Chapter Eight
Jennifer
I suspect Fletcher's oldest son has taken advantage of his brief absence to plot something big. The smell of burning plastic is getting stronger, and Joshua's "mini-hovercraft" looks suspiciously like it contains parts from several expensive household appliances.
"Joshua Stephen Murgatroyd, I asked you a question." Fletcher spoke those words in his sternest dad voice. It makes even my spine straighten. "Is that my electric razor?"
"Um, yeah." Josh's shoulders hunch defensively. "I needed the motor. The toothbrush one wasn't powerful enough."
I struggle to keep from laughing, which results in soft snorts. This is exactly the kind of childhood ingenuity that would've gotten me grounded for a month back in Arkansas.
Fletcher pinches the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes briefly. "And where's the rest of my razor?"
"In the...garbage can out back?" Joshua offers hopefully.
I step forward, hoping to defuse the situation. "That's quite the engineering project you've got there. Maybe next time we could get you proper materials instead of dismantling household appliances. Would that work?"
I give Joshua my most encouraging smile.
His eyes light up. "You'd get me real parts? Like motors and stuff?"
"If your dad approves, sure." I glance at Fletcher, whose expression has softened from outrage to resignation.
"We'll discuss it later," he replies. I'm learning that's dad-code for 'maybe.' He holds out his palm. "For now, hand over what's left of my razor."
Joshua reluctantly surrenders his creation. As Fletcher examines the mangled remains of his grooming tool, I notice Amelia and Charlotte hovering in the doorway, exchanging meaningful glances.
"What are you two plotting?" I ask, turning toward them.
Charlotte spreads her arm, her expression full of practiced innocence. "Nothing."
Amelia twirls a strand of hair around her finger, trying too hard to seem casual. "We were just wondering what's for dinner."
"Uh-huh." I cross my arms and narrow my eyes. "And I'm Mary Poppins. Spill it, girls."
They exchange another look, and Charlotte sighs dramatically. "Fine. We were going to ask if we could have a sleepover tonight."
"On a school night?" Fletcher asks, still holding the mutilated razor.
"It's for a school project," Amelia says quickly. "Charlotte needs help with her science experiment about sleep patterns. Four of my friends have signed up."
I raise an eyebrow. "That sounds suspiciously well-rehearsed."
Fletcher glances at me with his lips twitching slightly as if he's about to laugh. "They've been practicing that excuse since breakfast, I'd wager."
"Dad!" Charlotte protests, but she's fighting a smile.
"How about this," I suggest, sidling between the father and his daughters before this turns into a full-on negotiation. "Why don't we start with dinner? Then we can discuss sleepovers and science projects."
"What's for dinner?" Henry's pipes up from behind us. He appeared in the doorway clutching his dinosaur drawing and what looks like a handful of actual dirt.
"Henry," Fletcher sighs, "why do you have soil in your hands?"
"I brought Hulk to meet everyone." Henry opens his palm to reveal a fat earthworm writhing in a clump of mud. "He wanted to see my room."
Amelia shrieks and jumps backward into Charlotte, who stumbles into the doorframe.
Joshua glances up from his dismantled hovercraft. "Can I use Hulk for my next experiment?"
Fletcher wipes a hand across his face, then sighs. "Let's talk about that another time. Please clean up this mess now."
While the kiddos begin picking up all the stuff they've cached here, there, and everywhere, I sidle closer to Fletcher. In a half-whisper, I tell him, "Their behavior is due to the excitement of a new person coming into their home. I'm sure that's all it was, and things will settle down soon."
"You're probably right," Fletcher murmurs back, but his eyes are focused on my lips again. We're standing so close that I can smell his soap---something masculine and woodsy that smells so delicious I'd love to lick it all off his skin.
"I should start dinner," I suggest quickly, scuffling backward before I do something stupid like kiss him again. "What do the children usually eat?"
"Whatever doesn't require too much effort," Fletcher admits with a sheepish grin. "I'm not exactly Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen."
"Don't worry, I'll make dinner." I can see the turmoil unfolding in Joshua's room. "Finish cleaning up, everyone. Dinner in thirty minutes."
As I head downstairs, I hear Fletcher corralling the children behind me, his voice a mixture of exasperation and affection. I feel as if I'm already becoming part of this tightknit, loving family.
The kitchen seems different now that I'm no longer just a visitor organizing someone else's space.
I'm the one making dinner, the one creating something for this family.
I gather ingredients from the fridge and pantry, mentally cataloging what I have to work with.
Chicken breasts, pasta, some vegetables that have seen better days but are still salvageable.
Nothing fancy, but I can whip something up quickly.
I've always been good at stretching ingredients.
As I begin heating oil in a large skillet, I hear the thunderous sound of four children racing down the stairs. They burst into the kitchen like a small army, with Fletcher trailing behind and looking slightly shell-shocked.
"Wow, it smells yummy in here already," Charlotte announces, hopping onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island.
"I haven't even started cooking yet, sweetie," I laugh as I season the chicken. "That's just the butter melting in the pan."
Charlotte grins. "Daddy usually burns the butter."
"I do not burn the butter," Fletcher protests, leaning against the counter beside me. "I occasionally...over-caramelize it."
"That's grown-up talk for burning," Henry pipes up, swinging his legs from his perch on the stool. "Grandma says so."
I wink at him. "No burning tonight. Cross my heart."
Fletcher moves closer, ostensibly to observe me cooking, but I'm acutely aware of his proximity. His arm brushes mine as he reaches for a glass from the cabinet, and I nearly drop the spatula. How can that man smell so damn good all the time? It isn't fair.
"May I help?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
I glance up at him, noting the way his eyes seem darker in the kitchen lighting. "You could boil water for the pasta."
"I think I can manage that without causing a catastrophe." His self-deprecating smile makes me want to hug him.
But instead, I hand Fletcher a large pot, our fingers brushing as he accepts it. The brief contact sends electricity rushing through me, and I should to focus extra hard on not overcooking the chicken.
"Jennifer?" Henry's voice draws my attention. "Do you like worms?"
"They're, um...useful creatures," I say diplomatically, flipping the chicken pieces. "They help gardens grow."
"See!" Henry announces triumphantly to his siblings. "I told you she'd understand!"
Amelia rolls her eyes. "Henry, normal people don't keep worms as pets." She scrunches her nose up in disgust. "They're gross little slimy things."
"Hulk isn't gross," Henry argues. "He's special."
"Where is Hulk now?" I ask, suddenly concerned about earthworm hygiene in the family's kitchen.
"Back in his dirt box in my room," Henry assures me. "Dad made me put him back after the bathroom incident."
Fletcher shoots Henry a warning look. "We don't need to discuss the bathroom incident with Jennifer on her first day."
But I'm already curious. "Bathroom incident?"
"Hulk escaped during my bath last week," Henry explains with all the gravitas of an eight-year-old boy. "He went down the drain and Dad had to call the plumber."
Joshua nods. "That guy found three worms, two action figures, and a rubber duck. It cost Dad two hundred dollars to clean it all out."
I press my lips together to stop myself from laughing at Fletcher's mortified expression. "Well, at least Hulk survived his adventure."
"Yes! That's what I said!" Henry beams at me like I'm the first adult to understand his perspective.
The water begins to boil, and Fletcher adds the pasta with practiced efficiency.
I watch him from the corner of my eye while I stir the vegetables into the chicken.
His movements are confident despite his claims about kitchen disasters.
Maybe he's being modest, or maybe having a nanny around makes him as if he needs to downplay his domestic skills.
"Can I set the table?" Charlotte asks, sliding off her stool.
"Absolutely, sweetie, that would be great." Other children I've lived with never would've asked that question. "Thank you, Charlotte. It was very sweet of you to offer."
As she bustles around gathering plates and silverware, I notice how naturally she takes charge of the task. She's clearly used to helping out, probably more than most eleven-year-olds would.
"Jennifer?" Amelia's voice is quieter than her siblings' and more hesitant. "Do you really know how to cook? Like, real food? Not just pasta and chicken?"
"Honey, I can make everything from scratch biscuits to beef bourguignon," I tell her. "My grandmother taught me to cook when I was about your age. And she taught my mother too."
Amelia's eyes light up. "Could you teach me sometime?"
"I'd love to." My heart swells at her request. It's the first genuine interest she's shown in connecting with me. That happened so soon, it warms my heart.
Fletcher watches our exchange with a tender expression that makes my stomach do a little flip. I command myself to concentrate on the pasta, which is nearly done.
"Five-minute warning," I announce. "Everyone, wash your hands before dinner, please."
For the first time in my entire career as a child caregiver, I feel like I might have found a family I can love.
And one hot daddy I should never, ever kiss again.