RUSE_Fake Marriage To The Single Dad

by J. J. Bella

  Realizing Isla was about to dance to the next music, I forced my bothersome thoughts out of my mind and clapped appreciatively. Then I watched her jump into it right away. Her first dance had been classy and slow, and this second one had a jazz feel to it, with a more upbeat tempo. Her body moved and grooved, and I found myself smiling at the sass in this second performance. She was smiling brightly this time, her expression somewhat mischievous and perfect for the piece. She completed the dance with a twirl at the end, then went back to her original position standing on tiptoe with her hand in the air.

  I clapped automatically, my mouth already opening to throw out praises at her. But before I could speak, another voice filled the room from the doorway.

  “That was very good, sweetheart.”

  And just like that, Peter’s voice instantly had tingles running down my body. It was crazy, and I braced myself for it and kept facing Isla. Because I was facing her, I was able to see her eyes light up at the sight of him. She grinned.

  “Wasn’t it, dad?” she asked, enthusiastically. Then she glanced at me. “Which piece did you prefer, Rachel? The first or the second one? I’m only allowed one piece in the recital, and I still can’t decide which one I’ll use.” She pouted, like that made her sad. Then she turned blue eyes towards me expectantly.

  “I like both,” I admitted, suddenly shy. I could feel another gaze on me, and it made me want to turn to him and run away at the same time. “I think you have a knack for both classic and jazz ballet, but I think the jazz ballet piece would make those watching smile more.”

  I crossed my fingers, hoping Isla wouldn’t get offended. I remembered how this kid in my neighborhood used to throw tantrums when I didn’t agree to her opinion.

  To my relief, Isla beamed.

  “See, dad? Someone else thinks jazz is nice. Just like you do.”

  “Then Rachel has good tastes,” he murmured.

  Isla giggled, and I finally gathered the courage to look at her dad. Peter had his arms crossed, and the white, short-sleeved shirt he wore emphasized the bulge of his hard, tanned arms. His blue eyes were trained on me, thoughtful and intense at the same time. I felt my breath catch in my throat and tried my best to hide it as I met his gaze. A shock of electricity sizzled between us, powerful and heavy. Heat settled in my belly, so sudden. I could see awareness settle in his, as his eyes went even darker. My mouth went dry and parted.

  “She sure does!” Isla chirped.

  And just like that, the spell was broken. I clamped my mouth shut and glanced away, breaking our gazes first as I turned to Isla. She was beaming at me, and it was so infectious that I couldn’t help but grin back. I could already tell that she and I would get along, and to be honest, it made me more excited to get this job.

  Peter cleared his throat, and I finally stood up from the bed and dusted my jeans. Then I slipped on the space beside him, grabbing my duffel bag.

  “My room’s at the end, right?” I asked.

  Peter nodded. But before I could escape, he blocked the way with his broad shoulders. I looked up automatically, finding that his eyes were on me again—only this time, he looked intently serious.

  “I just got a call from my boss. I need to leave for work tonight.”

  I blinked. Already?

  “Aww, Dad,” Isla said. “Will you still eat dinner with us?”

  There was no demand in the little girl’s voice, only understanding. Peter nodded and ruffled her hair when she approached, making her giggle.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” he said. “I know I said I’ll be called in the next day or two, but it looks like there’s a change of plans.”

  In response, she tiptoed and hugged him around the waist. He ruffled her hair some more, and I watched him soften for the first time since I met him, right in front of his daughter. It was heartwarming, to say the least.

  I could also detect a note of worry in his eyes, and it was understandable, considering he barely knew me. He was supposed to spend a day or two with me at least, to see how Isla and I got along and get some observation in.

  I didn’t want him to worry. So when Isla drifted back in her room and Peter accompanied me on the hallway towards mine, I turned to him and spoke as truthfully as I could.

  “You don’t have to worry, Mr. Bartlett. I promise to take good care of Isla while you’re working, and I’ll make sure she gets her homework done and eat good, healthy food.”

  Peter’s mouth quirked, and I got momentarily distracted by his sexiness when he did so. God. This man needed a warning sign.

  “Call me Peter,” he murmured.

  5

  Rachel

  Isla’s farewell with Peter wasn’t as tearful as I expected it to be, but I could tell Isla was sad the moment her father stepped out of the door and drove straight to the Navy base after dinner. Dinner had been a cheerful affair, with me volunteering to cook tossed vegetables, which we ate along with the leftover pasta. Peter ordered some vanilla ice cream as a dessert treat, and even took time to enjoy it with us as he and Isla engaged me in conversation. I wasn’t wrong in my assumption that Isla was a bright, cheerful kid, but the cheer dimmed a bit as she watched the car turn the corner of the road and disappear through the front window.

  Not liking seeing her sad, I clapped my hands and waited until Isla turned in my direction. When she did, I gave her a smile.

  “It’s still pretty early. What do you guys usually do here for fun?”

  “You mean when I’m with dad?” she asked.

  I nodded. Right. She also often stayed with her mom. Isla tilted her head and thought it over.

  “Usually he’d help me with homework, but I already finished them all right after school so I won’t have to worry about it,” she said, proudly. I told her that was good and smart of her, then waited as she proceeded thinking. “Since it’s the weekend, we usually watch movies.”

  If there was one thing I learned about babysitting a kid who still didn’t know me that well, it was never to force-mimic what she did with her parents. It was a constant reminder of the things they enjoyed together, only making the kid compare you to her parent—and often, the end results were either they missed their parents more, or they preferred you and had said parents resenting you.

  Still, I always gave the kids choices, and so I gave her one now by asking, “Would you like to try watching a movie with me, Isla?”

  Isla nodded her head, then went with me to the living room. I began subtly probing her about what she and Peter often watched together, then avoided those and looked for ones that she and I hadn’t watched yet. We ended up choosing a Christmas movie that was both funny and heartwarming, and soon Isla warmed up to me and began to get excited. As the movie ended, I could feel her getting sleepy and shook her gently, telling her we needed to get to bed. I stood watch as she brushed her teeth, then changed into a pajama set that was purple and full of yellow stars. I made a move to turn off the lights, but her words stopped me.

  “Don’t I get a kiss goodnight?” she asked, solemnly. Those blue eyes bored into mine again, big and irresistible.

  I felt my heart softening despite myself. Quietly, I tucked her in, then kissed her forehead gently.

  “Goodnight, Isla.”

  “Goodnight, Rachel,” she murmured. Then she turned to the side and cuddled with her brown bear, one she introduced as Cuddles earlier.

  In a few seconds, the little girl was fast asleep.

  The next day, Sunday, was spent cooking up new stuff to store in the fridge and watching Isla practice her dancing some more. After lunch, I told her that I’d help her pack her stuff so I could drive her to her mother and I could go home before night fell. But to my surprise, Isla shook her head and repeatedly told me that she didn’t want to go to her mother’s place, and not a single word I said managed to convince her. She began looking glum again, and I sat with her in bed and tentatively tried to broach the subject.

  “Why don’t you want to go to your mom’s?”r />
  Isla shrugged. “She might kick me out again.”

  I blinked. “Kick you out…again?”

  The girl nodded solemnly. Then she began to talk about how she overheard her mom and dad talking on the phone, and how she heard her mom reminding Peter that she didn’t want him dropping Isla off during the wee hours of the night whenever he got called for work because it disrupted her own schedule. Apparently, her mom made a new schedule for when she could visit the mansion, and this week was not her week yet.

  “I’m pretty sure she’s not going to be happy if I show up unannounced at her place,” Isla said.

  I couldn’t imagine a mother not being ecstatic about her own daughter showing up anytime at her house. I remembered right away how my mom had welcomed me without any judgement when I returned home, then began to wonder what kind of person Peter’s ex-wife was. Perhaps something really went bad in their marriage that things got bitter like this. It was none of my business, really, but I guess I understood why I got hired now—because of the so-called new schedule.

  This meant that I couldn’t leave yet until Peter returned home or the date to drop Isla off to her mother’s was up, whichever came first.

  I realized that I didn’t mind, really. Isla was a fun girl to be with, and I could see this as a way for us to bond.

  “Hmm,” I murmured to her last sentence. Isla looked up at me.

  “Can’t I just stay here with you? We can hang out and get to know each other more,” she pleaded, softly, her eyes going big again.

  I stifled a grin as she unknowingly used her charms on me. I nodded, solemnly. “I would love that. What do you want to do today?”

  We ended up taking a walk at the nearby park, where Isla talked my ear off about her dream of becoming a professional ballet dancer someday. I told her that was great, but said she needed to finish her studies first because that was important, too. Isla began asking me questions about my life, listening intently when I told her about my family and my siblings. She began laughing when I told her of my nieces’ and nephews’ antics, and other hilarious babysitting stories I had. She grew fascinated as I told her how close I was to my siblings, telling me she wished her father would find someone soon so she could have a baby brother or sister. But it wasn’t really a priority, because she would support whatever made her dad happy.

  “You’re a good kid,” I said, feelingly, hugging her close. Two days in, and I could already feel our bond forming that easily. It felt so natural between us, and I wasn’t kidding when I said she was a good kid.

  We went home before night fell, had dinner, then went to bed early. Isla wanted to hear me pray, and so I did, with her following my lead. I kissed her goodnight again without her having to request, and she went to sleep with a smile on her face.

  Over the next few days, aka school days, we developed a routine: I woke up early and prepared breakfast and her lunchbox, then woke her up so we could eat breakfast together. I then drove her to school early and listened as she enumerated the things in her bag. Apparently, this was a system her dad created so that she wouldn’t forget anything. After dropping her off, I went back home and did minimal household chores, even though Peter never really listed them down. I figured it was the least I could do with what he was paying me, and with all the free time I had while Isla was at school. Laundry was easy because he had a high-tech washing and drying machine, so it didn’t take me long to finish the whole batch in just one sitting. Then, when I found myself getting bored, I began to arrange the fridge and the living room, feeling relaxed. The Bartlett house was cozy, with not much clutter and simple taste other than Isla’s bedroom, which was rife with color. I began to wonder what Peter’s bedroom looked like, figuring out that it must be as masculine as he was.

  Then I began to think that imagining his room was a stupid thing, and I tried to erase it off my mind.

  When everything was clean and all the clothes were dry, I prepared the makings of dinner early, trying something new every day to get Isla excited and note down which new dishes she liked best. I also made desserts, making sure to store a piece or two for Peter when he came back. Isla said her father often returned after a week, which made it perfect, because my desserts could usually be stored up to two to three weeks.

  Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were Isla’s ballet practice schedule after class, which gave me extra time to clean the house some more before picking her up right after. But on Friday, when I’d pretty much done all household chores I could, I decided to drive to her school early. I stood by the entrance door, watching her come out hopping with two of her school friends. She paused when she spotted me, her blue eyes lighting up and making me smile. Then she hurried over to where I was.

  “Rachel!” she exclaimed. “Why are you early? I have ballet practice today.”

  I grinned at her. “Would you mind if I came to watch?”

  If anything, Isla’s smile turned into a beam as she suddenly looked excited. She called her friends over and introduced us, and the girls turned shy as we walked the block towards the ballet studio. As Isla took hold of the conversation, I did my best to ease them into it, too, asking the two girls questions about ballet. Apparently, Cindy and Charlotte had been doing ballet since they were toddlers, Cindy because her mother was a dancer, too, and Charlotte because she liked watching The Nutcracker cartoons when she was a kid and had wanted to be a ballerina ever since. Again, I couldn’t comprehend how they already figured out what they wanted at such a young age, even if maybe it was only fleeting. I didn’t remember myself wanting to do anything at that age other than play, read the occasional book and accompany my mother as she cooked in the kitchen. I often tagged along with my dad on his fishing trips, but it was more because of boredom than anything else, and I remembered not being very interested when he tried to explain all the hooks and baits used.

  Then high school came, and I was one of the quiet ones who didn’t hang out with the popular crowd, but didn’t quite get called a nerd, either. In fact, the popular clique were nice to me, which often puzzled me considering how they liked to make fun of lots of the others there. Despite being in a religious school, it was a pretty vicious world, and I tried my best to keep my head down, focus on making it through classes and ignore all the gossip and drama going on around me.

  Then there was college. In college, it was pretty difficult to ignore everything and just focus on the classes when your roommate herself was the IT girl and brought the party to the house. My university wasn’t religious by any means, and I guess the culture shock of seeing people have sex casually and treat it like a passing interest rather than a special thing, got to me. Then there was the drinking and the drugs, which completely altered some of my friends that I couldn’t recognize them anymore. Some could handle it—others couldn’t, and it turned them into such monsters that I was afraid how deep they’d spiral out of control.

  It also made me afraid how easily I could be tempted into almost giving in as semester after semester came and went. It shook me, really, and I decided that I didn’t want to test my limits and got out of there as quickly as I could.

  And now here I was, with still no idea what to do with my life.

  We entered the studio with those thoughts swirling in my mind all over again, but I didn’t allow the girls to see how distracted I was. There was a waiting bench for parents, and I sat on it and brooded as the girls gathered with the others and their instructor, who I already met on my first day picking Isla up.

  What did I like, really? What was my passion? I couldn’t imagine being a chef or a baker despite cooking calming me down. It just…it didn’t feel like me at all, and I didn’t think I could last my whole life cooking as a career. I didn’t major in any subject yet when I was in college, but I remembered liking fixing and decorating. I also liked household chores a lot. But I didn’t think the university I went to offered those, or what it could translate to after I graduated.

  All this thinking was giving me a hea
dache, and I decided to put it to rest for now. There was plenty of time later to seriously think about it before I proceeded into anything. At the moment, the best thing to do was to be cautious before delving into anything, because I couldn’t afford to fail a second time and disappoint my parents again. Despite their want for me to be happy, I believed they also wanted the best for me, and lounging around being a nanny for the rest of my life probably wasn’t their idea of the best.

  The music got louder, providing me enough reason to break out of my thoughts and focus on the girls practicing. There were a total of seven girls, all varying from eight to ten years old, and they were currently practicing what seemed to be another classical piece. Isla was one of the shorter of the girls gathered, and she was standing at the center near the right, her face serene as she concentrated on her movements. I watched her do her pirouettes, feeling proud. I couldn’t imagine how much prouder Peter must have felt when he watched his daughter be so good at something and enjoy doing it. The music ended and the girls dispersed in different parts of the floor, with Isla wandering to one side. She kept practicing her pirouettes and various leaps that I couldn’t identify, and she sometimes wobbled on her feet when she landed. But for the most part, she nailed them perfectly. I couldn’t wait to tell her how good she was when we drove back home.

  I was still watching intently as Isla leaped again, higher this time. Then things happened too fast for me to comprehend or react to.

  Instead of landing on her feet, Isla stumbled and landed on her ankle. I watched as it twisted right in front of my eyes, a terrible rush of feeling coming over me as I heard her cry.

  Then the feeling turned to fear when I heard the big, fat sound of a crunch.