8. Andi
Chapter 8
Andi
I let out a relieved breath as the sound of Griffin’s truck fades down the driveway. Ever since our moment in the bathroom the other afternoon, things have been…delicate between us. If we’re not deliberately avoiding eye contact, we’re accidentally bumping into each other in our attempt to run away. Neither one of us can get out of the room fast enough if the other is in it.
The last two days have been nothing but replaying our conversation in my head.
You scare me.
You make me feel things.
I’ll keep my hands to myself.
It’s everything I don’t want.
I don’t want him to be scared of me or to keep his feelings shut down, and I especially don’t want him keeping his hands to himself.
What I do want are his hands on my thighs, his eyes tracking my movements, his mouth turned up as he fights a smile.
I want his gruff voice and his callused palms.
I want him.
But I can’t have him.
And I need to get it together, remember why I’m here—for this job. For two ten-year-olds who don’t like me.
So, I decided I would break protocol tonight and bribe them. I learned they love Thai food. They’re pretty adventurous eaters, according to their father. A factoid he told me while studiously scrubbing the counter so he didn’t have to meet my gaze. And I figured I’d use that to my advantage.
After school, I followed the usual schedule of picking up Logan from the bus stop, homework for him, then drop-off at baseball practice, so that I could drive back to the school to get Grace from her science club before swinging around to the Thai place. I ordered a bunch of different things, hoping I could impress them with a buffet.
“I heard you love pineapple fried rice and drunken noodles,” I say, catching her gaze in the rearview.
She reluctantly agrees, and I turn to smile at her. “I ordered pad Thai and two different curries. I know your brother likes spicy food, so I got one spicy and one mild for me.”
“You don’t like spicy food?”
I shake my head. “I’m a wimp when it comes to spice.”
She nods and flicks her gaze out of the window. I take it as a win. A conversation that was more than one word.
I pick up Logan from practice, thanking the baseball coach, the mechanic who fixed my car so quickly. Like Griffin, he shrugs off my appreciation before gesturing to whom I assume are his wife and kids, a cute little family that suddenly has me wondering if I’ll ever have that.
A man who throws his arm around her shoulders and spins his hat backward to kiss her.
A woman who has kids who obviously love her with smiles and hugs.
They walk back to the parking lot, all physically connected by holding hands.
It makes my heart ache.
Not that I expect the twins to love me, but I would hope they don’t hate me.
Though they clearly do, because as soon as I open up the driver’s side door, they immediately stop talking from their seats in the back. Logan had run ahead to the car while I watched his coach’s family for a few seconds—time that feels important.
Like I’m walking into something. A trap.
I ignore the bubble of nerves in my stomach and slap on a grin. “Okay! Let’s go home and eat. Logan, I told your sister I bought your favorites from White Orchid, so I hope you’re hungry.”
When neither of them answers, I do what I’ve done since I arrived at Griffin’s house and carry the conversation. I blabber on about the funny Instagram reel I saw and this new album I downloaded. I ask what music they like and if they ever thought about playing instruments. I offer to teach them how to play the guitar or piano, if we could find one…maybe convince their dad to buy a keyboard. And when none of that works, I up the volume of the music and enjoy the ride with the windows down.
I’ve never lived anywhere with four seasons, and over the last week, I could actually see spring blooming. Today is the first really warm day since I arrived in town, and even though it’s been a rough start for me here, I can’t help but hope I’ll have a new spring, too.
Words pop into my head, lyrics I can’t quite grasp about life and love blooming in harsh conditions, a desert flower, a winter rose, and I’m a little distracted as I dump all the food into bowls when we get home, hurrying to write them down before I forget while the kids set the table.
For once, they’re animated, thanking me for the food instead of following the menu.
“I’m just glad y’all are happy,” I say, and Grace meets my eyes with a small frown.
“You’re not like the others,” she says quietly, and Logan elbows her.
I don’t understand the silent communication between them, but I laugh anyway. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”
Grace digs into her food instead of answering.
“This smells so good,” I say before popping a heaping spoonful of what I think is mild curry into my mouth, but as soon as I swallow, I start coughing. My eyes water, and for a moment, it feels like I can’t breathe. I avoid spicy foods because they don’t sit well with me, and I’m not used to this spice. I cough a couple more times then chug down my water as the kids giggle.
“You okay, Miss Andrea?” Logan asks, grinning.
“Yeah, it’s…” I cough a few more times. “It’s hotter than I expected.”
I eye the curry, then look at them. I swear I dished out the mild one for myself. But the kids set the table and… No, I’m being paranoid. They wouldn’t mess with my food, right? Especially because Grace offers me some of her fried rice, which is really nice of her.
I push away the thought of them playing a trick on me and enjoy the rest of my non-spicy meal. Afterward, the kids complete their chores and then scatter, leaving me to my own devices. I play guitar for a while, FaceTime Dahlia, and double-check the locks after I’ve made sure the kids are asleep.
Downstairs, I decide on some self-pampering to keep my mind off what Griffin might be doing at this very moment. If he thinks about me at night, the same way I think about him. If he imagines me touching myself, like I imagine he touches himself. Because even though it’s been tense between us, I still use that vibrator every night with the picture of him in my mind.
I take it out now, drawing the tip over my stomach, tickling my skin. After I moved out to LA and realized I had the time and space to explore what I liked, I found a small female-owned boutique off Santa Monica with a woman who kindly walked me through the store, asking what I was interested in. I stammered nervously and told her I wasn’t sure, so she introduced me to my bright-pink boyfriend, the one who’s been with me for a long time, and taught me that I didn’t have to be ashamed of my desires. At least, not alone in my bedroom.
I close my eyes and think of Griffin. Of what his fingers might feel like on me, rough and solid, how his breath would feel on my neck or breasts before he took my nipples in his mouth. I slide off my shorts and underwear then turn on the vibrator, teasing my upper thighs with it before pressing the tip against my clit. It doesn’t take long for me to get wet, and I push it inside me, groaning, pretending it’s Griffin’s cock. Fantasizing what his weight would feel like on top of me, the best kind of pressure. He’s so big, he’d cover all of me, completely cocoon me, and I like that. I like that he could protect me, shield me, be tender and strong.
Yet somehow I know he’d be the exact right amount of unrestrained with me. Take me how he wanted.
I come, thinking of his hips pistoning, rubbing exactly where I need, and when I’m done and open my eyes, I spend a few seconds being sad that it’s not real before standing and shaking it off.
In the shower, I squirt a dollop of shampoo into my palm and start lathering up, but something’s off. It’s too thin, and the smell… I bring my hand to my nose and sniff. It’s not my shampoo. It smells like…dish soap?
I rinse it off quickly, cursing under my breath. I don’t know when they could have done this, but it had to be the kids. With dinner and now this, I know it’s not paranoia.
Especially when I think about the questions Griffin asked before he hired me. What I would do if I were locked out of the house? That’s like when people or businesses put up warning signs not to do something dumb because someone did the dumb thing at some point. Well, I guess Griffin asked me because the kids have locked nannies out of the house before.
I hurriedly finish rinsing off and wrap a towel around myself to think this through. I recall all the ridiculous tasks Ryder had me do, and while giving me spicy food and switching out my shampoo with dish soap aren’t exactly pleasant, they’re also not the worst problems I’ve ever experienced. These little tricks are their way of hazing me, testing my boundaries. I can handle it.
Like a bully, I figure the best way to deal with them is to ignore it. Show them they can’t get to me. I’m not going to quit or leave just because of some literal elementary school stuff. It would take a lot more than that to make me sweat. I throw on my pajamas and tuck into bed, falling asleep, not to thoughts of Griffin but of his rascal kids.
The next morning, when my alarm goes off on my cell phone, I roll over to shut it off then curl back up under the comforter until Cat paws at me. The last few days, he’s found his way downstairs so that he’s next to me when I wake up.
I pet his head. “The kids will get you breakfast. That’s on their chore list.”
He obviously doesn’t understand and steps on top of my chest, kneading me.
“Fine. All right. I’ll get up,” I tell him and lift him off me so I can sit up. Still half asleep, I stretch my arms over my head and yawn, rolling out my joints before standing. I shuffle toward the bathroom, but I recognize a second too late that I’ve walked into some kind of wire.
Which sets off a nightmare.
A blast of cold water dumps over my head, and in the midst of my confusion and astonishment, there’s a loud pop of a balloon. I shriek as a cloud of glitter explodes all around me. Completely disoriented and dripping wet, I blindly take a step forward but trip over something furry.
Cat darts between my feet, setting off another spray of water from a contraption rigged to the floor. This time, I manage to shield my face, but my pajamas are soaked. Catching my breath, I turn in a tight circle, taking in the war zone around me, studying the mess of string, glitter, and water guns rigged up in my room. This is no kid’s prank. This is some Home Alone -level type shit.
Parent Trap times a million.
Logan and Grace aren’t just mischievous kids—they’re evil masterminds.
And it takes me a full ten minutes to accept who I’ve been hired to take care of. Another twenty to clean everything up, refusing to let their antics get to me. No way am I giving them the satisfaction of seeing me crack. Once I’ve dismantled their elaborate traps, I take a shower, but I think I’ll be finding glitter in my ears for days to come.
I dress, pretend the glitter that wouldn’t come out of my hair was put there on purpose, and add a bit of extra makeup this morning, aiming for a Kesha circa 2010 effect.
Upstairs, I make sure the kids are awake and getting ready for school. They greet me with innocent smiles I don’t buy for a second.
“Morning, Miss Andrea!” Logan chirps. “You look nice today.”
I force a smile. “Thank you, Logan. And how are you two this morning?”
“Great,” Grace says sweetly. Too sweetly.
I won’t let them see I’m rattled, even though my mind is racing, trying to figure out how to get back at them. If it’s war they want, then it’s war they’ll get.
We make it through breakfast, and they get on the bus without incident, but as soon as I’m back, I start scouring the house for supplies. No way am I letting them best me. Time to fight fire with fire. Or in this case, glitter with glitter.
I used to handle the biggest diva in the music industry; I can handle a couple of kids. Even if they are supervillains.