by Blake North
“You have great manners, Lydia. Now show me your favorite part of the house,” I say.
I’m ready to show wonder and adoration of her blue mermaid room, so when she takes me to the bathroom I’m surprised. She points to the big sunken tub that is surrounded by every girly looking bath toy imaginable.
“I love this big thing. It has jets to make bubbles.” She points proudly to the controls. I stifle the urge to ask sarcastically if he isn’t afraid she’ll drown from taking a bath. I just nod and say it’s an amazing tub, which it is. It’s about seven times the size of any bathtub I’ve ever sat in and practically a swimming pool.
“It’s so pretty,” I gush.
“You can use it anytime you want,” she says generously.
“That’s so sweet of you. But I think I have a shower in my bathroom.”
“You do. Let me show you!”
She runs down the hall and takes me to a bedroom. It’s lovely with cream colored walls, lots of space, and a big, comfortable bed. My bags have already been deposited on the big upholstered chair in the corner. There’s a thick rug on the floor and empty shelves for my books. The closet is bigger than everything I own put together. She shows me the bathroom, also beige but with sleek chrome accents and a steam shower. There’s even a new Diptyque Tuberose candle on the countertop. It looks like the nicest hotel bathroom ever.
“See, no tub,” she says sadly, “so you can use mine, but never put bubble bath in it. It’s bad for the jets. Daddy said it would burn up the motor,” she tells me seriously.
“Okay, I won’t,” I tell her.
Ridge appears in the doorway. I tuck my hair behind my ear, bite my lip. Why am I looking at him like he’s a guy I see from across the club? He’s my boss. I tell myself that about six times while he’s talking to his daughter. They seem to be negotiating about lunch. He’s so different with her, being open and present, responding to everything she says with warmth and confidence. They’re really close—it’s obvious from their rapport, from the way she says something about a frog that sounds like nonsense to me and it makes them both laugh. She’s holding his hand, looking up at him. They lead me to the dining room and food has appeared. Like lunch just happens like magic in this place.
“Mrs. Whitman said if you eat your carrots—all of them—you can watch the Barefoot Contessa with her this afternoon,” he says.
“How many carrots is that?” she says, narrowing her eyes.
“However many are on your plate,” he counters.
“Five? I’m five so I can eat five, but that’s all.” She says.
My eyes go from one of them to the other like I’m following a tennis match. Watching him make a deal over carrots with his little girl is adorable. Adorable is not a word I would have expected to apply to Ridge Carter. Sexy? Sure. Gorgeous? Definitely. Stone-cold serious and kind of terrifying? Yes, but not adorable. Yet here he is, being sweet and cute with his kid. He’s not ordering her to eat all her damn carrots or he’ll bust her ass. He’s not threatening to take away her screen time or some other privilege. They’re discussing it like they’re dealing on equal footing. I can’t look away. It doesn’t hurt that he’s very nice to look at either.
“There’s more than five on your plate. Eat those and the chicken.”
“What’s the Contessa even cooking today? If it’s just meat, I don’t care if I watch.”
I take out my phone under the table and look it up, “Looks like a cake with berries on it,” I say.
Her face lights up, “The American flag one? I love that thing!” she starts spearing carrots with her fork and shoving them in her mouth. She grimaces and chews bravely, determined. It’s kind of funny to watch and I’m unable to suppress a smile. I can just hear her thinking that if she gets the carrots down she can watch the cake show. I slide a glance at Ridge. He smiles to himself without looking at me and eats his lunch.
“Your Mrs. Whitman is a great cook,” I compliment as I finish the last of my lemon chicken and vegetables.
“She is very good,” he agrees.
“What’d you do to deserve a cook like that?” I tease.
“I pay her very well. And I got her the Wolf cooktop she’d always wanted. You would’ve thought I was sending her on a cruise around the world. She was that happy.”
“I’d rather have the cruise since my cooking repertoire ranges from microwave popcorn to baked potatoes.”
“Frozen dinners?”
“Oh yeah. I have microwaved nearly hundreds of those Lean Cuisines.”
“Those are practically pure sodium,” he says.
“Probably,” I shrug, “but they’re easy.”
“Is easy the ultimate goal?” he says. I’d swear he’s flirting with me.
“That depends on what you’re talking about. With food, absolutely,” I remark.
Lydia’s cheeks are full of carrots, and she’s chewing as fast as she can like a furious little chipmunk. I try not to laugh but when I look at Ridge, we both start laughing. She gives us a quelling look, but her mouth is too full for her to say much. I take a drink of my water.
“I think you can slow down,” I say, “the show isn’t on for another hour. You have time to chew.”
Lydia nods but continues to chew. When she finally swallows, she takes a huge drink of water, then triumphantly stands beside her chair and bows.
“All gone!” she announces.
“Good. Now eat your chicken.”
“I’m kinda full of carrots, Daddy,” she says, slightly whiny.
“If you need to get back to work, I got this,” I tell him. I tear my dinner roll in two and offer her half. I have never met a woman of any age I couldn’t win over with bread. She takes it gladly and bites it, sliding back into her chair.
“Eat the chicken and you get the other half. It was really good chicken.” I persuade.
“It’s the one from the Giada show. I watched it.”
“You like cooking shows a lot, don’t you?”
“I mostly like cartoons, but Mrs. Whitman doesn’t watch SpongeBob.”
“Neither do you. It’s rude and obnoxious,” Ridge says.
“I can only watch PBS Kids,” she sighs as if she’s being forced to sit through old episodes of SportsCenter or something.
“They’ve got some good stuff,” I say, waiting for her to jump in with a favorite. She shrugs and finishes her roll.
“Do you play Minecraft?” she asks.
“Nope. But I can learn if you want me to play with you,” I tell her.
She seems satisfied by this and takes a bite of chicken. With her mouth still full, she says, “Can I play on your phone?”
“I don’t really have any fun apps,” I admit.
“You can get some. I know how.”
“You’ve got three dollars and one cent left this week,” Ridge says, a warning in his voice, “No trying to con the nanny into buying apps for you on her phone.”
Deflated, she swallows her chicken. I look at him. I’m totally considering buying one app for my phone, something she wants. I can use it for an incentive. I can download it, but she doesn’t get to play it if her chores aren’t done or something. I wonder what the long-term implications of that would be—if I show that I’m willing to skirt a few of her dad’s rules. Does that undermine him? Does it undermine me? This is… more complicated than teaching. Teaching had the backbone of school rules and expectations. There wasn’t this gray area. I have to bond with this child, but I don’t want to do the wrong thing. I put my phone in my pocket, thinking better of my plan to download just one.
“I have some music. Maybe you can check it out later,” I say. I’m sort of proud of Ridge for not asking to check my phone for dangerous music—satanic chants or something.
He asks her about school and if her friend Gabbie is back in class and feeling better. I like that he’s engaged with his daughter and knows her friends. I also find myself liking him more than I should.
CHAPTER SIX
>
Ridge
I left them alone. It’s never easy leaving Lydia with someone new. I do trust Reva, but I still had to walk away and leave my child in someone else’s care. It should be easier by now I suppose, but I still miss her and worry about her.
I admit it was kind of a relief getting away from Reva, though. It’s easier to breathe in my office when I’m not inhaling the faint sweetness of cotton candy—some sweet perfume she wears, I guess. I can relax and get some work done. I only text her twice, once to send me a picture of what Lydia’s doing. They’re playing dolls. Lydia has evidently dragged out every plastic toy she’s ever owned and strewn the playroom carpet with them. All the animals and kids are lined up in rows watching a doll fashion show. I bet Reva has to applaud every time a Barbie comes down the runway in a ballgown and baseball cap. I chuckle at the scene. Lydia puts hats on her dolls because she is hell on doll hair—it’s always a rat’s nest. I text back, thanking Reva, and ask her to delete the picture per contract.
Then it’s ten minutes before I can get any work done because I’m thinking about her once more. Those long legs and perfect smile displaying that pretty mouth. It’s not easy at all to keep my mind on my work knowing what’s waiting at home.
I force myself to extract the thoughts of Reva from my mind and go to meetings and talk to a new client. I check in with my federal contact on the Rativan situation, which they assure me is under control, but, of course, somehow I doubt that. When I go home, ready to practice numbers with Lydia and police the chores, I expect to find the house a wreck of plastic. The nanny is bound to softball her the first day, try to win her over. I want Lydia to get along with her nanny, but I need the nanny to be an authority figure, not a best buddy. I hope I made that clear.
When I open the door, I hear music. In fact, I hear the soundtrack from Trolls blaring at what has to be chandelier-rattling volume. I make my way to the playroom to find out if the nanny has been tied up and gagged and forced to listen to Justin Timberlake on repeat.
To my astonishment, it’s clean. The floor does not have toys on it and probably not a speck of dust. The ocean of brightly colored plastic kitties, ponies and babies from the picture has been cleaned up and put away. Lydia is bopping around in her turquoise feather boa to the song with Reva is twirling her. They both turn to see me.
“Surprise!” Lydia bellows, arms flung out to display the cleanliness of the playroom, “we had to make room for the dance party so I got it cleaned up early!”
I scoop her up and spin her around. She’s happy, healthy, and in one piece. That’s a victory for me any day. She flings her arms around my neck, and I spit out the mouthful of aqua feathers that go along with the hug.
I am grateful. I’m always grateful to come home to my little girl. Grateful I get to be her father, and that I get to be the one to make sure she’s safe and has every chance at happiness. She wriggles down too soon to show me something she drew on her easel. Reva turns off the music, which elicits a howl of dismay from Lydia.
“We can dance more tomorrow,” she promises, “Right now I need to swing by Angela’s and get the rest of my stuff if that’s okay?”
“Certainly,” I assure, “the driver will take you wherever you want to go.”
“I won’t be long,” she affirms, bending down to Lydia’s level to tell her she’ll be right back. Lydia takes it seriously and nods. I’m impressed that Lydia doesn’t ask her to bring back a surprise—a tactic she’s been using successfully with me every time I left town for the last two years.
As soon as Reva’s gone, I scoop Lydia up and take her to the rocking chair. It’s our special bonding spot where we unwind there every evening and talk about our day.
“Best thing, worst thing,” I say, which is how we always start.
“Best thing was Gabbie’s back after not getting sick anymore. Worst thing is she was mean today and only played with Sawyer,” Lydia frowns.
I can’t help but be pissed at the kid who’s hurting my daughter’s feelings, but I act like an adult.
“Did you do what we talked about?”
“Yeah. I asked other people to play. I played with Colton until he wanted to do monkey bars. I told him he doesn’t need to do those because they’re not safe, but he told me not to boss him and went and did it anyway. So I made a fist!”
She shows me her fist. It’s cute and funny at first and I want to laugh at her baby rage at not being listened to, but part of me feels a pang that she warns other kids about safety. She should feel safer, feel braver. I hate that I’m having to keep her under so much security, and that I’ve somehow fed her my fears. That she knows how scared I am to lose her. She’s only five, yet I can’t just let her exactly be the carefree child she deserves to be.
“How were things with the new nanny?” I ask casually. I don’t use her name. I want to see what Lydia thinks.
“She’s good. Made me pick everything up just like you like,” she huffs, “Reva did a fun tree with me. She knows a lot about paint. It’s drying in the kitchen. I used my thumbs.”
Lydia shows me her thumbs, “This one was red, and this one got to be the yellow and when I mushed them together it made orange!” She beams excitedly.
“That sounds fun. Wanna show it to me?”
“She wouldn’t let me use blue. Cause it was a tree. Trees can’t be blue,” she stated, sounding grouchy.
“Actually, Matisse introduced the arbitrary use of color in the twentieth century. You can paint anything any color you want,” I tell her.
I don’t tell her that I know this because I did a stakeout when I was with military security and had to pose as an art historian. I certainly don’t tell her I had to shoot nine men on that mission, and that none of them survived, or that it could easily have been me who didn’t come home instead of one of them. I don’t tell her the things I did. I don’t tell her I think that the danger we’re in now might have something to do with karma. I just tell her trees can be blue if she wants them to be because she is child and should express herself however she wants to.
“Who do you want to give your bath? Me or Reva?”
“She can,” Lydia gives a shrug.
“Did you watch your cooking show?”
“Yeah. She used blueberries on the cake. Those taste nasty.”
“But it was the flag cake you like, right?”
“Yeah. I wish I had one.”
“Why, if you don’t like the berries?”
“I could stick those blueberries up meanie Gabbie’s nose!” she retorts.
Then we have to talk about how we treat people and not wishing for bad things to happen to others. I want her to be better than me. I want her to be a good person. Teaching her to be someone who doesn’t go around sticking berries up people’s noses would be a good start.
When Reva gets back, I see that she and Lydia giggle together. She’s gentle with my daughter. They clearly like each other, just the way it should be and how I wanted it to be. When Lydia comes out of the bath in her princess pajamas, her toenails shine with glittery blue-green nail polish that’s freshly applied. I pretend to think it means she’s really a mermaid. She giggles and acts like I’m right because any child would love to be acknowledged as a fairytale creature. I finally read her a book and kiss her good night. Now I could think about other things.
I hate myself for being so attracted to Reva. Because all throughout that idyllic evening, I want her so much. Seeing her rapport with Lydia reminds me I did the right thing in hiring her and that I can’t do the wrong thing and lay a hand on her. Not now. Not ever.
I go take a shower; a long one. I turn the cold water on blast for a moment and try to shame myself into calming down. I then turn the dial to hot and attempt to think of what’s on my schedule tomorrow. I try to center my mind on what is most important, but her face is in my mind. I shut my eyes against the sharp spray of the shower.
I can’t stop.
I think of that moment when we were on the c
ouch, and she touched my hand. I think of her hands, the long, tapered fingers, the pale pink polish on her nails, the soft skin of her palm. I can practically feel it wrapped around me as I give in and stroke my stiff, hard cock. I give myself up to it, to the surge of sensation riding through my body. Every reaction she has set off since the minute she walked in my door for her interview is released in my fast, longing strokes. The coltish way she stopped in the hall and stared and bit her rosy lips. I want to take those lips with mine. I want to kiss those soft, yielding lips and coax them open, pushing my tongue deep into her mouth to taste her. Just the thought of kissing her makes me impossibly harder.
Her body, long-limbed and athletic, has curves in all the right places. The full hips, the high breasts. I don’t even picture her naked. I imagine her in shorts and a white tank top with nothing under it. Her nipples are pert and pointed, straining against sheer fabric. I don’t last long after that thought forms in my mind. My hand slick with soap pumps my cock until I’m spent from thinking of Reva, a strained groan escaping my mouth. All this from fantasizing of my daughter’s nanny.
I fucking hate myself for it. I scald myself with hot water, punish myself with a blast of freezing cold, trying to wash the stain of it off me. I swear to myself it will never happen again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Reva
I’m glad Angela’s home when I swing by to get my stuff. I already took my packed bags to the house, but I still have some extra things to pick up. The latest catalogs, a magazine, and, of course, my half-eaten box of Reduced Fat Wheat Thins and the emergency Oreos. When she sees me come in, she jumps off the couch, nearly dumping her Cheez-Itz on the floor. I hug her in exhaustion.
“I missed you,” she says.
“Yeah, I’ve been gone like one day. And here I am.”
“Do you have time for wine?”
“Always, but I’m pretty sure I can’t drink when I’m on the clock. And I’m a live-in, so pretty much it’s water and Diet Coke for me.”
“Here, Diet Coke, then,” she obliges, pulling a can out of the refrigerator. I pop the top and drink.