“Because they’re enormous,” she said slowly. “I’m assuming you noticed. Since we went to school together, so you were there when everyone—”
“Oh, right.”
“—called me Bugs Bunny.” She steamrollered right over his polite attempt to cut the conversation off there. Judging by her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, she wasn’t in the mood for politeness.
“Hannah,” he said, “I wasn’t staring at your teeth.”
“Okay.”
“I really wasn’t,” he insisted.
“Oh my God, will you shut up about my teeth?”
“Will I shut up about your teeth?”
“Well, you’re the one who was staring at them.”
“Hannah! I wasn’t…” Common sense finally broke through his panic. “Are you taking the piss?”
She sniffed and looked away. But not quite fast enough to hide her smirk.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, woman.” He slapped a hand to his chest. “Don’t do that.”
Her huff of laughter was almost a genuine, honest-to-God chuckle. “Don’t make it so easy, then.”
“I thought you were actually upset! I thought you were going to murder me in my sleep or—or cry.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I never cry.”
Which is how Nate learned that he could go from agonising over his mother and battling a migraine to pissing himself with laughter in under half an hour. The key, it turned out, was Hannah Kabbah.
Chapter Eight
Zach: Want to get a drink?
Hannah: No.
Zach: Want to eat cookies and bitch about people?
Hannah: Meet you at the park in twenty minutes.
“Orange.”
“No. Yellow.”
“Orange.”
“Yellow!”
“Guys,” Nate sighed, looking up from his coffee. “No arguing before 8 a.m. please.”
Josh apparently took that as a challenge. “But the sun,” he growled, “is yellow!”
“It is not!” Beth snapped. “Because I saw a picture of the sun on the board yesterday, and Mrs. Clarke said astronauts took it, and the sun was on fire and it was orange!”
“I HAVE SEEN THE SUN!” Josh bellowed. “AND IT IS YELLOW!”
“The sun,” Hannah said firmly, “is a ball of burning gas.” As always, the sound of her low, steady voice made the kids magically shut up.
Nate sipped his coffee and decided that, since he hadn’t slept in two days, she could take this one. Why she was up at all, he had no idea, but he wasn’t about to complain. He suspected she was awake just to help him, because she knew he was tired. But she’d certainly never say that, and he was grateful for it.
“Since it’s burning,” Hannah said, “that essentially makes it a ball of fire. I propose, therefore, that to solve this argument, we set something on fire.”
It was a mark of Hannah’s all-round brilliance that he didn’t automatically spit out his coffee. Also, that his kids had apparently learned the definitions of essentially, propose, and therefore some time in the last few weeks. Because he certainly hadn’t taught them.
The kids burst into predictable cheers, their bad humour forgotten. But Nate, despite his pretty extensive trust in Hannah, couldn’t stop himself from catching her eye and croaking, “Fire?”
“After school,” she said calmly, “and under controlled conditions.”
He snorted. “I’m assuming that’s my job.”
“Obviously that’s your job. Something tells me you have plenty of experience setting things alight.” While he tried to figure out if that was an insult, she added primly, “I will supervise.”
“Supervise, huh?”
“Yes. The kids can draw the flames. We’ll make it a science project. They can write a letter about it, and we’ll send the whole thing into school. The teachers will be so impressed, they’ll decide that the Davis children are hardworking, intelligent, and come from a nice family. So next time Beth loses her temper and kicks someone, or Josh zones out on a whole afternoon of classes, they’ll be treated sympathetically.”
Nate stared. Blinked. Stared some more. “Your mind is…”
“Terrifying,” she finished, rifling through one of the cupboards. “So I’ve been told.”
“Actually, I was going to say brilliant.”
She looked over at him sharply, as if to catch him smirking behind her back or something. But Nate was just drinking his coffee and thanking God for her existence, and she must’ve seen that on his face. Slowly, the suspicion in her eyes fading, she turned back to the cupboard.
And then, a moment later, she screamed.
It was a very Hannah scream, of course. More of a tiny, muted screech, actually. The kids didn’t even notice it over their back-and-forth about the best flavour of jam to put in porridge. But Nate heard it as if she’d screamed right into his ear, and not just because his head was pounding like an anvil.
He was next to her in seconds, moving so fast he poured half his coffee onto the floor. “What? What is it?”
She was staring into the cupboard like she’d just found a corpse in there. But when he looked over her shoulder, all he could see were cereal boxes, a few of which had fallen over, and…
Oh. She’d found his money. Some of it, anyway.
“Nate,” she hissed, “why the hell do you have…” She poked the stack of cash gingerly, as if it might bite. “Jesus. Are those fifties? What is that, like, ten grand?”
“Relax,” he said, because her voice was getting dangerously squeaky. “It’s just money.”
“What the hell does that mean? Where—”
“Hannah!” Beth piped up. “I finished.”
Smooth as silk, Hannah spun around with a smile and said, “Wonderful. Good girl.”
“Did I eat enough?”
“I’m done too!” Josh said around a mouthful of porridge. “Did I eat enough?”
Nate couldn’t even be offended by the fact that his kids apparently considered Hannah the highest authority in the household. Frankly, at this point, so did he. “You both ate enough,” he said. “Go upstairs and get dressed. Neatest uniform gets a sticker on their chart.”
“Yay!” Josh scrambled down from his seat, closely followed by Beth, and they ran off as if it was some kind of race. Like they hadn’t both gotten a sticker every morning, ever since Hannah had put those charts up. Ah, the spirit of competition.
The minute they left the room, the inquisition began.
“Are you a drug dealer?” she demanded.
“Are you serious?”
“Are you an arms dealer?”
He sighed and put down his coffee. “You’re serious.”
“It doesn’t seem likely that you’re managing exotic and illegal operations from the heart of a countryside town, but I wouldn’t put it past you. I still have no idea what it is you do all day.”
“Hannah. I’m a photographer.”
“Photographers don’t sit in offices all the time!” she insisted. “And they don’t make any money! According to my calculations, and assuming you make the bulk of your profit via works rather than events, your annual income shouldn’t exceed £30,000! And that’s me being generous, Nate. Generous!”
Considering the time, and his headache, and the fact that he’d been feeling shit about his work—or rather, his lack of work—recently, Nate should’ve found this conversation irritating.
Should’ve.
Instead, talking to Hannah felt like recharging his batteries. That narrow look she gave him, the way she folded her arms like a scolding parent, was making a smile creep onto his face. And the fact that she’d be outraged if he laughed only made the urge even harder to fight.
“If I confess,” he said, “will you call CrimeLine with an anonymous tip?
Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened. Her lipstick was a sort of deep rose today, so her lips looked like a flower blooming over and over again. Finally, she spluttered, “Well, no. Of course no
t.”
Now, that did surprise him. He arched a brow. “Really? You don’t think it’s your duty as an upstanding citizen?”
“I’m not an upstanding citizen. While I disapprove of nefarious but lucrative actives—”
Why did she have to say things like that just as he took a sip of coffee? She was going to make him choke.
“—it’s really none of my concern if you’re choosing to fill the city’s sky-high cocaine demand,” she said calmly. Apparently, some of her shock had faded now, because she pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard with only a single suspicious look at the money. “My concern is the children. And your imprisonment, while potentially deserved, would not be good for them.”
He was simultaneously pleased and offended. “It’s nice to hear that you’d put the kids’ happiness above law and order, but I can’t believe you think I deserve prison.”
“Oh for goodness sake, Nate,” she snapped, waving the cornflakes around. “Just tell me where you got all that money!”
“Now you’re auditing me?”
She glared. “I know you’re winding me up. I can see it all over your face.”
“Fine, fine! I don’t work much now, but I did okay when I was younger. I did great, actually. I’m a fine art photographer. So I made a lot of money, Ellie invested it, blah blah.”
She appeared to think on that as she made her breakfast. “Fine art like… Cindy Sherman?”
For a second, he was surprised—but then he remembered that Hannah Kabbah’s magnificent mind knew at least a little bit about every topic on earth. “You like Cindy Sherman?”
“God, no,” she said. “But I know who she is. So if you don’t work much, what is it you do all day?”
“Creative consultancy. Pays well.”
“Right. And you just keep all your money… in the kitchen?”
“No,” he corrected. “I keep fifty grand cash throughout the house.”
She gaped. “Why?”
“You know.” Nate shrugged, turning to get a spoon out of the drawer for her. “In case.”
“In case of what? Global banking collapse? Alien apocalypse? Full-scale identity theft? What?”
“Just… in case.” She gave him a baffled look, and he sighed. “I can’t just believe that I have money and we’re safe and everything’s okay. I have to see it. I have to touch it. Haven’t you ever been poor before?”
“No,” she said promptly. Then, wincing: “I’m sorry. That was insensitive, wasn’t it? Oh dear. Am I being awful? Am I being an enormous snob?”
“What? No.” But she still looked worried; so worried that he finally slipped up. After almost a month of avoiding it successfully, Nate reached out and touched her.
He couldn’t even feel bad about it, because the minute his hand settled on her hip, she calmed down. Just a little bit, but still. It was only the lightest pressure, a comfort, he told himself firmly. A reassurance. He wasn’t thinking about the curve of her body or how soft she seemed, or the fact that they were closer right now than they’d been in a while—closer even than the nights they sat together in the dark. He wasn’t thinking about that at all.
“Listen,” he said, dragging his mind away from those thoughts that didn’t exist. “I know this is easier said than done, and you can definitely tell me to go fuck myself, but I wish you wouldn’t worry so much. About the way you are, I mean. I know you second-guess yourself all the time, but I like the way you are.”
She shook her head once, as if to clear it. Slower than he’d ever heard her speak before, she asked, “What… does that… mean…?”
Good fucking question. “Well… Obviously, when we were at school, you didn’t have many friends.” Which was the polite way of putting it. “But I didn’t have friends either. And I know people say things about you, but they used to say things about me too. Doesn’t mean they were right. There’s nothing wrong with you, Hannah. I like you. I like how blunt you can be, and how serious you are, and how passionate you get. It’s honest. Everything about you is honest. That’s not a bad thing.”
She stared up at him, and something in his head… shifted. Or slotted into place, maybe. For the first time, he looked at her upturned face and didn’t force himself to see it objectively. For the first time, he let himself actually notice that she was beautiful. She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the symmetry of her features and everything to do with the odd, burning weight she created in his chest. She was so beautiful that, if he’d walked into a bar and seen her, he’d have walked right the fuck back out.
Nate didn’t go for women who made him feel this much, this easily. He didn’t want that kind of connection. But he was starting to realise that he accidentally—inconveniently—wanted her anyway.
Fuck. He shouldn’t have hired her, should he? Even if she was amazing with the kids, even if she did make his life a thousand times easier and he could trust her with shit like his weird habit of collecting cash…
He should’ve hired someone who didn’t make him smile without trying or inspire his mouth to talk without permission from his brain. He should’ve hired a nice, ordinary, very bland nanny. Maybe a twenty-year-old who vaguely got on his nerves. Not a woman he was currently fighting the urge to kiss.
“I like you too,” she said, so suddenly and simply and honestly that he almost couldn’t take it. Luckily for him, she added, “The kids are suspiciously quiet. I’ll check on them.” And, abruptly, she left.
It took him longer than it should have to realise that she hadn’t touched her breakfast.
Hannah, unsurprisingly, was cleaning. It was the most productive way to burn off energy when she felt… jittery.
Two days had passed since Nate had, rather suspiciously, claimed to like her. She still wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Well, no; that wasn’t true. She knew exactly what to make of it: he was a nice man, who, like his brother, found her pleasant to be around. It must be some sort of family deficiency, the way they laughed at her sharpness and softened at her irritation. Unlike his brother, however, Nate did not like like her. Which was a good thing, obviously. Because, even though they had somehow become friendly over the last month, their relationship was still professional.
So why did the fact that he liked her—enough to list specific traits that that he liked!—fill Hannah with a bright, zinging sort of pleasure? The kind that filled her with cheerful energy? The kind that made her finish every sentence on her blog with an exclamation mark before deleting it and using a more appropriate full-stop?
Because she was far too fond of him, that was why.
But, she reminded herself as she dusted the living room blinds, it was only natural to develop certain sympathies toward a man when one ate dinner with him most evenings and watched him kiss his children goodnight. Wasn’t it?
Thankfully, Hannah was saved from answering her own question by the upbeat chirp of her phone. She abandoned her duster and trusty can of furniture polish, wiping her hands off on her old skirt and pulling her phone out of her bra pocket.
Yes, Hannah had bra pockets. She sewed them in herself. Ruth teased Hannah quite mercilessly for it, but then, Ruth didn’t wear bras at all—because, unlike Hannah, she was not in possession of a cleavage that bounced like frolicking puppies.
Ruth: Hi. This is me checking on you.
Well. How unusually thoughtful.
Hannah: Checking on me?
Ruth: You know. Making sure you haven’t been crucified by devil children or added to Nate’s secret basement collection of kidnapped women.
Hannah wondered briefly if this basement situation would involve being tied up by Nate. Then she wondered extensively if she had somehow poured crack on her cereal that morning instead of sugar.
Hannah: You saw me at Sunday dinner last week. And every week since I moved in. You do remember that, correct?
Ruth: Yeah. But I don’t see you any other time. And you’ve stopped bugging me to socialise. Not that I’m complaining.
Hannah: You socialise with Evan.
Ruth: I think you really like this job. I think you’re busy being an overachieving nanny. Either that or you really have been kidnapped and we’ve been eating dinner with Nate-Wearing-Hannah’s-Skin.
Was it strange to laugh at the thought of her boss in her skin suit? Almost definitely.
Hannah: Really, I’m good. The devil children are actually a lot of fun, and all Nate does is worry about his mother, his children, global warming, Brexit, the dying bee population, and possibly the appropriate elastic-to-cotton ratio in a pair of socks.
Ruth: …
Ruth: …
Hannah: He worries a lot, is what I’m saying here. Arguably too much to risk kidnapping anyone.
Ruth: Okay… Cool? I suppose? Do you like the job, or…?
Hannah: I love the job. It’s too easy. I feel like I’m taking advantage. All I do is play with the kids and post on my blog.
Oops. She hadn’t meant to say that blog part, but now the message was sent, and delivered, and read, and Ruth was replying, and oh dear God what had she done.
Ruth: Wait, you have a blog???? Can I see??
Hannah: Absolutely not.
Ruth: PLEASE
Hannah: I would literally rather eat one of my braids than show you my blog.
Ruth: Wowwww. You’re rejecting your own sister like this?
Hannah: Can I see your webcomic?
Ruth: That’s different. My webcomic has sex.
Hannah: IT DOES???
Ruth: Mind your business.
Hannah: YOU DRAW SEX???
Ruth: What’s your blog about?
Hannah: ISN’T YOUR WEBCOMIC ABOUT ALIENS?
Ruth: Don’t make me hunt down your secret blog.
Hannah: RUTH
Hannah: DO YOU DRAW ALIEN SEX
Hannah: I NEED TO KNOW
Ruth: …Only sometimes. Very occasionally.
Hannah: I’m telling mother.
Ruth: I propose a deal. Keep your mouth shut about my alien sex and I’ll stop asking about your blog.
Hannah: I accept.
Ruth: …You have bamboozled me again, haven’t you?
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