Nanny with Benefits

by Amy Brent

  After about fifteen totally useless minutes, I finally slink down to the main floor, around the corner, and down the other set of stairs. I’m quiet.

  “Little Green Panther” is what my dad used to call me because, in my green Hulk pajamas, I could creep around our old mansion so quietly that no one heard me until I was right behind them. I still couldn’t tell you the reason for my adept creeping about—if it was just an uncanny talent or if maybe it was due to an uncertainty that I was truly worthy of whatever ground I stepped on—but there it was. When I walked about, if I wanted to be, I could be as quiet as a mouse. It was how I caught Dad and Miss Beach.

  I shake my head. No way am I thinking about that now.

  Anyway, I’m pretty sure neither Stevie nor Winston heard me as I silently padded down the steps. Now, unseen, I can determine whether this new nanny is actually working out after all.

  I huddle close to the wall to peer around the corner. My son and his nanny are seated cross-legged over by the big red toy box. They’ve got a big block setup going on in front of them. Bright red, green, blue, and yellow blocks are set up in some kind of—I inch closer—impressive palace or building.

  Winston scoots what looks to be a little toy elephant around the premises, and they giggle.

  I stare for a good long minute. Winston isn’t the most open of kids and is certainly not quick to bond with strangers. And yet there they are; my son and my new nanny. His head is tucked into the crook of her arm. The pair are giggling as if they’ve known each other for years.

  The girl is good; I’ll give her that.

  “Do you want to play?”

  At Stevie’s impertinent voice, I step out from my hiding spot.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says, smiling. “I’d be doing the same thing if it were my son. No need to apologize.”

  She leans over their block creation, popping a red roof block in place.

  “I wasn’t going to,” I reply smoothly.

  She pauses, peering up at me as if she’s unsure whether she should smile.

  “Although I am impressed you heard me,” I admit, sitting down in front of the Lego building.

  Winston scrambles over to fling himself into my lap. We all laugh, and Stevie says, “Yeah, it’s a skill I picked up. Came in handy when I was little and my sister—”

  All the laughter dies off her face. It takes me a few seconds to notice since I’m busy wondering what other “skills” she possesses.

  As Stevie shifts uncomfortably, I rip my gaze off her generous cleavage. Winston leaps up and races for the bathroom.

  “Pee-pee time!”

  Stevie and I exchange a smile as we watch him go.

  “It’s going good so far?” I ask.

  The abruptness of my question startles her. Smiling shyly, she manages a nod.

  “I love kids,” she confesses. “They really just say the stuff the rest of us are too afraid to.”

  “Like pee-pee time,” I say, cracking a grin.

  She grins herself, running the pink tip of her tongue over her upper lip. Her gaze lowers.

  Is it just me, or are we both wishing we too were kids so we could say what we really feel right now?

  Abruptly, I stand up.

  “Anyway, looks like you’re doing great. I’ll be back later.”

  As it turns out, later is five minutes from then. Or it would be if I let my sneaky brain get its way. Instead, I keep my ass firmly rooted to the ergonomic seat my mom insisted I buy.

  Every five minutes or every time I get distracted, the same insidious and misleading thought pops up: Why not go check on Stevie and Winston? I swat it away as quickly as it comes, keeping myself in place on the chair.

  When the time hits 4 p.m., there’s no avoiding going back down there. It’s time to face things. Once down the first flight of stairs, some pop chords beckon to me from the basement.

  There, an onslaught of pop music attacks my ears while Winston grabs my hands.

  “Dance with us!”

  He and Stevie are jabbing their fingers up and down and wiggling their hips to the music. Grudgingly, I let my son encourage my socked feet into a few steps of their own.

  Winston moves between Stevie and me. Whenever I stop moving, he insistently tugs at my arm until I halfheartedly join in, then discos his way over to Stevie, who shakes her hips to the music.

  Finally, he compromises. Taking my hand and then Stevie’s, he guides us together.

  “Hold hands!” he encourages us. “A circle! A circle!”

  Winston’s sudden change surprises me. I’ve pegged him as a serious boy, but then again, I’m pretty serious myself, and I’m the person he interacts with the most by far.

  I haven’t seen him this animated since…we went to Disney World a few months ago. Could it be that Stevie is already having an impact on the boy?

  Stevie reaches her hand out for mine. Grudgingly, I take it. The shock of contact sends a thrill through me. Her skin is silky and supple. And is that a whiff of peach I smell?

  Our eyes meet, and my heart skips. I wrench my gaze away. Hell to the no. I am not going there.

  Once the song finishes, I go over to the sparkly red boombox and turn it off.

  “It’s time for Stevie to go home now,” I tell Winston before he can protest.

  “Aw…” he says, his whole face falling.

  “But she can come again tomorrow,” I say without thinking.

  “Yeah!” Winston whoops, throwing his arms around Stevie.

  I ruffle his hair affectionately.

  “I’m just going to talk to Stevie for a minute before she goes, okay, bud? I’ll come down to play with you soon, all right?”

  Only once we are up the stairs and in the kitchen do I turn to face Stevie.

  “I haven’t seen him get that excited in a long time,” I admit.

  Stevie, for her part, looks flushed. Her cheeks are red and her eyes are dancing.

  “He really is a great kid,” she tells me. “He listens well, he’s fun and has a ton of energy, and it’s kind of cute how—”

  Her baby blues widen, as if realizing she was about to say something she shouldn’t.

  “Problem?” I ask.

  Other than the fact that I want to make those blue eyes half-lidded with a totally different expression?

  “Nothing,” she says quickly. “Just that…he has your hair and eyes. Almost like a mini-you.”

  “A mini-me who’s a lot nicer,” I quip, smiling a bit to myself.

  I’ve had enough experiences with irate clients and distraught exes to know that I’m not generally known for being a kindhearted Samaritan, as fair as I try to be. Seems to me that people never want to hear the truth—not until it’s twisted and distorted so much that it’s no longer the truth at all.

  Stevie tucks a strand of hair behind her little ear while her head tilts my way uncertainly.

  “It’s just that I can be abrupt,” I explain. “But anyway, that doesn’t matter. What’s important is that you did well. Now you can go off and enjoy your day with your boyfriend or whomever.”

  An awkward silence.

  What the hell was that about? I wrench my gaze away from the alluring dip of her lower lip. Hopefully the answer isn’t as clear as day to her like it is to me.

  “I take all that to mean that you’d like me here tomorrow then, too?”

  I nod without looking at her.

  “You can come at nine in the morning. I’ll meet you, get you all set up, and then—” I shake my head, as if to shake away the jumble of incoherent thoughts bumbling around in there. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. I almost forgot.”

  Since it’s Saturday, I shouldn’t actually need Stevie’s help at all.

  My next words come out before I can stop them: “Would you like to come with us to Legoland?”

  As confusion crinkles in the corners of her eyes, I continue quickly. “Of course, you’ll be paid as normal. I just thought—W
inston had so much fun with you today—it might help for you two to bond more.”

  That was a nice move there, although it is complete and utter bullshit.

  But Stevie’s nodding, smiling as brightly as ever.

  “I’d like that. Do you still want me here at nine?”

  “Let’s make it 1 p.m. We don’t want to tire ourselves out at Legoland, especially with the way Winston is probably going to be tearing around the place.”

  “You’re right,” she says. “Not to mention there will be a general stampede of children to deal with.”

  I laugh louder than her little joke warranted. We stare at each other for what feels like a minute.

  “Thanks again,” I say to her, striding to the door and opening it.

  “Good-bye,” she says.

  Instinctively, I grab her arm. “Wait.”

  Fear morphs her features, then… Is that excitement?

  “Yes?” she asks in a small voice.

  My grip droops. Why did I even call her back? The answer is at the edge of my mind, but I shove it away.

  Throwing my arms around her and pressing her body to mine, I say, “Thank you so much for today. You really were a surprise.”

  In more ways than you can even fathom, an unwanted voice in my head says.

  Time stops as our bodies meet. Hers is warm and giving. I can feel her full breasts pressed against my chest. Her hands close uncertainly around my back. Peach is definitely in the air.

  Her face is almost level with my chin, and yet I sense her gaze is going for mine. I don’t dare meet it. If I do, I don’t know what will happen. Scrap that. I do, and it can’t.

  Seconds tick on, taking me closer to what is inevitable, what I’ve been avoiding since the moment that door opened.

  Tick tock. Don’t look at her. Tick tock. That gaze. Tick tock. Those lips. Tick tock.

  “Stevie!”

  It’s Winston. Barreling up, he slams himself into a hug around her legs that sends her shaking.

  “Be careful, you goof,” I say, poking him in the special place between his shoulder blades that always gets him giggling.

  “Sorry,” he says, sure enough giggling as Stevie crouches down to deliver him a kiss to the top of his head.

  “See you tomorrow, Winston,” she says, carefully avoiding my gaze as she leaves.

  Although, right before I close the door, her head turns and I get a flash of an enrapt look.

  A shudder travels from my head all the way down to my feet. I know what that look contained. It’s the one thing I’m battling with now while standing here with the memory of that hug encircling me.

  Pure visceral want.

  Chapter 2: Stevie

  “So you didn’t kiss him?”

  “George!” I yell, smacking her on the arm.

  As she bursts out laughing, I head for my room.

  “Forget it. I’m going to bed.”

  I storm the rest of the way up to my room. Thankfully, my parents are sleeping. The last thing I want to do is explain to them why I’ve gotten irritated with George once again. George is over often enough that Mom and Dad have had their fair share of witnessing our fights. And, as much as I love my parents, when I’m in a fight with my best friend, the last thing I want to hear is, “Honey, you should be more understanding. George comes from a difficult home.”

  I know George comes from a “difficult home.” That’s part of the reason why she sleeps over every few days. But still, that doesn’t help the fact that sometimes she’s just a pain in the ass.

  Like everyone in her family, she has a big mouth, figuratively and literally.

  Even physically, her big lips that she paints a stubbornly bright red are the focal point. Her sleek black haircut in a mod style and cat-lined eyes add to the effect.

  George has never been afraid to say what she thinks and do what she wants. While that can be exciting in certain circumstances, when it comes to having a heart-to-heart with your best friend, it can get to be a little more than frustrating.

  I fling myself on my bed and snuggle my head under my covers, ensuring that the soft cotton shelters all of me, from my bare feet to the top of my ponytail. It’s an old habit from childhood I haven’t shaken. There’s something about curling up underneath a comforter that makes you feel safe. Although right now, being safe is the least of my worries. Or the most of it, if I really think about it.

  After I told George what had happened today in my new babysitting position—the whole hot boss issue—she’d not only been unsympathetic, but she’d been unsupportive.

  “Why didn’t you just go for it?” she asked.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “Go away,” I call out.

  “I can’t go away. I’m sleeping over, remember?” George sounds irritated.

  I stay silent.

  “I’m sorry, all right?”

  I say nothing, although she opens the door.

  “Stevie.”

  My old bed creaks as she sits down on it.

  “Are you crying?”

  When I still don’t respond, she pokes me. Flinging off my comforter, I declare, “I’m not crying. Just leave me alone.”

  “I am sorry,” she insists, her dark eyes flashing. “We both know I have a big old stupid mouth and sometimes I say shit I shouldn’t.”

  “Okay,” I agree grudgingly.

  “I know this is a big deal to you,” she says. “That you really went for this position because it’s your nephew and you want to get to know him. And now, the thing with his dad…that’s pretty messed up.”

  “It’s very messed up,” I clarify, my lips set in a sad smile.

  And it is. I first set out for a nanny job as something to do, but the reason I pinpointed Clayton’s ad was that I recognized his son. The dark red hair and blue eyes didn’t tip me off, but the name did.

  Winston, I thought. Wasn’t that Helena’s…? Going there today confirmed it. Winston is my crazy, estranged sister’s son, the nephew I never got to meet.

  When I messaged with Clayton, I never thought far enough ahead as to what I’d do if he actually hired me for the position. I just wanted to see my nephew. But now that I look to be hired as Winston’s nanny and there’s undeniable chemistry between Clayton and I…

  “I still think you should go for it though,” George says stubbornly.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I say, taking refuge under my covers again, although this time with my face uncovered.

  George holds up her bright red nails, moving them so each one glints differently in the light.

  “I know you’re freaked out because of this whole virgin thing,” she continues casually, as if we’re discussing the merits of braiding versus not braiding your hair, “but if you stop making a big deal about it and just—”

  “Do what you did?” I shoot back. “Fall for my guidance counsellor and then get completely screwed over and almost kicked out of my house?”

  George’s black brows lower.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “That was a low blow.”

  “It’s fine,” she says airily. “If I had all that pent-up desire in me, I’d probably lash out too.”

  “How understanding of you,” I comment dryly.

  “Seriously though,” she says, “you need to chill. Having sex is not as big of a deal as you’re making it.”

  I throw my covers back over my head.

  “I’m only saying it,” George says loudly so I can hear her, “because you’re way prettier and cooler than me and you have this one thing that’s been bothering you for years now. I just want to see it solved. I’m the one who’s messed up, remember?”

  My determined glare softening, I peek an eye at her.

  “Stop it.”

  “What?” she says. “It’s true. My parents are one fight away from kicking me out of the house for good. I failed out of university, and you’re the only friend who hasn’t told me to go to hell because I’ve driven them to it.�
��

  Her dark eyes bulge out slightly as she says all this. Impulsively, I grab her hand.

  “I’m not going to leave you, okay? We’re best friends. We’ve been there for each other and we’re going to keep on being there for each other.”

  “Promise?” she asks, an evil twinkle in her eye.

  “Why?” I say, glaring at her now.

  She bats her doe eyes at me.

  “No reason. Just that I found this in the bottom of your panty drawer and I thought…”

  She flings some balled up fabric at me. It hits me in the face just as I turn to glare at her.

  “You went through my underwear drawer? Seriously?”

  She shrugs, nonplussed.

  “I was looking to see where your Chapstick was.”

  I’m about to respond when I realize what it is that’s half unraveled in my lap. It’s the only pair of sexy panties I have. I’ve never seen the point of owning racy, lacy things that won’t be used. Like these. Ever since I bought them five years ago, they have sat woefully at the bottom of my underwear drawer.

  When I originally bought them at the ripe old age of sixteen, I was sure I’d be using them within a matter of weeks. My brand spanking new boyfriend, the handsome charmer Wednesday Jones, and I were one make-out session away from going all the way. But then, the night after the Caribbean dance, he tried pushing me too far in the park. I turned him down and he stormed off. The next day at school, I discovered him hitting on a mutual friend. That was it.

  And the rest has been history, a series of fumbled attempts with boys, each new one more disappointing than the last. Most of the time, I chicken out before we even make it to second base.

  Who knows, maybe I’ve just watched too many Disney movies or romcoms. But I know what I want—real-life attraction and romance—and I’m not about to give it up because some boy gave me his half-hearted attention for five seconds. No way.

  “So,” George says, her knowing smile still resting on me, “you gonna wear those tomorrow?”

  I fling them onto the other bed in my room—the one she will be sleeping on.

  “Good night, George.”

  She giggles and blows me a kiss.

  I roll my eyes, but as I lay my head down on the pillow, my insides seethe. Because really, would it be so bad if I wore those tomorrow?