Chapter 4
CHAD
My head still hurts when I wake up the next morning, but at least it’s manageable. I tell the girls it’s a game to see how much we can get done with just some dim light in the room, and they agree excitedly.
Maybe a little too excitedly.
Everything is exciting to them about this trip, which is good, since I worried that detouring from our normal Christmas Day stuff would upset them.
My mom wasn’t happy that we weren’t coming to Dallas, but I needed something different.
Something to mark the new start that our little family is embarking on.
I’ll take the girls to see my parents over New Year’s or something.
I’m combing through Zoey’s fine curls when there’s a tap at the door.
“I’ll get it!” Scarlett cries, hopping up.
“Ask who it is,” I remind her, setting down the comb to follow her even though she’s already got her hand on the doorknob.
“Who is it?” Scarlett yells. I wince and look at the package of ibuprofen sitting on my nightstand. I slept through the night, probably out of sheer exhaustion and my body trying to recover, so I never took any more. I should do that now.
For the girls.
“It’s Ivy,” the voice on the other side says.
Scarlett flings the door open without waiting for instructions from me. “Miss Ivy!”
“Miss Ivy!” Zoey comes running from my bedroom, where we were combing her hair. I try to relax. Clenching my teeth won’t help the lingering headache.
Ivy crouches down to hug them both and looks up at me. “Ready to conquer another step?”
I nod. “Do you have a life coach Spidey sense or something?” I joke.
She stands, and the girls slip their hands into hers. They must have really bonded when they went to see the lights yesterday. “I heard the girls.” She gives me a fake grimace, and I smile. They’re not quiet girls. “First step,” she says. “Grab the ibuprofen.”
“Okay.” I’ve already done this once before, so walking across the room shouldn’t be a big deal. I force myself to move. One foot in front of the other, through the small living room of the suite, entering my bedroom. Three steps to the nightstand. I put my hand over the package and pick it up.
“Perfect,” Ivy says from the doorway. She beams at me like she did last night, and it makes my shoulders relax. “Can you shake two out, or can I help you?”
“I got it.” And I do. If I don’t think about what I’m doing and chant for the girls over and over in my head.
Thirty seconds later, two more ibuprofen are down the hatch, and Ivy leads the girls in whisper-cheers they think are hilarious, even though they have no idea why it’s a big deal for me to take a pain reliever.
“Thanks, Ivy,” I say in an undertone. “I don’t know what I would have done without you here.”
Her cheeks flame a deep red, and I realize what I’ve said could sound … romantic? Maybe?
“You’re welcome,” she says before I can clarify that I mean as a friend. Being here for me. Helping me.
Don’t get me wrong: Ivy Hart is gorgeous.
She has bright blue eyes and pale blond hair.
It’s pulled up into a high ponytail. Even though it’s early, just past eight o’clock, small curls are already escaping the ponytail, making her look relaxed or like she’s already been busy for several hours.
Which is quite possible for Ivy. When she lived in Houston, it seemed like she was always on the go.
But she’s way too young for me. I’m pushing forty, and she’s not even thirty yet. And there’s the fact that she’s not looking for relationships, and that kind of woman terrifies me. That’s what Shelby said when we first met.
She never wanted to be tied down, and yet it happened. I kept pursuing her, despite her saying she didn’t want anything serious. I kept expecting her to pull away, or push me away, and it never happened. So I fell in love with her.
But I won’t involve myself with a woman who doesn’t want to date. I don’t even know if I want to date. I haven’t thought of it. It’s only been about nine months since Shelby left, though our marriage was over a long time before that. When she started choosing her next fix over her family.
I could have forgiven her. I could have stayed with her and figured out a way to help her or something.
But the day she got high with her boyfriend in the house while the girls were asleep upstairs was the day I told her to leave.
And what scared me most was that I couldn’t help wondering how often it happened.
I came home that night unexpectedly from consulting on a surgery that Shelby would have known would take several hours.
There had been a mistake, and two consultants had been called in.
I was the lucky one who got to go home. I’d picked up crème br?lée from her favorite restaurant.
Things had been so bad between us, and somehow I thought that sharing a dessert and a quiet night to ourselves could put us back together.
I haven’t told anyone that I kicked her out. Law, Carlie, probably Ivy, Shelby’s mom, my family … they think Shelby ran off with her addict boyfriend. And I guess technically they did run off together, away from my house, when I found them there together and told her to leave.
I’d known about him. But the fact that she would bring him into our house, with our girls … I couldn’t stand by anymore and pretend like we could fix things. Not when it endangered my daughters.
“Chad?” Ivy’s voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. Her eyebrows are pinched in concern like they were last night, only now it’s light enough in the room to see the worry in her eyes. “Is everything okay?” she asks. Her cheeks are getting redder.
“Yeah. Fine. Sorry. I zoned out there for a second.” I clear my throat.
She nods slowly and her expression relaxes, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me. It’s making my cheeks warm.
Is there a psychological explanation for falling for your caregiver because they were nice to you? Where it’s not real? Because that must be what’s happening with all these warm feelings about Ivy. I’ve never had someone take care of me in the gentle way she does, so it’s affecting me.
And there’s the fact that I haven’t slept well in a couple days.
Well, I never actually sleep well, but that’s beside the point.
“I was just about to take the girls down to get some breakfast.” I gesture to the door, where she’s still standing, holding Scarlett’s and Zoey’s hands.
“I came over to see if I could help with that. If you needed help. I don’t want to impose. Sorry.” She shakes her head. “I sound like a crazy person. Law is in meetings. He said I should get room service and chill, but that felt lonel—lame.”
“Daddy! Daddy! Can Miss Ivy come to breakfast with us?” Zoey cries before I can say anything.
Ivy crouches again, turning to Zoey. “Hey, remember that silly game we talked about last night? Where we see if we can whisper everything?”
“Oh ye—” Zoey starts, and then she covers her mouth with her hand and widens her eyes. “I mean, oh yeah,” she says in the loudest whisper she can manage.
Ivy grins at her, and I can’t help my own smile.
It’s a small thing for Ivy to come up with a way to keep my girls’ excitement at a level that won’t aggravate my migraine, but it feels bigger.
For so long, I’ve been the one looking out for everyone in my family.
It’s nice to have someone helping—and not just with the girls.
Having someone who’s looking out for me.
“Daddy,” Scarlett says in her own loud whisper. “Is it okay if Miss Ivy eats breakfast with us?”
“I’d be dumb to say no,” I reply, sharing another smile with Ivy.
“Yay!” Both girls start bouncing, and their whispers make them giggle.
I chuckle and shake my head, opening the door. “Seriously, Ivy. Thanks.”
She turns to smile at me over her shoulder, her eyes bright. My heart does a little hiccup at her joyful expression, like letting her help out is the best Christmas present she’s ever gotten.
“Anytime,” she says, as the girls drag her into the hallway.
I pull out my phone to Google “developing a crush on your caregiver.”