5. Poppy
five
Poppy
By the time Dylan waves goodbye to Izzy, I’ve been at The Hill for at least twenty minutes, and my pulse is still racing over how hot Dylan looks in his chef’s whites. His jacket strains over his muscled shoulders. The sleeves are rolled to expose his hard, ridged forearms. And even the stiff collar around his neck is doing things to me. He wears black trousers that hug his ass, a white apron tied around his narrow waist, and clean black leather boots. Does the cliche about men in uniform apply to gorgeous, long-haired chef gods who can pull off a man bun in a purple scrunchie? Because it should.
And while I don’t have to hide the fact that I’m checking him out so long as his attention is somewhere else, the ogling stops when I notice the lines around his eyes. They’re pinched like something’s wrong, and the moment Izzy is clear through the door, his expression shifts from warmth to worry.
He runs a hand down his face as he joins me at the table. “So, we should probably talk about how this is going to work,” Dylan says, but he barely makes contact with his chair before he’s on his feet again. “I’ve got everything written down, but I left it in the kitchen. Let me just—”
“Dylan?”
I set a hand on his wrist, and when his eyes drop to where my fingers rest on his bare skin, I look at them, too, both of us intent on the place where my skin meets his. My heart feels too loud and too big, like touching Dylan overrides my normal biology. When I pull away, and everything instantly feels quieter and smaller, I know this is one of those moments that’ll keep me up at night.
“I can tell something’s wrong,” I say. “Are you worried about Izzy?” I give him a false but hopefully sympathetic smile to hide my fear of rejection. “If you don’t want me to nanny for you, that’s okay. Don’t tell her I said so, but Daisy kind of bullied you into it.”
Dylan rolls his shoulders and pinches the thick muscle between his shoulder and his neck like he’s trying to knead away tension, then drops back into his seat. “The problem isn’t you. It’s not even Daisy.” He chuckles wryly under his breath. “First time I’ve ever said that.”
I laugh with him. “We drove you crazy, didn’t we?”
He shakes his head as his grin grows wider, and a sense of nostalgia brightens his blue eyes. “Keeping up with you two really kept me on my toes.”
Maybe I should be sorry about that, but I was a teenage girl with a crush. Having the Dylan Davenport pick me up from parties, cover for me when I cut class, and scare off potential boyfriends was the highlight of my teenage years. The highlight of my life . No way would I ever take it back.
“Well, in case I never said it before, thank you for looking out for us,” I tell him. “We were too young to appreciate it at the time, but I’m grateful you were someone I could rely on.”
Dylan’s chin dips and his eyebrows lift. “You’re welcome.”
A beat of something passes between us—a sense of shared history that sparks heat low in my belly and pulls at the corners of his full, soft mouth—before he looks away.
“So, if the problem isn’t me or Daisy or my working for you, what is it?”
Dylan picks up his fork and pokes at his breakfast. “How long have you got?”
“You tell me.”
Dylan sets down his fork again, but instead of talking, he takes a long, slow swallow of orange juice. He’s struggling with something—either a problem, the impulse to share it, or both—and I want to help. Dylan has always taken care of everyone else—me and Daisy, Charlie and the ranch after his parents died, now Izzy—and he’s always been Mr. Dependable. It’s not in his nature to lean on anyone, and it’s painful to watch him try to manage his worries on his own.
“Let me tell you a little about how this nannying works—or how it can work if you want it to,” I say.
His brows furrow slightly, but he nods. “Okay.”
“You pay me to supervise Izzy—to take her to school and pick her up at the end of the day. To drive her to her activities and make sure she eats regularly, drinks water, and goes to bed on time. What you don’t pay me for but what I do anyway—the best part of my job—is love her. She’s a great kid, and I enjoy hanging out with her. I can take her shopping for new shoes. I’ll give her mani-pedis on the weekend. She can talk to me about the things that light her up inside, as well as the things that are sometimes hard. Kids don’t always open up to their parents the way they might another adult they trust.”
Dylan’s eyelid twitches, and he glances at his half-empty plate.
“The other part of nannying is supporting you . If there’s something going on with Izzy, I can help.”
I risk the delicious torture of touching him again, sliding my hand over his. Does he notice the way I slip my fingers around his wrist just to feel his pulse? It races like he’s anxious, and my stomach tightens with sympathy.
“You can trust me,” I tell him. “If you’re worried about something, you can talk to me. This part of our relationship is confidential. Unless I have your permission, I won’t talk about you or Izzy to anyone unless you want me to. I promise.”
Dylan’s gaze drifts over my face. The touch of his eyes may as well be his fingertips ghosting across my skin, and I barely hide a shiver.
“You’re different,” he says, eyes tracing first the slope of my nose, the line of my jaw, the fine, flyaway curls framing my face. “You used to be so wild. So free. So…”
“Crazy?”
I grin, and Dylan’s mouth lifts in a half smile. “I didn’t say that, but yeah. I’m not used to this side of you.”
“What side is that?”
“I don’t know. Serious isn’t the right word. Earnest, maybe?”
I screw up my nose. “Boring.”
Dylan shakes his head, and his crooked smile highlights his incredible cheekbones. “I didn’t say that either.”
It feels good to make him smile like I might already be making a difference. “Yeah, well, things change. People change. Ten years is a long time, and I’m not the same person I used to be. You’re different, too, you know. I mean, you’ve always been responsible—that’s still the same—but you weren’t always so sensible. You used to laugh. Drink. Fool around. Do stupid shit. You used to have fun.”
“Yeah.” His smile falters and turns introspective. “I used to be young too.”
“You used to have a lot less to worry about,” I correct him.
“Izzy didn’t want to go to school this morning.”
He says it quickly like he needs to get the words out before he changes his mind, and it takes me a moment to follow the change in subject.
“Every kid I’ve ever nannied had a bad morning or two. It’s normal for children to try to get out of school every once in a while.”
“No.” He shakes his head, brow furrowed and jaw firing as he grinds his molars. “Izzy loves school. It’s out of character, and she’s never done it before. And…”
My intuition tingles. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Dylan pulls his hand out from under mine so he can run it through his hair, but his fingers catch on the hair tie, and he tugs it out with frustration. But the hair falling across his face just irritates him more. He roughly ties it back into a knot, an action that’s so mundane yet so…so…suggestive.
“I don’t want to make a big deal out of this in case it’s nothing,’ he says. “And I really don’t want parenting advice because I know I’ve screwed something up, but…”
I wait, wondering if I need to be alarmed, and when he doesn’t continue, I prompt him. “But…what?”
He sighs like a pressure valve releasing. “The last couple of months, since her mother’s visit in November, Izzy can’t fall asleep by herself. I’ve always left the restaurant early enough to tuck her in at night, but on the rare occasion it’s been Charlie or Finn or Daisy reading her a bedtime story and turning out the light, it hasn’t been a problem. Now it is, and I don’t know why. She waits for me every night, no matter how late it gets, and she needs me to lay with her until she’s out.”
“It’s not all that unusual for kids to need extra comfort at night. It’s not your fault.”
“I’m her father,” Dylan says heatedly. “Her well-being is my responsibility.” His hands make it all the way through his hair this time, and his eyes narrow with frustration. “I’ve made so many mistakes, and I keep making more.”
“Oh, Dylan.”
I slide my hand up his arm and give his bicep a comforting squeeze. It’s different this time, with fabric between us. My thumping heart is muted, giving me the chance to appreciate the hard, carved ridges of muscle under his white cotton chef’s jacket. Those ridges coax my fingertips toward his broad shoulder, and I skim my palm upward. Dylan tenses under my touch, but this time, I don’t pull away. I’m too heartbroken for him. I need him to know I care.
“All parents feel that way sometimes,” I say. “Or at least, the good ones do. You’re doing a great job. Truly.”
Dylan places his hand on mine, and my stomach jumps into my throat before he removes it from his shoulder and, with a friendly squeeze, sets it on the table.
“I’ll get those schedules and to-do lists for Izzy,” he says as he gets to his feet. “I was going to pick up a few things today, including her new trumpet, but Charlie needs me here. If you don’t mind running a few errands, it’d really help me out.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” I reply, unsure if I’ve overstepped but smiling despite my insecurities. It’s not hard. I’ve had a lot of practice.
Dylan strides through the restaurant and heads turn as he passes. The set of his muscled back and the fall of his heavy boots tell the world that this is his domain, and he knows it, but when he returns with a binder of paperwork and worry lines etched across his face, I look at Dylan again. Really look. Not through the lens of a teenage crush or from the perspective of his sister’s best friend. Not even as a woman sitting across from one of the best-looking men to ever take a breath. I look at him as someone who has known him all his life and compare the person he was ten years ago to the man he is today—older and wiser with the weight of a little girl’s world on his solid shoulders.
Daisy is right. Dylan has too many burdens. He needs fun in his life, and maybe dating is the answer, no matter how much I wish it weren’t.
And maybe he just needs someone to remind him of the guy he once was—and show him the man he still could be.