She hands me the cup and I take an imaginary gulp. I run my hand over my wavy hair, and Simon pretends to be astonished. “It’s happening already. I can see the shades of violet starting.”
Hayden shoots him a you’re-so-wrong look. “No, Daddy. It turns out she accidentally drank the rainbow potion tea, and once your hair turns into a rainbow, the leprechauns will steal you away.” She snaps her gaze to me. “Abby! Your hair is turning all the colors in the rainbow.”
I drop my mouth into an O. “Will it be like this forever?” I dart my eyes around, as if searching for the little men. “Are they going to come get me?”
Hayden pours more pretend tea in a jiffy. “Not if you drink the antidote quickly,” she says, and thrusts a cup at me.
I down it in a sliver of a second. “Is my hair back to normal?”
“It’s all better,” she declares, a bright smile on her face.
“Whew.” Simon wipes his hand over his brow. “We almost lost Abby to the leprechauns.”
“I’m so glad we were able to save her,” Hayden echoes, with the intense make-believe relief of a five-year-old.
Hayden proceeds to serve us purple and black cookies (pretend), then neon cake (also imaginary), and finally an electric biscuit (also not real). They’re all exceedingly delicious.
“What was your favorite of the treats?” she asks her father.
“Definitely the electric biscuit,” he answers.
“Can you get it on the menu at Gabriel’s?”
“I will do my very best to discuss it with him.”
I smile at their conversation, and her interpretation of his job. They have such a great relationship. That’s how it should be, yet the ease of their chatting and playing is rare. It’s a testament to him and how much of himself he gives to being a dad.
While I’m not keen to have kids anytime soon, the fact that Simon is such a good father . . . well, I’ll just say it. It’s a massive turn-on. When I watch him interact with his daughter, it’s as if I’m overdosing on some basic, human female-to-male attraction. Simon isn’t one of those sitcom dads who’s a total buffoon and freaks out when his daughter has to pee, or take a bath, or put on a dress. He’s not the single dad who hired the nanny because he can’t figure out how to parent.
He’s the opposite. He’s completely capable. He hired me because he’s busy with work, not because he’s one of those idiot fathers who forgets to pick up his kid from daycare, like in a slapstick comedy, and then races all over town to face the stern, disapproving glare of the daycare owner. Simon is the opposite. He knows how to take his daughter to the doctor, how to care for her when she has a fever, and how to shop for clothes.
My God, the man even knows how to braid her hair.
Well, regular braid. Not French braid. That may be his Achilles’ heel.
A few weeks ago, I told Hayden that going to bed in braids was a sure-fire way to wake up with curly hair. She likes my curls and waves, so she’d begged him to style her hair that way. While I’d like to say I taught him how, he already knew a basic braid. But when Hayden had asked for a French braid the next night, he’d turned to me with a helpless shrug. “Any chance you can show me how to French braid my daughter’s hair?”
He’d had this sweet lopsided grin, and a hopeful look in his light blue eyes that made it impossible to resist.
“Why, I thought you’d never ask.” I’d showed him how to French braid, and, okay, fine, maybe he had been a bit sitcom dad then. He hadn’t been able to master it, no matter how hard he tried. Hayden’s hair had been a crisscrossed mess, and I’d had to come to the rescue and style it.
So there’s one thing he’s no good at. No one’s perfect.
Hayden finishes her last pretend cookie then taps my arm. “Abby, can we go to the park today and play soccer?”
“Absolutely,” I say, as we rise from the table and straighten up the tea party.
Simon gestures to his dress shirt and slacks, almost apologetically. “I should go. Meetings and all.”
He keeps unusual hours, but they work for us. Since he’s often out late at dinners, he’s usually around in the morning to take Hayden to school or classes. Now that it’s summer, he spends the mornings with her, and I don’t come in most days until after twelve. That’s good for me because it gives me plenty of time for my tutoring and teaching in the mornings.
After a quick hug with Hayden, he says goodbye and takes off, the door clicking shut behind him.
I breathe a deep sigh of relief when he’s gone. I’d expected today to be awkward, given the rampage of butterflies in my chest when I arrived. But evidently, last night was a mere blip, one of those moments where there’s energy and connection, but nothing comes of it. Fine by me. We might have a little spark, but that doesn’t mean we’ll necessarily catch fire.
I spend the day with Hayden: kicking a soccer ball in the park, chasing her around the playground, then we ride the merry-go-round, and finally we stop at a food truck and snag hummus and pitas and bottled waters for dinner, relaxing on a park bench as we chat about the clouds and the sky and the trees.
When we return to her house in the early evening, I run a bath for her, then make sure to brush my teeth. It’s always good to brush after meals, right? Especially after eating hummus. I’m not doing it because I want fresh breath for her dad when he returns home in a few minutes.
Even if that flutter in my chest when I hear the door unlock threatens to give me away.
6
Simon
* * *
Hayden crashes in seconds. It’s her special skill, falling asleep instantly once she hits the covers. The clock reads a little past eight, and I should let Abby go, but I want to snag a few minutes with her to catch up on their day. One of my favorite parts of working with her is hearing her recap what they did, and what Hayden learned and enjoyed that day, from new Spanish words and sayings to fresh interests and dislikes.
But as I head into the living room where Abby’s packing up her purse, my phone bleats. I glance at the screen. It’s Gabriel’s business manager, Eduardo. I answer, holding up a finger to let Abby know I’ll be fast, and I want to chat with her.
She settles into the couch and flips on her iPad. On the phone, I rattle off some of the details Eduardo is looking for, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Abby toggle over to the Eagle Cam. Her face lights up when she flicks to an earlier shot of the mother eagle watching over the eaglets as they practice standing up on their wobbly, fluffy frames. I walk behind the couch and lean closer, watching the little birds practice being bigger birds.
Baby eagles are covered in tufts of gray feathers. They don’t take on the iconic brown body and white head of the nation’s symbol until they’re older than four; I’ve learned that from my eagle research. But already their talons are huge. It’s a funny sight, the bird of prey equivalent to a puppy dog with humongous paws. I imitate a loping dog, and Abby laughs quietly.
Then, Gabriel’s guy asks me a question, half in English, half in French. I know enough French to be dangerous, so I fire off a response, suggesting we develop a plan tomorrow.
Abby whips her head around and stares slack-jawed at me.
What? I mouth.
She blinks, shakes her head, and whispers, “You just asked if he wants to swim naked in the summer.”
Oh shit.
“Je suis désolé.” I apologize to Eduardo, who’s laughing.
“That is okay. I prefer to swim naked with a woman,” he says drily.
“As do I,” I add.
After a few more minutes of awkward conversation, since he doesn’t seem to like speaking English, and I’m, evidently, far too dangerous when I attempt French, we agree to reconnect tomorrow. When I hang up, I flop on the second couch, across from Abby. Her lips are quirked up as if she’s waiting to chuckle.
I hold my arms out wide. “What? In most circumstances, swimming naked is fun,” I say, like I can justify my faux pas.
She l
aunches a couch pillow in my general direction. I catch it in one hand.
“But not with someone you’re doing a business deal with,” she says, laughing.
“Fine. You may be right there.” I sit up and run my hand across the back of my neck. “So you speak French, too?”
“Oui.”
That both surprises me, and doesn’t at all. “I knew you spoke Spanish and German, along with Mandarin, and that you’re learning Italian, but I didn’t know you spoke French. You just said you were learning it,” I say, since we talked about her language fluency in the job interview.
She shrugs and smiles, like a little elf. “I was learning it then. Now I’ve learned it.”
My jaw drops. “Learned it? In seven months?”
She nods. “I had a good base of knowledge from high school and college. I did some online tutorials, practiced with an app, and boom. Now I know it.”
“That’s all it took?”
She nods proudly. “I picked it up super fast.”
“That’s cheetah speed.”
She beams. “It’s my party trick. Learning new languages, lickety-split. My mom is Spanish and my dad is—”
I jump in. “German.” She smiles wide and nods. “I knew that about your parents. You’ve told me before.” I don’t want her to think I’ve forgotten a basic detail. Women like good listeners. I happen to have awesome ears, and it can’t hurt for her to know how well they work.
She fluffs out her blond hair. “Hair color from Dad.” She gestures to her hazel eyes, making a V over them with her fingers. “Eyes from Mom.” Then she gazes upward, as if she’s staring at something tall. “Height, though? No idea where that little bitty thing came from.” She shrugs. “Both my parents are giants, and I topped out at five-two. But you know what’s great about being short?”
“Tell me,” I say, settling into the couch, loving that we’re just . . . chatting. Besides, she’s more than a foot shorter than me, so I don’t have a clue what she’s about to say.
She counts off on her fingers. “For starters, plenty of legroom on planes. Plus, I’m always getting carded, which is totally flattering, and I can also wear any height heels I want. And, some large shirts can double as dresses.”
The last one cracks me up. Then she says something rapid-fire in French. I furrow my brow. She quickly translates. “Good things come in small packages.”
Oh, how I want to make a flirty comment about her being a good thing, or a dirty comment about big packages, and maybe even something filthier about . . . coming. Instead, I zoom back to languages. “Even for you, that’s quick to learn French, though. It took me several years in school to learn it.”
She takes a breath as she points at me. “Um, Simon. I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you know French.”
I heave a sigh and drag a hand through my hair. “Guess I’m rustier than I thought. I get the feeling Gabriel’s guys would be more keen if I could speak better French.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You really think it would make a difference in the deal?”
I tilt my head, considering her question, then I nod. “I do, because it would impress them. Make me stand out. It would show them a commitment to their particular brand of . . .” I’m about to say cuisine, but instead, I opt for, “their brand of je ne sais quoi.”
She flashes an appreciative grin then leans forward. “Would you like me to help you?”
More time with Abby? I barely have to think on that one, but I pretend to contemplate, stroking my chin. “Hmm. Well, let’s see. I’m terrible. You’re good. That’s a no-brainer.”
“Good. I love teaching. I’m excited to help you.”
I can’t even begin to explain how excited I am to be her student. But I’ve got to keep that to myself. I focus on the details instead. “But I insist on paying you.”
She scoffs. “I insist on not taking your money.”
“You can’t teach me for free.”
“Don’t think of it as free. It helps me to work on my language teaching skills. Fair trade?”
Deal-making is my stock-in-trade, so I press on. “I’d really like to pay you, though. I value your time, Abby.”
She shoots me a smile. “I know you do. But the offer is only for free, not for pay.” She arches an eyebrow playfully. “Take it or leave it.”
I shake my head, impressed with her negotiation skills and how she’s bested me. “You’re quite the deal-maker.”
“I drive a hard bargain,” she jokes.
You absolutely fucking do. “Yes. Very hard,” I say, teasing, even though in some ways I’m not teasing at all.
“Want to start tonight?” She sounds eager.
“You don’t have anywhere to be?” I ask. Then, because I can’t help myself, I toss out, “Like a hot date?”
It’s borderline ridiculous how I’m fishing for information, but my need to know outweighs my wish to be nonchalant. Besides, I threw in the towel on the pursuit of cool when I had a kid. Dads aren’t expected to be cool. Ergo, I can fish.
She laughs loudly. “No hot date tonight. Nor yesterday. Nor tomorrow.”
A smile tugs at my lips, then it spreads wider when she adds, “And not the next night, either.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is news worth prying for. Abby is thoroughly single, and I pump a virtual fist.
Not that I’m going to ask her on a date. But hell, if I can’t have her, no one else should. Yeah, I know that sounds unfair and possessive. So be it. I have a caveman inside of me. I might hide him most of the time under the crisp shirts in my Upper East Side lair, but he’s here, and I don’t want anyone else to get his hands on this woman.
“Good,” I say, before I can I catch myself.
We spend the next hour on the couch, and I can’t complain at all about my life at the moment. Just being near her is like a shot of endorphins. Add in the fact that she’s patient, fun, and focused as we work on French, and I’m a happy camper. Plus, I’ve learned a few new phrases, including how to correctly pronounce what I’d intended to ask Eduardo. Do you want to develop a new plan tomorrow?
“Voulez-vous aménager un nouveau plan demain?” I say, and Abby smiles and claps softly.
“Très bien,” she says, her lips curving up. “Or use développer instead of aménager. Overall, either is much better than voulez-vous nager nu dans l’été.”
She repeats my initial attempt, saying it the way I did, with the pronunciation so off that my question turned into a big gaffe.
I flub my lips and hold out my hands. “What can you do?”
“No more skinny-dipping invitations,” she says, wagging her finger. “Besides, skinny-dipping is way overrated.”
My ears perk. So does another part, which sits up and takes notice as she talks about nudity. “What makes you say that?”
“Because . . . water.”
I frown in confusion. “You don’t like water?”
She laughs. “I assure you, I adore water. I just think that the role of it in, you know . . .” Her tone suddenly becomes shy.
“Foreplay?” I supply, and I really shouldn’t go here. But I’m doing it anyway.
She blushes. “Yes, that.”
“So skinny-dipping as foreplay is overrated? And why is that?” I ask, because she went there and I’m absolutely following her.
She raises her chin, no longer shy as she says, “Because water is not a lubricant.”
My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. Abby has a dirty mind. Abby has a naughty side. Holy hell, I want to get to know this side of her so much. “You’re probably right on that count. But there are other ways to get wet in the water,” I say, before I let good judgment wrest control of my mouth again. And I better regain control before I fucking flirt straight into the land of filthy innuendo, because I don’t know if I can return from it, or if I want to.
“I have no doubt there are better ways,” she says with a naughty grin, and there’s something teasingly seductive in her
tone that makes me think she likes this tango, too. I’d like to go back in time and thank the me from an hour ago for incorrectly using the French verb for swim on a business call.
“But if skinny-dipping is overrated, are showers, too?” There’s more gravel in my voice than before. She has to hear it. She has to be aware of this game we’re playing.
She nibbles on the corner of her bottom lip. “I think showers and certain activities in them would have a top-notch rating,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. My blood heats, and there’s no way I can contemplate anything but the images flying through my mind. Her, in my shower, water streaking along her bare skin. Me, joining her under the steam, pressing her hands to the wall, angling her hips just so. Then having my way with her.
“I think so, too,” I rasp, and a handful of words I want to add to my statement dances dangerously on the tip of my tongue.
With you.
Now.
Let’s test this theory.
I swallow roughly, far too tempted to say something suggestive. Somehow, I grab a lifeline and pull myself up from the slippery slope. “And merci. I’m thankful for the lesson,” I say in French.
That does the trick. Forcing my brain to translate has knocked me back into reality.
She returns seamlessly, too. “Very good. Your language skills are better than your French-braiding skills,” she teases as she shuts her iPad.
I pretend to be insulted. “So not true. I can do French braids with my eyes closed.”
She shakes her head. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
“I’ll prove it to you.”
She tilts her head, and her hand freezes on her purse. “Prove it?” she asks quietly.
Somehow I’ve thrown a gauntlet I didn’t realize I was tossing. I do the only natural next thing—follow through. “Sure. Got one of those hair tie things?”
She nods slowly. “Yes, but . . .” Her voice trails off. Then she resumes the thought. “You really learned to French braid?”
I nod. “Hayden insisted on it,” I explain then study her face. Her pupils are dilated, and she blinks. Ah hell, I’ve made her wary with my remark. “I don’t have to prove it. I was just teasing,” I say, giving her an out. Mildly flirty comments are one thing—hands in hair are another.
The Sexy One Page 4