”

  “Stan, then. A pleasure to meet you. Did I…uh, interrupt something?” she asked quietly, gesturing over her shoulder down the drive.

  “No, you came in at the tail end of it. That was Stephanie, my old housekeeper.”

  “Old housekeeper?”

  “Yes,” he said with an aggravated sigh. “She just quit, and now, I have half a house that still needs to be made ready for my son. Come along. I’ll show you the house and we can talk more.”

  Remy grabbed her suitcase and a duffel from the trunk of the car and carried them inside, setting them down where he directed by the staircase. “So far, your house looks ready to go for a kid,” she said politely, peeking into the sitting room.

  Stan nodded, studying her closely. He’d expected some sort of reaction from her when she saw him in a wheelchair. A pitying glance, a look of disgust as some women showed him more often than not. Even questions about what happened, but instead, she took it in stride, not staring and not bringing up the subject at all.

  “Yes, well, Louis will stay upstairs and I’m afraid it’s not yet clean enough.”

  “I can take care of it for you,” she offered. “Cleaning’s really not that big a deal for me.”

  “I hired you to be the nanny, not the maid,” he said firmly. “I’ll hire someone to take care of it.”

  “Didn’t you say he’s coming on Monday?”

  Stan cursed. “It will be taken care of. That is not for you to concern yourself with. This is a large house, too much for one person to clean on her own. Now, how about a tour? And maybe you can tell me more about yourself.”

  As he pushed his chair and she walked beside him, her black slacks clinging to her legs and showing off her curves, her admiring eyes stared everywhere but at him. “There’s not much to tell, really. What would you like to know?”

  “What’s your family like?” He stopped when they reached the kitchen, giving her a chance to explore a little.

  “Tiny… very tiny,” she told him. “This pantry is huge! You could have a party in it.”

  He smiled for a brief moment at her comment before his face settled back into a passive stare.

  “I’m an only child. I do have two cousins, but they live in Canada and really don’t talk to my grandparents much. My parents are kind of the black sheep of their families.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there a good reason why?” He was close to everyone in his family and couldn’t imagine not keeping in touch with everyone he shared blood with.

  “My dad got my mom pregnant at sixteen and they had me,” she shared easily.

  A strange pang of anger shot through him. “And that’s why their parents don’t want anything to do with them or you?”

  She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “I guess so. They wanted my parents to give me up for adoption, but they didn’t. Both parents graduated high school and worked their butts off to support their tiny family. They married the second they turned eighteen.”

  “I’m sorry your grandparents treat you that way,” he murmured, thinking of how Louis must feel about Stan, thinking his dad simply hadn’t cared about him enough to be in his life.

  “It’s not a big deal. I have a great family, as tiny as it is. What about you?”

  “Three sisters,” he answered, work
ing at pushing away the anger over how anyone could not want this charming woman in their lives. “One older and two younger, all married.”

  “And you’re the lone wolf bachelor, huh?” she said, grinning.

  “I used to be. I don’t exactly get out much anymore.” He hadn’t meant for the words to come out as sharply as they did but didn’t apologize. Remy’s smile fell a little and her hands fidgeted on the kitchen counter. “I’ll show you the rest of the main floor before we head outside.”

  Stan barely said a word as he led Remy around the main floor of the house, motioning down the hall towards the guest wing that was now his so he didn’t have to go up and down the main stairs. They went through the rear patio doors and stared out over the overgrown lawns and gardens in desperate need of being pruned and given fresh soil. The flowers were usually beautiful by this time of year, as was the rich, green grass, but it looked as if the place had been abandoned for months.

  “That is my workshop,” he said, pointing to the large garage turned workshop. “I work with guns—antiques mostly, but many modern versions too. There is only one key to that door and I have it on me at all times.”

  “That’s probably a good idea. Why so many guns, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  He spun halfway around with his chair. “You don’t know my family’s business?”

  She pushed her tongue against her cheek in thought, and the motion stirred another tinge of arousal he hadn’t felt in over a year. Her dark chocolate eyes widened and she snapped her fingers. “I didn’t make the connection until now. You’re part of that Wellington family. I should’ve known.”

  He offered a small smile. “Yes, I am. My father still runs the company for the most part, and I don’t exactly go into the office anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  Not sure if she was being serious, he glanced down at his chair. “I’d assume that was obvious. I know I didn’t explain my current situation on the phone, but after seeing me, I would assume it would not need one.”

  Her friendly smile shattered, and her eyes hardened. “Anything else you don’t want me to talk to you about?”

  The good feelings she awoke in his body vanished. “No, but if I think of any I’ll be sure to inform you straight away to avoid any awkward conversations.”

  “Good, I’d appreciate it.” She crossed her arms hotly, the tension building between them like a rising thunderhead. “You know, if you don’t have anyone to work in the gardens, I can see they get back in shape. My mom runs a greenhouse, so I know a thing or two about plants, especially rose bushes.”

  “That is not part of your job and won’t be necessary.”

  “Really, I wouldn’t mind. It’s not like I’ll be watching Louis twenty-four hours out of the day.”

  “I said no,” he growled. “Your job is to guarantee my…my…”

  “Your son?” she filled in softly.

  “Yes,” he snapped. “Your job is to see my son is cared for. School will start in a few weeks, and until then, he will need around-the-clock care.”

  “He’s ten, not an infant,” she reminded him gently.

  “Thank you, I’d quite forgotten how old my own son is. You will see to him and his needs and that is all that will be required of you. I’ll leave you to get yourself settled in for the rest of the day, and tomorrow, we can go over in more depth what Louis will need as far as care,” he informed her. “This home is yours now, too, so feel free to roam where you wish and help yourself to the kitchen and wine cellar.”

  Her eyes wandered to the gardens again as her head slowly nodded in understanding. “Of course, Mr. Wellington.”

  He flinched at her sharp tone and the formal use of his name but spun around in his chair and pushed himself to his workshop. He needed to hire a housekeeper quickly to see to the rest of the house cleaning and setting up Louis’ room. And find a gardener and a cook. Once he was inside his workshop with the door secure, he set his feet on the floor and braced his hands on the arms. Cringing from the pain shooting up his legs, he forced his body up until he stood and managed to stagger one step towards the work table. Out of breath and his heart pounding, rage and guilt filled him again and he slammed his fist down on the table, the pain in his hand numbing that from his legs, at least for a few moments.

  Taking care of a child would be impossible. He couldn’t even take care of himself. A dark cloud of depression chased away the cheery, summer sunshine, and adding a bitter, loathing child to the mix would only make his life that much harder.

  You should call that lady now and tell her the truth. You’re a depressed, miserable fuck who will never be capable of being a dad.

  Stan caught his reflection in the glass case door, noting how his arms trembled from holding most of his body up and the dark bags beneath his eyes. He closed his eyes, unable to continue staring at himself, and heard another voice in his mind, one he hadn’t heard in over ten years.

  I could never stop living or loving, Lara told him once as they lay tangled in the sheets. There’s too much out there, too many people. I want to experience it all for as long as I can. No matter what shit happens, I’m going to suck it up and keep on going. That’s all anyone can do, you know?

  “Lara,” he whispered, and when he opened his eyes, he swore he felt the ghost of her touch run down his cheek. They might never have settled down, but they had a son together, a son he now had to do whatever he could to take care of. For his sake.

  And for Lara.

  Remy found her room with ease on the cluttered upstairs level of the old mansion. She unpacked her bags, shoving her clothes haphazardly in the drawers and hanging up what she needed to in the closet. Her first few minutes of conversation with Mr. Stanford Wellington started out well enough. She had no idea why the man was restricted to a wheelchair, but from the way he reacted to her question about it, he was not a very happy man. Bitter, that’s how she would describe him. Bitter and tired and carrying a weight on his shoulders.

  “It’s not like he’ll tell you,” she muttered to herself.

  Why he didn’t want her messing with the cleaning of the house or the damn gardens she had no idea. He certainly paid her enough—more than enough. Her income from him was nearly twice as much as other families had paid her in the past. Plus, he said his whole staff quit. It didn’t sit well with Remy to do so little.

  She left her bedroom and meandered around the upper floor. Letters spelled out Louis on a bedroom door farther down the hall. She opened the door, expecting to see a little boy’s bedroom decorated and ready to go, but the room was filled with unassembled furniture and boxes stacked in the middle of the room. Nothing was ready for Stan’s son to come and live with him Monday morning. A stack of papers sat on top of the boxes, so she picked them up, skimming over the information on Louis Templeton. Remy spent the better part of the day in that bedroom, listening to music on her cell while she put together a bookshelf, nightstand, made the bed nice and tidy, and went to work slowly on hanging the few pieces of wall art.

  “Battleship fan,” she mused, hanging up the old-school poster on the wall.

  Downstairs, she noticed one of the sitting rooms was lined with battleship models from several eras and wondered if Stan realized the interest he shared with his son. She considered telling him, but he was the dad. He needed to figure this stuff out on his own.

  Aside from decorations and a box of new clothes, there were no toys or games for Louis to play with once he moved in. She would have to remedy that tomorrow. She read through the papers on Louis one more time to see what other interests the boy had and decided that she would take a trip to the nearest mall and pick up a few more things for him. Her stomach growled loudly and she laughed, glancing at the time.

  “Dinnertime. I wonder what he’s got in the wine cellar?”

  She smiled wide, proud of the work she’d done so far in Louis’ bedroom, but it needed more care, as did the bathroom that would be his. She had a private suite attached to h
er room, thankfully. Sharing a bathroom with a ten-year-old was not something she wanted to worry over. The rest of the upstairs needed a thorough vacuuming and dusting, too, but she really needed food if she had a hope of getting this house ready to go by Monday morning. Stan didn’t need a housekeeper. He had Remy, whether he liked it or not, and she was a package deal.

  The wine cellar was filled with vintages she’d never even heard of. She picked a random red and carried it upstairs, humming along with her music. The freezer was filled with venison and chicken, some fish, and frozen pizzas. Since she wasn’t able to have her artistic outlet with her paints, she settled for cooking and drew out the venison. Burgers might not be the fancy food Stan was used to, but Remy was in the mood for comfort food more than anything else. She popped the cork on the wine and thawed out the ground venison. The burgers didn’t take long to make, and she found a bag of French fries in the freezer, added those to the oven, and tossed a bowl of salad to go with it.

  She refilled her glass with the wine and poured a second for Stan. She spotted the intercom he’d told her about on the wall, but no other house she’d worked in had one and she wasn’t so sure about using it. Remy sipped her wine as she wandered to the windows and spotted the light on in the workshop.

  “Have you been out there all day?” she mused quietly, biting her tongue.

  She was sure he hadn’t eaten anything all day, and unwilling to let her new boss starve, she picked up his plate with the burger, fries, and salad, and grabbed his glass of wine. A wooden tray sat on the kitchen table. Once it was loaded, she carried it out into the balmy evening air and knocked on his workshop door.

  “It’s open,” he called out gruffly.

  Balancing the tray in one hand, she opened the door. “I thought you might need some food,” she said, hoping he would take this as a peace offering for how their earlier conversation had ended. She looked for him in his chair and blinked a few times to see him standing against a worktable.

  “You don’t have to cook for me,” he said stiffly, not moving away from the table.