Chapter Four
Jennifer
I follow Fletcher up the narrow staircase, my hand trailing along the banister as we climb up to the attic.
The steps creak slightly beneath our weight, announcing our presence to the empty house.
I count seventeen steps before we reach a small landing with a white door.
Fletcher pauses, fumbling with a set of keys, and I hold my breath without really knowing why.
Something about being here alone with a man who has four kids feels almost immoral.
"It's a bit small," he warns, jingling the key in the lock. "My ex-wife decorated it years ago for her mother's visits. But after Claudia left, my mother-in-law, Patricia Sullivan, redecorated with the help of my mother, Florence Murgatroyd. They've been friends ever since."
The door swings open, and Fletcher graciously steps aside to let me enter first. I cross the threshold into what looks like a different house entirely.
Sunlight streams through a large dormer window, bathing the room in warm golden light.
The space isn't huge, but it's been thoughtfully arranged to maximize comfort.
"This is charming," I tell him, genuinely surprised by the feminine atmosphere.
A twin bed with a white iron frame sits against one wall, topped with a soft lavender-and-mint quilt.
Beside it, a small nightstand holds a faux stained-glass lamp.
The furniture is dainty---feminine in a way that doesn't match the chaos I've glimpsed downstairs.
A writing desk faces the window, its surface clean despite the signs of age.
"Claudia---my ex---went through a shabby-chic phase," Fletcher explains, sounding slightly embarrassed. "I've meant to update it, but..."
"No, it's perfect," I assure him, running my fingers over the smooth surface of the dresser. "I love it."
A rectangular rug in pastel colors covers the hardwood floor. I tiptoe across it to peer into a tiny en-suite bathroom.
"Full bath," Fletcher says from behind me. "Shower only, I'm afraid. The plumbing up here is a bit temperamental."
The bathroom is clean and simple---white tiles, pedestal sink, and a shower stall just large enough that it's not cramped.
A small shell-shaped dish holds a fresh bar of soap.
Someone has prepared for my arrival, and the thought makes me smile.
"I won't be taking two-hour mermaid baths like Amelia.
This is more than adequate for my needs. "
Fletcher's chuckle is short but genuine. "Thank God for that. Our water heater can't handle another sea creature in the house."
I move to the window and gaze out at the backyard. It's larger than I expected, with a swing set that's clearly seen better days but is still safe to use. A basketball hoop is mounted on a patch of concrete, and there's an above-ground pool that's currently covered.
"The pool's not huge," Fletcher confirms, coming to stand beside me. "But it fits all of us, and the kids love to splash around in it. We uncover the pool when the weather gets warm enough."
I can picture it already---four children splashing and shrieking with joy, Fletcher joining them on weekends. Maybe I'll even sit on the edge with my feet dangling in the cool water.
"Do you swim?" Fletcher asks.
"Like a flopping fish," I admit. "But I'm excellent at lounging poolside with a book."
His shoulder brushes mine as he leans closer to the window. "See the garden plot over there? Nobody's touched it in years. You're welcome to give it a go if you've got a green thumb."
I don't, but with Fletcher so close, I suddenly want to learn the breaststroke. "Never know, I might give it a try."
The proximity makes me acutely aware of him---the clean scent of his cologne, the way his breath fogs up on the window pane, and his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. I step back, needing space to think clearly. I've never before reacted to a man this strongly.
I pull away from him, gesturing around the room. "So, this would be all mine?"
"Completely private, yes. There's even a lock on the door, though I can't promise the children won't try to pick it. Joshua went through a locksmith phase last summer." He shakes his head. "The bloody internet is a menace to all parents."
I laugh, picturing a determined thirteen-year-old with lock picks and a YouTube tutorial. "I'll take my chances."
Moving backward into the center of the room, I inspect the attic to make sure I want to live in this room.
But I keep getting distracted. Stop staring at Fletcher's lips, you moron.
Right, yes, I should do that. This attic is nothing like the sterile guest rooms I've occupied in other people's homes.
This space, despite its modest size, has a feminine aura that I sense could become mine like no place in Arkansas ever had.
Not even my childhood bedroom felt this right.
"It's perfect," I declare again. "Thank you for showing me this room."
Fletcher shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His nervousness is endearing. "Come this way, Jennifer. I'd like to show you the sitting area that's through the door over there. It's small, but you could use it as a private living room if you need to escape the madness downstairs."
The thought of having my own sanctuary within this chaotic household seals the deal. I can already imagine myself curled up with a book after the children are in bed, maybe with a cup of tea and the quiet satisfaction of a day well spent.
"Shall we check it out?" Fletcher asks, already heading for the door.
I trail after him, already feeling more at home in the Murgatroyd house than I ever expected I might.
The sitting area is just as Fletcher described---small but cozy.
A loveseat upholstered in faded blue fabric sits beneath a sloped ceiling, accompanied by a reading lamp and a side table that holds a stack of dog-eared paperbacks.
The space has a lived-in ambiance, as though someone once spent many hours here, though a thin layer of dust suggests recent neglect.
Fletcher wipes a finger across the table and frowns at the dust it collects.
"This little hideaway hasn't been used often.
Mum and Dad bought a place nearby, but they still stay over sometimes when they watch the kids.
Or they used to. Now this attic hideaway will belong to you---if you take the job. "
I mentally file away all of what Fletcher has told me so far. My gaze drifts to the wall, where a collection of framed photographs hangs in a cheerful jumble. I step closer, drawn to these glimpses into the Murgatroyd family life.
"You can sit," Fletcher says, gesturing to the loveseat. "We should talk details before you commit."
What strikes me most about the family photos on the wall is how often Fletcher appears in these candid moments.
Unlike many family photos where the dad is clearly behind the camera, he's right in the thick of things---covered in mud during what looks like a disastrous camping trip, wearing a tiara at what must be a tea party, laughing with chocolate cake smeared across his face.
"Your kids look very happy, Fletcher."
He sighs, the sound both proud and weary. "They are. Most of the time. But they will lead you on a merry chase if you let them. That's only been since my ex-wife left us."
I finally settle onto the seat, and Fletcher settles in beside me, leaving a respectable distance between us.
The cushion dips beneath his weight, sliding me fractionally closer to him.
I resist the urge to shift away, not wanting to seem uncomfortable with his proximity.
I absolutely will not admit to him that I'd love to taste his lips.
He rubs the back of his hand repeatedly. "All right, for the big question...After seeing the chaos that is the Murgatroyd household, are you still interested in the position? It would be full-time, live-in, with two days off per week. We can discuss which days work best for you. The salary is..."
He names a figure that's significantly more generous than I expected. I try not to let my surprise show.
As I glance back at the photos, the joy evident in each image is captured in the moment. Behind the mischief and chaos, there's love in this family---the kind that can't be faked for a camera.
"I can see myself fitting in perfectly here," I admit, surprising myself with how true that statement sounds. "I like a good challenge. And there's plenty of joy to balance it out."
Fletcher's shoulders relax slightly. "You say that now but wait until you've experienced Amelia's mermaid phase in full swing, or one of Joshua's 'improvements' to the household appliances."
I laugh, genuinely delighted by the prospect of these quirky children.
"So, you'll, ah...take the job?" Fletcher asks, hope brightening his voice.
I nod decisively as a sense of rightness settles over me. "Yes, I will take the job."
He blows out a gusty breath, his shoulders relaxing, and gives me the sweetest little smile.
"Thank heavens. The kids will be home from school at three.
That gives us---" he checks his watch---"about four hours to go over schedules, house rules, emergency contacts, and all that thrilling administrative bollocks. "
I grin. "Perfect. And Fletcher?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you for trusting me with your family."
He lifts an eyebrow. "Don't thank me yet. Talk to me in a month if you're still standing."
Despite his words, I sense warmth in his voice, the kind that suggests he thinks---hopes---I might be different from the others who came before me. And I'm suddenly determined to prove him right.
We both rise from our seats, bumping into each other in the process. His fingers brush against my breast accidentally, and he takes a half step backward, clearing his throat.
My cheeks grow warm, and my imagination takes an abrupt and unprofessional turn.
In my mind, I see myself reaching forward, grasping his shirt with both hands, dragging him closer until my chest meets his.
I picture my fingers working at his tie, loosening it with urgent tugs before I rip open his shirt, sending buttons flying across the carpet.
My hands would slip beneath the waistband of those perfectly fitted slacks, finding heated skin and firm muscle.
I blink hard, trying to banish the wicked fantasy. What is wrong with me? I've been in this house less than an hour. I've barely met the man. And he's my employer, for heaven's sake.
Stop it, I scold myself. This is the best job opportunity I've had in years.
Four children who need stability and care.
A beautiful home. A generous salary. I can't risk all that because their father happens to fill out a pair of slacks better than any man has a right to.
But I force myself to focus, to be professional.
These children have suffered a parade of nannies who, quite frankly, should never work as caregivers ever again.
These kids need someone dependable, someone who won't abandon them when things get tough.
I could be that person. I want to be that person.
I am that person.
But as Fletcher turns to face me, running a hand through his already tousled hair, my resolve weakens.
"Are you all right?" he asks, noticing my flushed face. "Is it too hot in here? The thermostat has been temperamental since Joshua tried to 'upgrade' it."
"I'm fine," I manage, though my voice sounds strained even to my own ears.
He's standing so close now that I can smell his cologne---something woody and subtle. Close enough that I could count each of his eyelashes if I wanted. Close enough that if I leaned forward just a few inches...
Without thinking, without planning, I rise slightly on my toes and press my lips to his.
The kiss is brief but electric, a spark that ignites every nerve ending in my body.
His lips are warm and surprisingly soft, and for a split second, they yield to mine before I pull back abruptly.
Horror floods through me as I register what I've just done.
Fletcher's eyes are wide with shock, his mouth slightly open.
The silence between us stretches, charged and dangerous.
"I'm---I'm sorry," I stammer, my cheeks burning so hot I'm sure they must be as red as Rudolph's nose. "That was completely inappropriate. I don't know what I was thinking."
Fletcher blinks rapidly, one hand rising to touch his lips as if confirming what just happened. "I, um..."
"Please forget I did that," I say quickly, mortification making my heart pound painfully against my ribs. "It won't happen again. I promise, I'm normally much more professional."
He clears his throat, a flush creeping up his neck. "It's, ah...it's been a long time since anyone...I mean, I wasn't expecting..."
We stand here in awkward silence, neither knowing quite what to say. The thought that I might have just wrecked the best job I've been offered in years with one impulsive, unprofessional act. What was I thinking?
The truth is, I wasn't thinking at all. And now I might have ruined everything before it's even begun.