“Which one would you like, sweetheart?” Bridget asked, trying not to let her annoyance show. Hadn’t Mr. Devoe done anything to prepare for his son’s arrival?
“I like my old room,” Tad muttered sulkily.
“Why don’t you take this one?” she suggested, selecting a door at random. “We can ask your dad if he had one of them particularly in mind for you when he gets back.”
“Okay,” Tad sighed glumly. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Mr. Hoppypants says he doesn’t like it here, Nanny.”
Bridget patted Tad’s dark hair reassuringly. “First days are always the hardest,” she said. “Soon you’ll be so used to living here that you won’t remember what you were ever worried about. Now, why don’t we carry on our tour of your new house? You can pick which door we open next.”
Tad managed to uncover the master bedroom. At least, she assumed that’s what it was. It was larger than the other two spaces and had a huge window overlooking the park. There was a white chef’s shirt hanging on one of the wardrobe doors, and the air was touched very slightly with the scent of something warm and spicy.
Bridget might have felt guilty for intruding on Chef Devoe’s personal space if there had been anything personal about the feel of the room. Her concern about leaving Tad in his father’s care was growing by the second, but it reached a new pinnacle when they got to the kitchen.
This was the only room in the whole apartment that felt loved. It was flooded with sunlight and lacked the rigid order of the other rooms. One of the drawers had been left slightly open, a cupboard was ajar, and there were pots and plates left drying by the sink. It had a whole different feel from the rest of the house.
“I guess this room’s okay,” Tad announced, obviously sensing the difference too.
The little boy stood on his tiptoes and poked his finger into a pot of fresh parsley. That was when Bridget saw it: a note sitting on the kitchen counter. She was relieved, at first, until she read what it said.
It was a list of house rules.
No running. No loud games. No shoes. No mess. ONLY use food from the SECOND shelf in fridge!
Bridget only managed to reach rule number five (of twenty!) before she lost her temper. She tore the paper in half, into quarters, into eighths, and then screwed it up and threw it into the trash. Good God! She thought to herself. The man was not to be trusted with a child!
“Nanny?”
Bridget realized belatedly that Tad was watching her. His eyes were wide with worry.
“Was that from Daddy?
“It was- rubbish,” Bridget said, waving his concerns away as she tossed the paper into the trash compactor. She forced a bright smile onto her lips and changed the subject. “Now, why don’t we start unpacking? I’m sure you’ll feel a lot more settled once you have all your own things around you.”
They unearthed some of Tad’s toys and then Bridget ordered a pizza for their supper using the cash that had been sitting beside the note. Bridget was afraid that she might use the wrong jar of mustard if she ventured back into Paul’s kitchen to make a sandwich. She watched Tad eat, smiling when he managed to cover his whole face in tomato sauce. She didn’t take any pizza for herself. Instead, she tried to drown the rumbling of her stomach with a tall glass of water.
Bridget helped Tad bathe and dress for bed. She expected Chef Devoe to return at any minute. She became increasingly uneasy as the minutes and hours ticked by. She let Tad stay up until ten o’clock. When his father still wasn’t home, she tucked him into bed, relieved that the day had worn him out. He was asleep almost before his head touched the pillow.
Bridget wished that she could sleep too, but one of them had to be awake to greet Paul when he got home. Besides, given that she still didn’t know whether or not she was staying, she couldn’t curl up in the other spare bedroom. She settled onto one of the chairs in the open plan living room. It was surprisingly comfortable, so comfortable in fact, that she was asleep not long after Tad.
Chapter 2
Paul Devoe had not had a great day. In fact, he would go so far as to say he’d had an absolutely terrible day. All he wanted to do was to go home and to crawl into bed. He didn’t even want to think about everything that had gone wrong.
He opened the door of his apartment and flicked on the light. He intended to head straight for his bedroom. Something stopped him though. There was a strange smell. It took him a moment to place it, but then his face flushed in annoyance at the realization that someone had been eating a fast food pizza in his home. This outrage was quickly forgotten when he realized that there was a woman asleep in his living room.
Paul approached her cautiously, convinced that his eyes were playing tricks on him. At least they were playing a nice trick. The sleeping woman was beautiful. Her features were relaxed in slumber giving her an air of gentleness and vulnerability. She was full-figured; her lush body looked so soft and inviting that Paul’s mouth went dry.
He stared for a moment before he came back to his senses. Paul shook his head in annoyance. Who was she? More to the point, what was she doing in his apartment?
He touched the woman’s arm lightly. When she didn’t stir in the slightest, Paul gave her a firmer prod. She sighed sweetly and her eyelashes fluttered open, revealing kind, drowsy green eyes.
“Mr. Devoe?”
Paul couldn’t immediately place her accent, but it wasn’t American. Her voice was soft and husky with sleep. When it curled around his name he felt a strong tug in the pit of his stomach. He was almost too distracted to wonder how she knew who he was.
“Mr. Devoe?”
Her features transformed as she became more awake. Paul didn’t like the ugly frown that replaced her sleepy smile or the way that her eyes suddenly flashed with fury.
“Mr. Devoe! What were you THINKING?”
“Ugh- I- what?” Paul wasn’t the sort of man who was often at a loss for words but he was struggling at the moment.
The woman pushed herself up out of her seat so that she was standing in front of him. Paul couldn’t fail to notice that she was practically shaking with anger. The only thing he could think of was to ask who she was.
“I’m Bridget Parker!” At the complete lack of recognition that showed on Paul’s face, she added furiously: “Your son’s nanny!”
“Oh! Right! Damn! Did he- ugh- get here okay?” Paul asked, feeling a strong rush of guilt. Atherton arrived today. That fact had somehow slipped his mind.
“Yes, he did. No thanks to you!” Bridget hissed. “He’s four years old! He can’t be left alone to fend for himself! And what were those ridiculous rules you left in the kitchen?”
“Um-” Paul didn’t think anyone had spoken to him like this since he’d taken his first job as a kitchen underling.
“Don’t you know anything about children?” she continued, not letting him answer her last question. Her hands were planted on her wide hips. Her face was flushed. Paul struggled to pay attention to what she was shouting and not to how the rosy hint of color enhanced her pretty features. “I trust that you’ve got someone to help? The new nanny wasn’t here when we arrived.”
“New nanny?” Paul echoed blankly. He felt like he was weathering a very violent hurricane and was too stunned to respond at the moment. “I thought Atherton could just go to school,” he said, and immediately wished that he hadn’t. The woman looked at him as though he had just confessed to drowning puppies. “I ugh- I take it that he can’t do that either?”
“Right. Well. Obviously I’m going to have to stay,” Bridget announced decisively.
Paul blinked. “Stay?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
The woman stiffened, drawing up to her full height, giving the impression that she was acting rather braver than she felt. “You clearly can’t be left with Tad alone.”
Paul’s features twisted into a scowl. Who the hell did this woman think that she was? Sure, she had a point. He obviously wasn’t in the running f
or father of the year. He had never expected to have a four-year-old thrust in his lap (and at the very worst possible time as well!)- but that didn’t mean that he had to stand here and listen to her say so- not in his own house!
“What if I say no?” he challenged, giving her his blackest frown. It was a look which had caused ulcers in many a saucier over the years.
Bridget didn’t answer immediately. She stared back, meeting his challenge with a gaze that was surprisingly steely. He glared harder- but she held her ground. Before long, he was paying more attention to the foamy green-grey of her eyes than to their unspoken battle of wills.
She must have sensed his distraction, because she finally spoke. “You won’t.”
He wanted to deny her, but couldn’t. Perhaps he was too wrung out for fighting. Besides, he did need her help. Although he hated to admit it, he was a tiny bit impressed with her resolve. Grown men had withered and died under Paul’s unhappy stare. The nanny didn’t even flinch.
“Fine,” he spat. “You can stay tonight.” He wasn’t willing to commit to anything more, and he was mentally reassuring himself that, no later than the following evening, he’d have the situation in hand on his own. After all, how hard could taking care of a four-year-old be?
“We’ll discuss my terms in the morning,” the nanny said, tenaciously. Then she turned toward the doorway. “May I use your phone? My mobile is out of charge and I need to call a taxi.”
“Call a taxi?”
“To fetch my things. I wasn’t planning to stay. We were expecting you much earlier,” she said with a hint of reproach that threatened to raise his hackles all over again.
Exhaustion, more than true self-control, prevented Paul from releasing a stream of abuse. “It’s too late,” he said, running his fingers through dark hair. “You can just borrow something of mine.”
“Sir?” The nanny exclaimed, but Paul was tired of talking. He was already annoyed that his evening reverie had been interrupted. The peace and silence of his apartment was its chief allure when he returned home from work. He ignored Bridget as he stalked off into his room, but he re-emerged a moment later to offer her a T-shirt, a towel and a bar of soap. “Good night,” he grunted and then turned to go.
“Don’t you even want to see your son?”
Paul’s body jolted. He was surprised by her request. He hadn’t quite internalized the fact that Atherton was actually in the apartment- in the apartment to stay if things didn’t radically change- and it had never occurred to him to look in on the little boy.
He turned to stare at the nanny, not knowing what to reply. He didn’t actually want to see Atherton. He wanted to go to bed. He knew that it was going to be a long time before he slept. He had hours to pass, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how his restaurant was going down the drain. He nearly snapped back a coarse reply, but there was something compelling about Bridget, something that made him want to please her, and so he nodded his head.
“He’s in the bedroom next to yours,” she told him. Her tone implied that the proximity was, at least, a step down the proper path. Bridget followed Paul to the doorway, and he quietly cracked it open to peer inside.
While he might be a negligent father, Paul wasn’t heartless. He couldn’t remain entirely disaffected by the sight that met his eyes: the tiny, tousle-haired boy was almost swallowed up by the giant bed. He had fashioned the blankets and pillows into a kind of nest, where he was joined by a multitude of stuffed rabbits and frogs and bears. Paul’s lips twitched up on the edges, and a bit of his annoyance drained away.
“How long has he been asleep?” he whispered.
“Since ten o’clock…” Bridget answered. Paul remembered that this was the bedtime that he had set, and was about to be proud of his astuteness, when she added in a frosty huff, “Of course, a child of his age has no business being up a minute past eight.”
“Good night,” Paul said, coldness returning to his voice after her rebuke. He didn’t allow himself the pleasure of stealing a final glance at the pretty nanny. He turned on his heel and then stalked through the closest doorway: the one that led to his own king-sized bed.
Bridget waited until he was gone- and then she finally began to breathe again.
Chapter 3
That went well, Bridget thought to herself as she stared at Paul’s closed door. It had gone much better than she had expected, at least.
She didn’t want to get too excited yet, but it certainly sounded as if she had earned a reprieve. There was still a chance that she wouldn’t lose her little boy after all.
Her heart buoyed by the possibility, Bridget recounted the conversation over and over inside her mind. At first, she only considered the words, but it wasn’t long before she stopped to ponder her impression of Paul Devoe himself.
She wasn’t at all certain what to make of him, possibly because her exact memory of Paul was clouded with sleep and anger. Bridget couldn’t quite believe the way that she had spoken to him. The thought of standing up to Tad’s father made her feel shaky now. Ordinarily, no one would accuse her of being feisty, argumentative, or even confident. However, if she couldn’t be those things for herself, then she could certainly be them for her precious Tad.
Oddly enough, Bridget was marginally reassured by her confrontation with the boy’s father. Chef Devoe had enough sense not to send her away- at least not yet- and he didn’t seem deliberately cruel. He was just woefully clueless and out of his depth. Bridget doubted that he had ever been around a child before. She knew that Phoebe had done her best to keep her ex-husband away from Tad. Still, Paul wasn’t blameless, not by a long shot. He should have made more of an effort to see his son. If he had, then they wouldn’t be in this mess now.
Bridget released a shaky laugh. Was she going to have to give parenting lessons to this parent too? If so, she hoped it went better than her attempts to ease Phoebe into her role as mother. Paul was the only parent Tad had left now. While Bridget longed to be enough for the child, her position in his life was tenuous. Phoebe’s death had driven home that fact.
Bridget resolved to think about it in the morning. For the moment, she was exhausted. She was also starving, having eaten nothing but biscuits and tea all day. She hadn’t brought anything to snack on though, and her fear of Paul catching her raiding his precious fridge was greater than her need to eat.
It isn’t like I’m going to waste away, she thought, disgusted with herself. She decided to get ready for bed and go straight to sleep.
Getting ready for bed posed a new problem. Bridget stared with a sinking heart at the T-shirt that Paul had thrust into her hands. It was never going to fit her. She thought that she might as well just go ahead and sleep naked. She would never dare to do that though. She justified her decision with the suggestion that Tad might wake up in the middle of the night and need her, but the real reason was that she wasn’t comfortable enough in her own skin to slip under the sheets without the protective cocoon of some clothes.
She hated her body. She had always disliked it. Her breasts were too big. Her legs were too stubby. Her stomach had never been flat, and her bottom stuck out a mile too far. She could go on forever listing her flaws.
“I’m not going to think about that tonight…” she sniffed shakily forcing her thoughts away from the path that her mind was taking. She wandered into the en-suite bathroom to clean up.
When she re-emerged she carefully took off her clothes and folded them neatly (knowing that they would need to be worn the following day until she could go and collect her own things), and then set about the humiliating task of squeezing into Paul’s T-shirt.
It definitely clung, but it didn’t tear at the seams, as Bridget had feared that it would. It was obscenely short, however. Paul might be five inches taller, but her breasts lifted the hem of the shirt so that her panties were on display.
Bridget hid under the bedcovers too tired to think any more. One last thought did flit through her mind before she closed her eyes. She
was surrounded by the scent of warm spices.
Paul was faring a lot worse where sleep was concerned. The arrival of his son and his nanny had been the icing on the cake of a hideous day. At least his confrontation with the beautiful (if irate) Miss Parker had kept his demons at bay for a little while.
Here, in the darkness, he couldn’t avoid them any longer.
He was losing his restaurant.
Paul had been harboring suspicions for weeks that his backers, the trio of Saudi-Arabian investors who had set up the place, were trying to squeeze him out. It was months since he’d seen a nickel of dividends, even though they were booked solid for the next three months. Luckily, he had his earnings from occasional appearances on TV and the cookbook that Phoebe had forced him to write bringing in enough to pay his rent. If the worst happened, and he was fired, he knew that he could find another job, but the ties that he had to the Chatterly went beyond mere money.
The Chatterly was his first stab at starting a restaurant from scratch. Every bit of it- the design, the staff, the menu- had been crafted from his own ideas. He had nearly killed himself at the opening. Sometimes he had gone so far as to spend the night on the prep table because he’d stayed so late that there wasn’t any time to go home. He’d pitched in at every station, from sommelier to dishwasher. He’d schmoozed the customers, kowtowed to the critics and catered to the investors. He had done everything within his power to make the place a success, and he had done it at a significant cost to himself. He had missed the birth of his only child (admittedly, attending had never been high on his priority list) because a New York Times reviewer was in the house. He’d snubbed his friends and family. His divorce from Phoebe (which, realistically, was always in her ten-year plan anyhow) had happened early because he was never around. It simply wasn’t fair that after so much effort, all of his dreams could be snatched away. That was precisely what was happening though.
Just after Valentine’s Day, the investors had approached him about spinning off a casual dining concept under the Chatterly name, or opening a second restaurant in L.A. Paul had considered the ideas, but then rejected them when he saw the details. The investors were proposing a cash-up-front deal. They wanted him to design the menu, but to install their own teams to do the rest. What they wanted, essentially, was to borrow on Paul’s renown and put his reputation on the line, without giving him any control. When he declined, things went downhill. The investors started overruling his decisions about staffing. They installed a new sous chef that Paul absolutely despised and who reported directly to them. Paul suspected that they had been talking with one of his rivals. A rumor was spreading like wildfire that Shelton Barkley- current head chef of the Ivy in L.A.- had been seen with a copy of the Chatterly menu. Paul knew for a fact that Barkley and an unknown stranger had eaten in the restaurant two weeks before.
Hungry for More (2012) Page 2