by Lindsey Hart
“They’re good pots too,” Feeney groans. “They’re heavy and expensive. I can tell. Don’t worry. I’ll get them clean.”
That would take a minor miracle, and this from someone who burns pasta, but I keep my mouth shut. I suppose I can be nice by not being an asshole. The old double negative trick. Maybe not, because I just can’t seem to help myself.
“It might be worth looking up a good cleaning method from a site other than the one you got cooking instructions from.”
Feeney whirls around to the sink, but she’s not fast enough to hide the red that floods her face. Anger? Embarrassment? Both? Whatever it is, I’m struck by how pretty she looks. Maybe that’s why I did it—stuck some salt in those mortified wounds. Why? I guess I deserve it. Now I have to contend with the image of Feeney looking pretty for the rest of the evening. That thought doesn’t settle well in my gut. I haven’t so much as even noticed what a woman looked like for a very long time, and it makes me uncomfortable now.
Feeney fumes silently at the sink. She won’t turn around and look at me, which is for the best. I’d apologize, but it would mean having to look at her again, and I just can’t handle it tonight. I’ve managed for two years with other nannies coming and going, but this one, this is the one that matters, and I already know we’re on a crash course for disaster—also, not just a regular disaster but the kind of disaster that ruins a person. I’m not ready. I know I’m not ready.
So, of course, I do the thing that comes most naturally. I run.
“If we hurry, we can get a game of football in before the pizza comes.”
Shade perks up at that. He loves football, all kinds of football. He gets that I’m talking about video games, and he loves those too. It might be unhealthy to play them as much as we do, but whatever. We spend time together, and we like doing it. It takes us out of ourselves for an hour or two when we need it most. What’s wrong with that?
I should just go. Go down to the basement where the video game console and the big TV are set up. I should, but I can’t. I have my back turned, and I quickly brief her for tomorrow so I can try and get away from her tonight. Because, for some unfathomable reason, I just need to for my own sake. It’s not really because I need to have the last word. I don’t care about that because I don’t do caring—caring and getting involved are both things I intentionally don’t do.
“I’ll be gone by seven-thirty, and I’ll be back by five. You’re on your own until then. Whatever you do, can you just make sure you don’t reduce the place to ashes while I’m gone?”
I scoop Shade up in my arms and let the sounds of his gleeful giggles and screams drown out Feeney’s no doubt snappy, churlish response.
CHAPTER 6
Feeney
I’m already awake when Luke slips out to work the next morning. I slept terribly, of course. My first night in a bed that wasn’t my own in a good long while. Half the night, I spent thinking about what my parents were doing. I might be mad at them and appalled at what they wanted me to do, but I still miss them. They’re my mom and dad. Of course I miss them. I miss the house, I miss my room, and I miss the painstaking way my mom decorated everything. She has a very eclectic taste, and she buys what she likes. It doesn’t have to be expensive. There are things in the house that only cost a couple of dollars from antique stores, all the way to pieces of art costing well in the hundreds of thousands of dollars.
I miss all of it. I miss the familiarity, and I miss the comfortable sounds of the house and the streets surrounding it. I miss safe.
After Luke leaves, I know I can’t stay all day in bed. I have no idea what time Shade gets up, but if he’s like any other kid, then probably early.
I throw back the covers and get dressed in a pair of black leggings, a black tank, and a black cropped sweater from my duffel bag. I’m disgusted with myself for not even bothering with a shower. And generally, I love colors, but I just don’t feel like it right now. Black suits me far better.
When I get downstairs, I decide to poke around the house a little. Not to snoop but to just get myself familiar with the place. I just about die when I shove open the first door and find a laundry room overflowing with clothes. And not clean ones either.
I might not be able to cook, but I do know how to operate a washer and dryer. I fill up the washer with a load, both Luke and Shade’s clothing, and exit after I hear the water running into the machine. The kitchen doesn’t look any more promising than last night. Those terrible pots in the sink are still waiting for me to scrub and clean them. There are empty pizza boxes on the counter, and the cupboards are just as empty. There are two boxes of cereal, but no milk. I do find a container of cream in the fridge which I open and sniff. It smells okay. If I mix it with some water, maybe I can make a wretched version of skim milk. Shade probably won’t know the difference. The cereal, on the other hand, is all sugary garbage. Definitely unhealthy.
I let out a frustrated sound when I realize, after a thorough search of the house, that Luke didn’t leave me a card to get any groceries. He didn’t leave keys to the car, and he didn’t even give me his number. If there’s an emergency with Shade, I have no idea what I’ll do. I make a note to phone Sam when she’s up since she has Luke’s number, but she won’t be up for a few more hours. Or maybe Shade might have his own phone. If he does, Luke’s number would be in there for sure.
After making an attempt to scrub the pots, which includes scratching at them with a butter knife, I give up on them and leave them to soak again. I head back to the laundry room and switch out the clothes. I do notice a few dress shirts hanging on hangers in the corner. They’ve already been washed and are obviously awaiting an iron. I think. They smell clean, but they’re also slightly wrinkly.
I spot an ironing board with a white iron in the corner of the room, so I grab them. I’ve never ironed anything before, but I have seen my mom do it. She’s fussy, and she actually hates sending anything to the cleaners if she doesn’t have to. She’d much rather launder her own clothes.
The ironing board pops up, no problem. I set the iron to the steam setting since I think that should get out the wrinkles. It heats quickly, and I pull down one of the shirts. I feel weird about ironing it and even touching it because I know it’s Luke’s. I try really hard not to think about him, but I know he’d look amazing in the shirt. I also know he’d look even better out of it. He has the look of a guy who is never going to get a true dadbod. Ever. Unless by dadbod, it counts to have rock hard, eight pack, streamlined muscles, and natural athleticism that would make both personal trainers and even professional athletes jealous.
Nope. Absolutely not going there. Those thoughts are trouble, they make my body feel as hot and steamy as the iron I’m working with, and they are unproductive to my job. Guys are just trouble anyway. My parents were right to send me to an all-girls boarding school. They spared me the trouble of men until I was eighteen.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I shove those sorry thoughts in a sack and iron furiously. I’m not very good at it, and I end up making creases with the iron that weren’t there before. I barely keep from cursing. I hate that I’m not good at this stuff—domestic stuff. It makes me feel spoiled and useless.
Is anyone good at ironing? It seems to be a lost art. And whatever. I’m sure there are millions of people out there who had a regular upbringing and also can’t cook.
I’m done with the first shirt and starting on the second when I hear footsteps racing around above me. It’s very obvious Shade’s awake. Either that or a herd of angry opossums just broke into the house. Considering we’re in the middle of the city, that’s highly unlikely. Are opossums even angry animals? I don’t think so. But I know they hiss at their own butts and like to play dead, and I also know their body temperatures are so low, they almost never get rabies. They eat tons of ticks every year, and they actually provide the anti-venom for some snake bites because it doesn’t harm them. At least I think so. I remember doing a report on opos
sums when I was younger. They’re pretty freaking amazing.
Anyway, it’s obviously Shade up there. A minute later, before I can even move, he comes thumping down the stairs and appears in the doorway to the laundry room.
I’m struck by how much he looks like Luke with his dark hair, brown eyes, and darker complexion. Someday, he’s going to be a heartbreaker. Though not like his dad. Not like I would know or plan to find out. It’s honestly hard to imagine Luke breaking hearts. He’s such a curmudgeonly man, and I can’t imagine anyone giving him a chance, but then, maybe he hasn’t always been like that. Or maybe women like assholes. My mind suddenly inserts a shrugging emoji there.
I’m about to ask Shade if he’d like cereal for breakfast when he raises his hand like a sleepwalking ghost in some freaking horror-action movie, his face completely expressionless as he points at me. It freaks me out until I realize what he’s pointing at. The iron. Smoking. Burning. And the shirt. Oh god, the shirt.
“Yarp! Blueberry bagels and buttered biscuits!” I hastily jerk the iron up. The shirt was blue. I say was because it’s now dark brown with a giant iron mark burned into the front.
Apparently, there isn’t anything I don’t burn, food or otherwise.
Shade giggles. “Why are you talking about food?”
I set the iron aside and yank the cord out of the wall so that I don’t forget it’s plugged in and accidentally burn down the house for real. I wonder what the chances are of Shade forgetting about this and me hiding the shirt in the trash. But no. Luke probably goes through the trash. He strikes me as a suspicious son of a bitch.
“Well, I learned a long time ago not to use bad words, so I say other things.”
“You mean like shit, damn, bi—”
“Yes!” I cut him off, alarmed. “Yes, all those. Those are adult words. You should never use those.”
“You’re an adult, though. Why don’t you use them?”
“Because you’re listening and you’re not an adult, so you don’t need to hear them. And even though I’m grown up, it doesn’t mean I want to use bad words. They have bad meanings, and some people will think you look bad if you walk around saying them.”
“I think it’s cool to use bad words.”
Holy granola. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s very cool. I think it’s way cooler to find something original to say. Something that surprises people and makes them laugh. Laughter is worth way more than anger most times.”
“You were angry at the iron, but now you’re smiling about it?”
I hadn’t realized I was smiling, but I guess I am even though I feel woefully underprepared to take on this job. I seriously lack all the fundamental skills. Apparently, though, Shade is okay with me. So far, anyway, which is the thing that matters most. If he were a brat who threw tantrums and trashed the house on me, I know I’d have to quit. But now, I think he might even grow to like me, and I already like him. It’s easy to see he’s smart as all get out. He’s also very friendly. I think he’s probably an all-around nice person.
And no, I don’t think adults are the only ones who matter. I think kids, and what they say and feel and think, are just as important. I hated that when I was younger, no one would give me the time of day. I promised myself I would never treat another person like that. There shouldn’t be an age limit on when things start to matter.
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving!”
With a huge grin, Shade brushes his hair aside. It’s quite long. Long enough to get it cut, especially since it’s not a very good cut right now. The bangs are chopped and have grown past his eyes while the rest reaches his chin. It’s fine for a boy to have long hair, right? And I don’t think I could do a better cut myself. Afterall, we’ve already seen how my domestic skills are.
“I noticed there’s cereal. Or… cereal. Take your pick.”
“Cereal!’
Sweet potatoes, I’m glad this kid is easy going. A full-on meltdown over breakfast might be more than I could handle right now.
Shade obediently sits down at the table in the kitchen while I get his cereal. I conspicuously mix water into the cream, and he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t say anything while he eats, and I go back to trying to get the pots scrubbed clean.
For my first day with Shade, I wanted to do something exciting, but with no car keys and without knowing the neighborhood, we settle for the backyard. We play hard out there—tag, tossing the football, and hide and seek—before we come in and clean up his room. Then, we eat cereal together again for lunch. And after lunch, we head back outside and exhaust ourselves in the backyard again.
All in all, I’d call it a successful day.
Until Luke comes home.
Mr. Five O’Clock Shadow.
Literally. The first thing I notice when he walks into the backyard just after five is that he does indeed have a slight shadow along his jawline. Somehow it makes his features even sharper, and by sharper, I mean more handsome, intriguing, and shiver-inducingly delicious.
It also makes him look more like an asshole when he narrows his eyes at me and asks about dinner. I thought, technically, my time was supposed to be my time after five, but I choke back on my tone since it wouldn’t come out with an ounce of respect, and I like to adhere to the old—if you don’t have anything nice to say, shut your trap. The world’s a big enough shit hole already—adage.
“You’re going to have to order something again. The cupboards are empty, and there was nothing for me to do shopping or go anywhere.” I say it as nicely as possible.
Luke’s dark eyes track over my face. They narrow, observing me, trying to dig beneath my outer layer and get inside. I shiver, but it’s not an entirely creepy shiver. I bet there are lots of ladies who would let Luke inside. Like, literally.
Lemon pudding and chocolate cherry cheesecake! That is not me. I am not one of those women.
I ignore the fact that, according to the pattern, my ovaries now feel like they’re burning, and instead, I stare back. Shade comes up and takes Luke’s hand, leading him inside through the patio door. I follow at a distance, giving my body a chance to calm down. I’d douse myself in cold water if I could, but it’s not going to help. Luke is too good looking for his own good. For my own good. For everyone’s own good. Why couldn’t I have worked for an ugly boss? If he were ugly and mean, at least I wouldn’t feel guilty right now. Because finding someone attractive when they’re not overly nice isn’t right.
I walk into the kitchen to find Luke pulling a credit card out of his wallet. He thumps it down on the counter and follows it up with a set of keys and a wad of bills.
I stare at the bills. There’s probably a grand sitting right there, and he just pulled it out of his freaking wallet.
My parents don’t even do things like that.
“Uh, do you have a budget? A list? Things you like? Allergies?”
“Mmmhmm.” He pulls out his phone and turns to Shade. “What’s it going to be tonight?”
“Burgers and ice cream!”
“Something healthy because we had cereal for breakfast and lunch?” I insert hopefully.
“Burgers and ice cream it is.”
“Yay!” Shade goes racing off into the living room while Luke places the order.
I can only imagine what place he’s calling that will deliver ice cream and a burger. That’s weird. I don’t wait around. Honestly, I’m hungry, but not really. Not hungry enough to stay in Luke’s company a second longer than I have to.
I have no idea how long I’m going to have to endure this, but I hope it’s not long. I feel bad for Shade. Honestly, I really do. He’s a great kid. Too bad his dad is a total dorkwad. Maybe that’s not entirely his fault. I know his wife died, and I do feel for him. Really, I do, but still. He’s basically a monster. The fact that my lady cave somehow finds it to be a turn on totally disgusts me. Yes, I am disgusted with my vagina. Maybe I should be disgusted with my brain too because it’s where hormones get made, I
think. Shit, I was terrible at science.
Let’s just say that, right now, I’m seriously PO’d at whatever part of the body is responsible for the attraction.
I stalk up to my bedroom and shut the door. I can hear Luke and Shade laughing together downstairs. At least the guy treats Shade right, which is probably his one redeeming quality.
He needs it because he has a lot of other not-so-nice qualities. He’s intimidating, and he scowls too much. He also walks around like there’s a black cloud over his head as if someone is continuously peeing into every meal—not just his breakfast—before forcing him to eat it. He expects me to do everything, including having dinner ready. I think he just wants me to fail. He wants me to admit I can’t do this.
I have no doubt he knows who I am. He’s capable of running an internet search, and he knows Sam. He probably knows everything, minus the reason I left home. Maybe he’s torturing me. Or maybe he’s just the representative of a word that starts with the letter P and ends with RICK.
I should call Sam and check-in, or have a shower, or get my laptop and start looking for a real job. I should do a lot of things, but after not really sleeping last night, I’m exhausted, so I flop down on the bed. I intend to just shut my eyes for a second, but honestly, if I fall asleep for the night, that’s okay too. At least I won’t have to think about all the things I don’t want to dwell on. It’s a pretty big list for someone who used to worry about almost nothing at all:
My parents.
Some guy out there who probably thinks he’s engaged to me.
My future and how I’m going to make it work.
How the heck I’m going to learn how to cook something.
The burned shirt I forgot in the laundry room that I know is going to be found.
Luke.
CHAPTER 7
Luke
After one and a half days with Feeney, I’ve decided there are several things I like and dislike about her, and some of them do double duty.