Babysitting the Billionaire

by Nicky Penttila

  “You didn’t need to buy the biggest one.”

  “I did so. And I got one for you, too. And some tequila.”

  She didn’t say anything. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. At this rate, she’d need another shower to get to sleep. Or a big ole drink.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. She looked up at him, startled. “I realized when I saw you go in your house alone what an asshole I’d been to you today. Since we met, really. I’m sorry I scared you in the restaurant. I’m sorry I don’t know how to treat ladies right.” He looked so forlorn she reached out for him, and then pulled her hand back. That was not her role. Her role was to sober him up, get him in a taxi and to the hotel, and keep on the high and narrow.

  But he’d apologized, and he looked like he meant it. And hotel rooms are lonely, and sterile. And his hair was in his eyes, and somebody should push it to the side. And maybe kiss him all better.

  She pinched her nose harder, but her wayward mind already was conjuring pictures of this Beau, splayed across the bright blue of her futon. They matched.

  So be it. She reached up and around his shoulder, catching him in a side-hug. “I’ll drink with you if you want. But remember, I’m no Finn.”

  He squeezed her back. Was that a sob? But when he let her go, there was no trace of tears. She must have imagined it.

  He stalked past the counter and into the combined dining room/living room/studio as if he were sober. Like a cat, looking at everything quickly instead of sniffing it. He must have decided all was well, for he slipped out of his suit coat and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  With every button he loosened, May’s temperature rose a notch. Two down, and a hint of light brown chest hair. Three, and a nipple was exposed. She swallowed, suddenly flushed and bothered.

  “Whoa there, cowboy. What’s up?”

  “I’m sick of this monkey suit. Do you have anything that would fit me?” He paused, on Number Four, belly button, and looked up at her. At least he looked a little sheepish before he burst into bitter laughter.

  She’d do anything to stop that poisonous humor. “Wait. I do think I have a shirt at least. The slacks, well…”

  “We’ll stick with the shirt. I can unbutton the trousers.”

  May scurried across the tiny hall and into her bedroom before her blush hit full-on. From the lower drawer, she pulled out the team Penguin shirt she’d done last year. Coming back around the corner at a quick clip, May froze mid-step.

  All the buttons were undone; the shirt was at his waist. His back was as beautifully sculpted as his face. He must work out every day. She hoped she wasn’t smiling inanely. The T-shirt dropped out of her nerveless hands and onto the floor.

  He heard the sound and turned, then grinned. “Enjoying the show?”

  May remembered to shut her mouth and swallow. He rolled his hips as he walked toward her. She didn’t remember his gait as being so rolling, or so hot. He stopped an arm’s length away, looking as if he were trying to gauge her mood.

  She scowled. “You know you have a hot bod. What of it?”

  He grinned. She thought he was going to touch her, and if he touched her, she thought, she was going to explode right then and there. But he bent down and picked up the T-shirt.

  “Black, appropriate. And XXL, even too big for me. But look.” He flicked the T-shirt over his shoulder and held out his wrists to her. They were still cuffed by the shirt.

  “The penguins.”

  “Beautiful but not easy to manage.”

  “Not easy for you.” She reached for the closest one. Something sang through her veins at the touch, but she swallowed it down. Quick bend-snap, bend-snap. “Shackles off, Mr. Kurck.”

  “Beau.” He rubbed his wrists as if they had actually been handcuffed. She saw his shoulders flex, and grabbed the tail of the T-shirt as it and the Oxford slid to the ground.

  He stretched up and back, making a noise something like a growl-sigh, a sun salutation in the middle of the night. “That’s more like it.”

  May fought the urge to run the base of her palm up his middle, from the divot of his solar plexus, skimming the dusting of hair, on up, up, up to that marvelous cheek-jawline. Instead, she fisted the T-shirt and pushed it into his solar plexus.

  His arms snapped down and caught the shirt, briefly trapping her hand in it. “I thank you, Miss Reed.”

  “May.” Something was wrong with her voice, her throat was so tight. She had to calm down. Where was that drink? She fled to the kitchen and poured herself a tumbler of water twice as big as her margarita glass.

  He was there before she turned the faucet off. “You’re not going to keep up that way. That’s cheating.”

  “We people who have to work tomorrow call it self-preservation. And what about your shift, Mr.—Beau?”

  He shrugged and turned away from her. Plopping down on her futon, he said. “Don’t forget the crisps. Real crisps, chips they call them here. And I called in unwell.”

  “You called in sick?”

  “I had to. Otherwise the first person to piss me off would’ve been fired. And then the first person to tell me off for firing them would be fired. Last time, I fired half my staff before I passed out.”

  “How long ago was last time?” She turned one of the dining-room chairs around to face him and sat on it. Their feet shared her tiny coffee table, along with two years’ worth of Print magazines and two weeks’ worth of newspapers.

  He thought about it. “Seven, eight?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why are you sitting so far away from me? How are we going to share the crisps that way?”

  She tossed him the package underhand, even though she had played fastball as a girl. Not the time for that, really.

  He opened them easily. She hadn’t been able to figure out the packaging. “Don’t like crisps?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come over here and try one. I promise not to flirt at you. No, what is the word? Pass-making?”

  “Make a pass. You have been flirting since you walked in the door.”

  “Before that,” he said, nodding. “Rest assured, we Finns can drink ‘til morning. But perform? Not so much. Have no fear.”

  His honesty startled a laugh out of her. “So you didn’t come here for a pity fuck?”

  Even his blush was rugged, the pink fighting to get through his day-old beard. “Okay, maybe. More like a pity snuggle.”

  “I’ll give you a pity spare bed. How’s that?”

  “Fair compromise.” His gaze snapped to hers. “You’re not gay, too?”

  “No, I’m not.” She felt inappropriately pleased at his expression of relief, and then stung as the sides of his face dragged into gloom.

  “I have bad gaydar.”

  She had to laugh, and because she’d been drinking, once she started she couldn’t stop. He looked at her, startled; and then his lips wobbled, and then he guffawed right along with her.

  She got up and refilled her water glass. He’d loaded the coffee table with his mixer and Sauza tequila, very efficient.

  He was still chuckling when she returned, and it seemed only natural to come closer and perch on the futon with him. He reached his glass over and clinked on her tumbler of water. “Hölkyn kölkyn.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s what we say to make the tourists laugh.”

  “It works.” She tried to repeat it, making him laugh. The sound had a creak like a rusty Tin Man.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, but he waved her off.

  “Dull and gone. Tell me about yourself, Miss May. This pink penguin I’m wearing—is it yours?”

  “It is. This was a prize during our team-building exercise last year.”

  “Is there anyone at Penguin Foundation who wears XXL?” He wiggled his shoulders, and the shirt danced on without him.

  “No.”

  “Great way to build a team, to suggest you’re all skinny weaklings.”

  This was getting too close
to the restaurant scene. May fought her fatigue to find a topic to change.

  “Wait. What does Joki do for team-building?”

  “What do you think? We play videogames. And go snowshoeing in the woods.”

  “That sounds fun.”

  “If you’re a reindeer. I think the best way to build a team is to build the best product together that we can. Seems to work for us.”

  “And stay off the phone when you’re drunk.”

  “Just so.” He looked toward what used to be the sunroom. When May had bought the place, she had had the wall torn down so now the sunroom was part of the living area. The tile floor remained, though. She used the space for her computer setup and her painting.

  “That’s why this place smells of solvent.” He gestured to her big easel.

  “Yes. I’m using oils this year. I’m sorry about the smell.”

  “I grew up over a gas station. Smells like home.” He drained his glass. “You did the walls, too? The sunshine kitchen, dissolving to day and then blue night over there?”

  She nodded. No one had ever seen the colors for what they were.

  He lurched forward to pour another drink out. “Will hurt your resale value.”

  “It’s acrylic.”

  He sat quiet a moment, and then leaned sideways toward her. “Where do your parents live?”

  Talk about a non sequitur. May sipped her drink, composing her story. “Here, in DC. My birth mother came here pregnant, but didn’t survive the trip. I was a preemie. The Reeds had lost their boy, and I believe they loved me twice as much to make up for it.”

  “There is no twice as much in love. It’s all or nothing.”

  “Then it was all. Is all. They’re both hale and hearty. In the summer they like to travel. They’re exploring the West coast this month. They still camp in tents.”

  He chuckled. Not bitter at all. She relaxed into the sound; it was almost mesmerizing. “How do you camp?

  “I camp with room service.”

  He set his glass down and suddenly looked serious. “Camp with me. No pressure, I mean I have an extra room. You might actually get seven hours of sleep.”

  May’s heart skipped thrillingly up, and then crashingly down. “But aren’t you going home now, what with the, um, wrong resolution to the meeting with the senator?”

  “You want me to give up on the penguin expedition?”

  “No! I mean, lord, please, no. But I thought.” She frowned. What did she think?

  “You thought it was quid pro quo, and rightly, since that was what I’d said. But truly, May in June, I am excited about this expedition. There’s a reason I picked penguins for my game. I think they’re really—what is the word?—exciting.”

  “Cool?”

  “Better, cool.”

  May smiled. “Well, that’s great to hear. Sadie will be so pleased.” She stopped, seeing his look harden. “Sorry, I mean Markus will be pleased. And me, too.”

  “And you, too, little May?” His eyes were a bit blurry, but still too sharp for her liking. The blush was rising again, and even her crotch was blushing. Was that possible?

  She tried to harden her heart against him. What had she called him yesterday? Mr. Big-pants bossy-head. But tonight he didn’t seem so bad. In fact, he looked downright delicious.

  She frowned hard enough to hurt her cheeks. She shouldn’t be thinking this way. Traitorous body, with its unhelpful thoughts. Time to flee the danger.

  “I’ll get the bedding.”

  “You do that.” He leaned back, hands behind his gorgeous head, and closed his eyes.

  ****

  May woke to the delicious smell of coffee, and for a moment she wasn’t sure where she was. This couldn’t be her house, could it?

  But the bed was right, and her little pile of clothes from last night beside it on the floor. Then she remembered. She had a guest.

  She rummaged in her overstuffed closet and finally found the terry bathrobe her parents had given her years ago. Barefoot, hair surely aircraft-carrier-ish, she opened the bedroom door and peeked out.

  “Sleepy heads only get the dregs.” Beau Kurck, impossibly perky, lorded over her little breakfast counter. He held up one of her mugs.

  She came closer. “Where did you get the coffee?”

  “Ordered in.”

  “From where?”

  He waved a hand, and she saw the big box of coffee on the counter. “You ordered a box of coffee?”

  “Two. I had to reach the minimum for delivery. That, and a French press, since you so kindly loaned me yours.”

  “And a selection of croissants.”

  “Not a one of them fattening.” He waved her mug at her. “Do artists really do it with flair?”

  “Not without coffee first,” she said. “Out of my way.”

  He wandered into the front room. She poured herself a big joe and grabbed half a croissant and followed. The sun was already streaming through the top tier of windows, another blue-sky day. “It’s nice to share a beautiful morning,” she said.

  “Indeed.” He turned from looking at the tree taking up her postage-stamp back yard, and took her in. “You know, Miss May, I believe you need a vacation.”

  She stopped mid-chew. “I believe I need to sit down. So, you’ve solved all your own troubles and now you’re moving on to improving the lots of the rest of us?” She licked the last of the delicious butter taste off her fingers.

  He watched her a moment and then answered. “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “I’m fine.” Except she nearly shouted it.

  He handed her his half-empty coffee cup. Turning toward her big easel, he flicked the canvas cover off the painting there.

  Both cups threatened to slosh. May put them on the paint table. “I suddenly remember why I hate having visitors.”

  “Looks to me like you should have more of them. A black painting, on a field of black. And here, where you’ve scraped the paint off, what are you going to put there? No, let me guess. More black.”

  She covered the painting back up, as if it were a bird that would fall silent when you covered up her cage. “It’s a work in progress, a process painting. I don’t need to explain it to you.”

  “How long have you been working on this?”

  “Not long. Six months, a year, I don’t know.” She saw the corner of his mouth turn down, the patent disbelief in his eyes. Already, her damn tears were coming.

  “Leave me alone. I didn’t invite you here.” She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. She picked up his coffee, her stupid artist mug, and threw the stuff at him. The liquid hit the face of her penguin on the T-shirt, as if she’d intended to feed it to him.

  He looked down, pulling the shirt away from his skin, and then back to her. “You do remember this is your shirt, right?”

  May’s breathing rippled into laughter, crazy laughter, cackle to guffaw to hard sobbing. She swayed on her feet. Her feelings had her balance confused.

  He pulled the soaked shirt off and scooped her up. As he carried her to the already-made-up futon, she tried to tell him that the terry robe would have soaked up the liquid, but her vocal cords weren’t making word-sounds at the moment.

  He sat in the middle, sliding her butt to the side but keeping hold of her under the shoulders. He hugged her so close her tears fell on his skin, too.

  It wasn’t as if May hadn’t cried about all the things that had happened, but this cry was of a different hue. He stroked her hair, from temple to under her ear, again and again. At last, the tears ran out, and her sobs quieted enough she could hear his heart’s steady, steady rhythm. She closed her eyes.

  Already the shame was rising, and soon she’d need to back up and set some boundaries with this man, this stranger, really. But another thirty seconds wouldn’t hurt anyone. She let his warmth soak into her, ease some of the weary pain blocking her heart.

  “You lost someone,” he said, voice warm across the top of her head. No tears left, she only shivered as if her
body was trying to shake off the memory. As if.

  He had stopped stroking her hair, and now his hand stroked her chin, her shoulder, her arm, and up and around again. She concentrated on the sensations, quieting the chaos of memories in her mind.

  “My baby. She wasn’t born yet, but she was still my baby.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. The rhythm of his touches did not break.

  “She was 20 weeks, something. We’re not sure. The father, he wasn’t interested, you know. So I, I was going to give her up.”

  “Give her up?”

  “Adopt her out. To a good family. Like I was. A better life.”

  “You didn’t think you could give her a good life?” His voice was soft, but hearing the words out loud for the first time she felt how deep they cut.

  “I wanted to give her everything I would never be able to afford. Especially two parents.”

  “You weren’t good enough for her?”

  “Not even good enough to hold onto her for nine months.” Her throat stopped working, and the words choked off.

  He stilled, and then squeezed her tight. He pulled her up and against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder so she could see the sunshine.

  “What if she knew? What if she thought I didn’t want her?” What if the paints had poisoned her? May had switched to acrylics, but who knew how long baby-toxins remained in the air. She closed her eyes as he cradled the back of her head.

  Babies miscarried every day, she knew. And babies were born who were unwanted—the healthy fetuses came willy-nilly. Her baby had been sick, or wrong, or something.

  It felt like every heartbeat for the past half a year had been a fight between her need to breathe and the weight of a great boulder pressing on her chest. His gentle pressure somehow added to her strength. She imagined herself pushing, pushing, the great rock to the side. It moved, grudgingly, a little bit. She could breathe. She sucked the air in.

  She burped.

  Reddening with embarrassment, she scrambled off his lap, pulling her knees into her. He only chuckled. “Getting the last of it out, are you?” His eyes were wet. “Any better?”