Chapter Eleven #3
Returning to the kitchen she found Olivia still sitting at the breakfast table, her plate barely touched. “I hate the fighting,” Olivia said in a small voice. “It makes me sad.”
Cat went to her and gave her a hug. “I hate it too.”
“Mummy and Daddy used to fight like this before they … they divorced.”
“Well, Jillian and your daddy aren’t divorcing. Jillian’s growing up and she has some growing pains, but your dad loves her very much and everything will be okay. I promise.”
Twice, Cat thought, two promises made that morning and it wasn’t even eight yet.
Cat slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor trying to plan what she would say to Jillian, but nothing came to mind.
Cat was tired and flattened and frustrated.
Things with Jillian had started to improve, and it had lulled Cat into thinking things would be better for the rest of the holidays.
Instead, Jillian was as angry as she’d been when Cat first arrived.
Outside the girls’ bedroom door, Cat knocked, once. Nothing.
“Jillian,” she said softly, knuckles against the wood as she knocked a second time. “We need to talk.”
Still nothing.
She tried again, firmer this time. “I’m not going away, sweetheart.”
The door flew open. Jillian’s eyes were pink, her lashes wet, her expression furious. “We don’t have to talk. We don’t have to do anything together. You are not my mum and never will be!”
“We already agreed I don’t want to be your mum. We’ve discussed how you have a mum and she loves you—”
“Yes, she does. So, leave Mum’s husband alone.”
Cat took a step backwards, stunned into silence. What?
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke or moved. Cat’s thoughts scattered.
She couldn’t quite process what Jillian had said. “I am not chasing after your father.”
“Then why are you constantly flirting with my dad? Why is he always being so sweet with you? He acts like you are his girlfriend or something.”
Cat took a step back. “Your imagination is running away with you. There is nothing between us. I work for him. It wouldn’t be ethical—”
“Oh, please. I’m not five. Fathers fall for the nanny all the time. Just look at The Daily Mail—”
“They’re a tabloid. They’re in the scandal business.”
Jillian’s face turned red and tears filled her eyes. “It doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“I’m not in the scandal business, Jillian. I was hired to come take care of you, and that’s what I’m trying to do. You and Olivia are my only priority. I’m here for you.”
“So, you’re not interested in my dad?”
Time slowed, and decisions had to be made. Mature decisions where children were protected so they could trust and grow up feeling safe. “I’m not interested in your dad. I promise.”
Jillian brushed her tears away. “You promise?”
Cat gave her a swift hug. “I swear.”
When Cat left Jillian’s room, she moved quietly down the hall, closing the door with the softest click. The child’s tearful face lingered in her mind—the wobble in her voice when she’d asked You promise? and Cat had sworn it, steady and certain, as though saying it could make it true.
Three promises in one morning. Three promises Cat fully intended to keep.
Cat went downstairs and spotted Olivia on the couch wrapped in a blanket, holding one of her favorite stuffed animals.
Cat went to the kitchen that still smelled like bacon and sausages and the big breakfast Rhys had made when he was trying to do something nice for everyone.
Sighing, Cat filled a glass at the tap, though she wasn’t thirsty. The water was cold, almost metallic. She drank it anyway, staring out the window at the morning that looked as dreary as her mood.
She’d done the right thing. She’d reassured her, soothing Jillian’s fears, promising what any decent woman would promise. I’ll never take your mother’s place. The words had come easily, naturally. They were true.
And yet—
Cat pressed the cool glass against her lips, as if the chill might quiet the thrum beneath her ribs.
Now for a fourth promise. She wouldn’t let herself feel when Rhys smiled across a room, or brushed past her in the narrow kitchen.
She wouldn’t let her heart race or her skin prickle when he spoke her name.
She wouldn’t go hot and cold when his eyes met hers, saying things he hadn’t yet spoken and now never would.
It was the right thing to do, making these promises.
Rhys didn’t love her, and she didn’t love him.
What they had was chemistry. Attraction.
Proximity. All things that came from living in such close quarters.
It was a false intimacy, something that would fade when they were no longer cooped up in this cottage together.
Fathers fall for the nanny all the time.
Cat exhaled, eyes gritty and dry. Not this father. Not this nanny. Not this time.
But beneath the denial there was loss, sudden and unreasonable. As if by making that promise, she’d shut a door she hadn’t realized was open.
The kitchen clock ticked. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked, and then the house settled again. Cat set down her glass, leaned both hands on the counter, and closed her eyes. She could still feel the shape of Jillian’s small body against her, the fierce hug, the trust.
That had to be enough. Tears burned beneath her lids, tears Cat wouldn’t let fall.
*
Outside, a gust of wind swept along the lane, rattling the leafless ivy branches growing close to the windows. Then came another sound—the heavy oak door dragging across the threshold before the latch gave with its familiar clunk.
Rhys was home.
Cat straightened, pulse kicking up as footsteps crossed the flagstone hall. A moment later, he filled the kitchen doorway, hair tousled from the wind, his scarf hanging loose around his neck. The scent of cold air and rain clung to him, that crisp, green smell of December.
“Smells good in here,” he said, smiling faintly as his gaze swept over the counter, the cutting board, the simmering pot on the stove.
“Dinner,” Cat said, her voice lighter than she felt. Her stomach had been fluttering ever since her talk with Jillian, and she hadn’t managed to shake it. “Mrs. Johnson stopped by with a roast and showed me how to prepare it. I think she worries I’m not feeding you all properly.”
Rhys chuckled, unwinding his scarf. “Mrs. Johnson worries about everyone. If she had her way, the whole village would be at her table every night.”
“That sounds about right,” Cat said, smiling back. “There are enough potatoes in there to prove it.”
She turned to the counter, needing movement. “Would you like some tea? Or a beer? I opened a bottle of wine earlier—I could pour you a glass.”
“Maybe after I say hello to the girls,” he said, pulling his gloves from his coat pocket. “Where are they—upstairs?”
“In their room,” Cat said, carefully turning the roast in its pan. “They’ve been quiet for a while, so I’m taking that as a good sign.”
He nodded, half distracted now, his expression softening the way it always did when he thought of his daughters. “All right. I’ll go up, then. Don’t let Mrs. Johnson’s roast burn on my account.”
“I won’t,” she said, though she wasn’t sure her voice sounded as casual as she wanted it to.
When he left the kitchen, the quiet rushed back in. Cat exhaled, her hand still resting on the wooden spoon. The door scraped faintly as he closed it behind him, and she realized how much effort it took to steady herself again—just to breathe as if nothing inside her had shifted.
The roast filled the cottage with a rich, savory scent, drawing Rhys and the girls back downstairs.
“Smells amazing,” Rhys said, his arm around Olivia’s shoulders as Jillian set out the silverware.
Cat smiled as she stirred the gravy, even as something inside her tightened. “Mrs. Johnson’s recipe. She practically delivered it ready to go.”
The girls slid into their chairs, with Jillian quiet, her eyes flicking to Cat and then away. Cat caught the glance and felt a faint flush rise under her skin. The conversation from earlier still hung between them—unspoken but heavy.
She took a breath, peeled off her apron and turned toward Rhys. “Actually, I was thinking, if you don’t mind, I might head into Bakewell tonight and get some dinner there.”
Rhys had just poured milk for the girls and looked up, surprised. “Dinner there? Why on earth would you do that when you’ve cooked all this?”
“You’ve been working all day, and the girls deserve some time with you—just you. You don’t need me hovering about.”
Rhys frowned. “You’re not hovering. You live here. You’re part of the household.”
“Temporarily,” she said, huskily. “And I could use an evening to myself, truth be told. I’ll be back before it’s late.”
He hesitated, clearly wanting to argue. But then Jillian shifted in her chair, her expression pinched, her fork tracing patterns in her napkin. The sight sealed Cat’s decision.
“Honestly,” she added lightly, “I’ve been craving fish—something we never seem to have here. Maybe a nice bit of trout if I’m lucky.”
That drew a reluctant smile from Rhys. “Bakewell trout’s worth the trip. You can take my car, if you like.”
“Thank you,” she said, setting down the ladle. “I won’t be long.”
“Cat—” he began, but she was already washing her hands and drying them off.
“I promise not to run off with it,” she teased, and that made him laugh, though she could see he still wasn’t pleased.
Jillian mumbled something about the gravy, her tone polite but tight.
Cat squeezed her shoulder gently on her way out, an olive branch of sorts, and in the hall grabbed her coat from the peg by the door.
The oak door stuck, dragging faintly over the threshold before giving way.
Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean, and she stepped out into the night.