Chapter Twelve
Jennifer
After another week of rough days at work, Fletcher arrives home at the usual time, collapsing onto the sofa with a look of sheer defeat in his eyes.
I've given the kids the task of setting the table---partly to give Fletcher a break, but I would've directed the kids to set the table anyway.
As soon as they came home, I had gotten them ready to do their homework.
I've never understood why children need to go to school for hours every day only to do more work at home.
Homeschooling would be better, in my opinion, but these aren't my kids. We'll stick to homework.
Fletcher becomes more animated and cheerful as dinner goes on. Amelia rolls her eyes at him when he asks about her project for the science fair. She's been working on it for weeks, before I became part of the household. I know she's proud of her efforts, though she'd never admit it.
"It's fine," she says, with a teenage tone that somehow compresses a paragraph of attitude into two syllables.
"Just fine?" Fletcher presses, a hint of his old spark returning. "The way you've been hoarding the kitchen table for your volcano, I expected something more dramatic than 'fine.'"
"It's not a volcano," Amelia corrects him with exaggerated patience. "It's a sustainable energy demonstration. Mrs. Wilkins said it was college-level work."
I hide my smile behind my water glass. The girl is gifted. She reminds me of myself at that age, though with considerably more sass.
"And how was your day, Charlotte?" Fletcher turns toward the eleven-year-old who has been methodically arranging her peas into a smiley face.
"I made the soccer team!" Charlotte announces. "Coach says I have natural talent."
"That's brilliant, love!" Fletcher beams at her. The pride in his eyes is unmistakable.
"We should celebrate," I suggest. "Maybe ice cream after dinner?"
Fletcher shoots me a grateful look.
I shrug like it's nothing, but warmth spreads through my chest. It's strange how quickly I've settled into this routine with them. Three weeks ago, I'd never even met these people, and now I'm planning their celebrations. But it feels right somehow.
"Ice cream?" Henry pipes up from his end of the table, where he's been suspiciously quiet. "Can I have chocolate with rainbow sprinkles?"
"With fudge sauce and caramel too," adds Charlotte, her soccer victory apparently deserving of maximum toppings.
Fletcher raises an eyebrow at me. "You've opened Pandora's Box now."
"I can handle it." But honestly, I'm not positive about that. I've never lived with so many kids before.
After dinner, I drive us all to the ice cream parlor on Main Street. It's one of those charming small-town spots with a striped awning and handwritten flavor boards. The kids tumble out of the car like they've been released from incarceration after years of confinement.
"Slow down," Fletcher calls out after them, but they're already at the door, pressing their faces against the glass like they've never seen ice cream before.
"You'd think they were starved at home," I say as Fletcher and I follow at a more reasonable pace.
"The Murgatroyd sweet tooth is legendary," Fletcher explains, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as he holds the door. "My mum used to hide the biscuit tin on top of the fridge. I'd use a broom handle to knock it down."
The ice cream parlor is bustling with families enjoying the warm evening.
Fairy lights twinkle from the ceiling, and the sweet scent of waffle cones fills the air.
I breathe it in, surprised by how much I'm enjoying this little outing.
Henry is already chattering away to the teenage server, who looks both amused and overwhelmed by his detailed ice cream order.
Amelia hangs back, pretending she's too mature for this kind of childish excitement, but I catch her eyeing the mint chocolate chip.
"What would you like, Charlotte?" I ask.
She shrugs. "Whatever."
I nudge her gently. "Afraid 'whatever' isn't a flavor last time I checked."
A hint of a smile cracks her carefully constructed teenage indifference. "Fine. Mint chip. In a cup, not a cone."
"Good choice." I step up to the counter. "One mint chip in a cup, please. And I'll have..." I scan the flavors, deliberating. "The lavender honey, single scoop."
Fletcher raises his eyebrows. "Adventurous, eh?"
"I'm not always buttoned up, you know." I wink before I can stop myself.
I catch a flash of something in his gaze that I can't quite identify. Interest? Surprise? Whatever it is, it makes my pulse quicken.
"I'm a woman of mystery," I add, trying to sound casual.
Fletcher laughs. "That you are, Jennifer Cordell. That you are."
The way he says my name makes my tummy flutter. But I focus on paying for our order while Fletcher wrangles the children into a booth by the window.
"Can I try yours?" Charlotte asks as I slide in beside her, careful not to spill my lavender honey scoop.
"Only if I can try your mint chip."
"Yours tastes like Grandma's soap," Charlotte declares, wrinkling her nose.
I laugh. "That's the sophisticated palate talking."
The sun has sunk lower in the sky, and the kids are getting sleepy.
Joshua insists he's wide awake. When I see Amelia yawning, I know it's definitely time to go home.
Fletcher insists on tucking the kids in himself once we get back to the house, and I love that he takes such care with his children.
He's a good father. No it's more than that. He's an incredible dad.
Fletcher sidles past me, accidentally brushing his arm against mine.
A faint shiver rushes over my bare arm. Yes, okay, I want to have sex with him again---but I won't do it.
My job is to take care of the children and the household in general.
Heck, I even dug out a steam cleaner I'd found in a closet downstairs and gave the whole house a good cleansing while no one else was around.
When the weekend comes around again, things get super hectic in the Murgatroyd household.
Fletcher's parents and in-laws, who live in the same general neighborhood, finally decide to pay us a visit.
What if they hate me? No, they won't. I'm sure they're wonderful people.
But I've never lived in a household where two sets of grandparents lived nearby.
We don't receive any notice of their impending arrival. They simply ring the doorbell and wait until Fletcher waves for them to come inside. The kids are thrilled, naturally.
I plaster on my most professional smile as they file in---Fletcher's parents first, followed by his ex-wife's parents.
Talk about awkward. I'm suddenly very aware of my casual outfit---jeans and a light sweater that seemed perfectly appropriate for a Saturday at home but now seems woefully inadequate.
Fletcher walks over to me and settles a hand on my shoulder. "Let me introduce you to these lovely people, Jennifer." He points toward each parent in turn. "These two are my parents, Florence and Edmund Murgatroyd. And the other couple are Claudia's parents, Patricia and Robert Sullivan."
"It's wonderful to meet you all," I say, extending my hand. "I'm Jennifer Cordell."
Florence Murgatroyd is a petite woman with silver-streaked hair---and sharp eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses. She gives me a once-over, like I'm being scanned by airport security. "And what exactly is your role here, Miss Cordell?"
Fletcher jumps in before I can answer. "Jennifer is our new nanny. She's been a godsend for all of us."
My throat tightens at that statement. A godsend? That's going a little overboard. But I keep my head up and offer my hand to Florence. "I'm so glad to meet you, Mrs. Murgatroyd."
She sweeps her gaze over me, her brows lifting. When she finally shakes my hand and speaks, her British accent is no surprise to me. "Well, dear, I must inform you that I can tell a person's character with one glance."
"How did I do?"
Florence winks and grins. "You can call me Florry. As for Fletcher, I've never seen my son this relaxed before. I've also never known my grandchildren to behave like such perfect little angels. Fletcher is right. You are a godsend."
Before I have a chance to respond, the other set of grandparents marches up to me.
I paste on a pleasant smile. "It's wonderful to meet you too, Mrs. Sullivan."
"Oh no, dear, don't call me Mrs. Sullivan." She kisses my cheek. "Everyone calls me Patty. That includes you, Jennifer."
My cheeks have grown slightly warm. "Oh, um, thank you. I appreciate---"
A burly man wearing a wide grin seizes me, strapping his arms around me in a big hug. Fortunately, he pulls away before I suffocate. "Aren't you a pretty little thing! Fletcher told us you're amazing with the kids, but he didn't mention how gorgeous you are."
I'm pretty sure my face just flushed completely red. "That's very kind of you to say, Mr. Sullivan."
"Call me Bob!" He claps Fletcher on the shoulder. "Son, you hit the jackpot with our girl."
Fletcher clears his throat. "Right, well, shall we all sit down? I'll put the kettle on."
"I'll help," I offer quickly, desperate to escape the scrutiny of four sets of parental eyes.
The kitchen becomes a refuge. Fletcher busies himself with mugs while I hunt for cookies in the pantry---or biscuits, as Fletcher would say.
I hear the kids in the living room regaling their grandparents with wild stories.
I've noticed Fletcher likes to spout tall tales too, so it must be a family trait.
"Your parents are terrific," I tell him, trying to fill the awkward silence.
"They are. And Bob and Patty are good people too, despite everything." He pauses, his hand hovering over the teapot. "Despite what happened with Claudia, they never blamed me. They still treat the kids like their own grandchildren."
"That's...unusual." I arrange cookies on a plate, trying to make them look fancy or...something. "Most in-laws aren't so forgiving when their daughter leaves."
Fletcher's eyes cloud over momentarily. "Claudia's choices were her own. Bob and Patty understood that better than anyone. She's their daughter, after all."
I want to ask more questions, but this isn't the time. Instead, I reach for the milk jug, accidentally brushing Fletcher's hand. That same electric current zips through me, and I pull back too quickly, nearly dropping the milk.
Fletcher snags the milk jug, setting it on the counter. "Careful there, Jennifer."
"Sorry. It was slippery."
He holds my gaze a beat too long. "Very slippery indeed."
The way he spoke those words fired an erotic shiver down my spine, settling between my thighs.
The kettle whistles, breaking the tension. Fletcher turns away to deal with it, but I can still feel the heat radiating between us. Get a grip, Jennifer. You're supposed to be professional.
I know I should behave that way. But the longer I live with Fletcher and his kids, the harder it is to remember that I'm not the woman of the house.