Chapter 15
Never thought this is where I’d be at this phase of my life. Late thirties, pining after a girl a decade-and-change younger than me like a fucking pervert.
I leave for work before everyone wakes up for several reasons. Handle my responsibilities at the ranch. Conduct business with folks in the Central or Eastern time zones. Also, well, there isn’t any other reasons than the one I don’t want to admit.
On the rare occasion I’m still at the apartment when Mia wakes up, I’m dumbstruck by how impossibly gorgeous she is first thing in the morning.
Golden waves piled into a top knot, exposing her delicate features she so often hides behind her hair.
Tendrils of gold escape the messy bun, framing her face like a work of art.
Her eyes are heavy with sleep, and her smiles are slow and comfortable, as if her anxiety hasn’t kicked in for the day.
The problem is the threadbare T-shirts she wears to sleep in. They’re several sizes too large for her and based on the faded screenprint on many of them, they’re men’s shirts.
What man gave them to her is the million-dollar question that plagues me every time I see her in one. She doesn’t talk about her parents, maybe her father’s? I doubt she wasted precious backpack space on her husband’s clothes during her prison escape.
So, where did they come from? She should be wearing my shirts to bed.
Where the hell did that come from?
The T-shirts hang to her upper thighs, and she wears cotton shorts that peek out when she sits down. What if she doesn’t sleep in the shorts but puts them on for modesty? Just her naked body beneath that thin layer of fabric, maybe no panties? Stop. See, there’s the pervert rearing his ugly head.
With her hair up in the mornings, the T-shirts do nothing to hide what’s underneath. The whisper of cotton molds against her every curve, daring me to look, my dick pleading with me not to look away.
It only took a time or two seeing her nipples poking through to set my alarm clock a half hour earlier and get out of the house before she wakes up.
But, today, in an unprecedented move, I’ve closed the hardware store to play nurse.
Gotta love elementary school for being a festering cesspool of bacteria and viruses. It got significantly better once Harper was old enough to stop putting everything in her mouth, sharing drinks with her friends, and having better hand hygiene.
With a kindergartener in the house, we’re back in an endless rotation of sicknesses. This time, it hit all three girls. No idea how it skipped me, but I’m not complaining.
Mia cared for the girls for the first two days, but then fell ill herself, and I couldn’t in my right mind leave them here.
So, here I am, fighting my base urges when I should be able to take care of a sick woman without losing my head.
The giant sectional couch I splurged on is worth its weight in gold. It’s become their basecamp, only leaving to use the bathroom. Otherwise, I’m their guy.
Which means along with the kids, I’ve been touching Mia’s face to see if she’s cool, sweeping her hair from her forehead to take her temperature, and brushing fingers each time I return with fresh water, a dose of medicine, or something to eat.
I’ve taken care of Harper a hundred times when she’s sick, and before that, took care of Olivia, and myself.
But taking care of Mia is gratifying in a way I never expected.
When her tired eyes glimmer with appreciation, I want to work twice as hard. Knowing she’s getting to rest during an illness, maybe for the first time in her life, makes me feel a hundred feet tall.
Currently, the kids are engrossed in some princess movie they’ve seen a thousand times, and Mia’s fast asleep. Even pale and exhausted, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
She’s finally getting some rest, having crapped out after continuously trying to take care of the kids, meeting my refusal every time. But she needs her next dose of medicine if we’re going to stay on top of her symptoms.
“Hey,” I say softly, crouched beside her sleeping form. She doesn’t rouse, so I tuck the stray curls crossing her forehead behind her ear. Her skin’s cool, but clammy. At least the fever broke.
My touch has her heavy eyelids fighting to open, so I try again.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like a car hit me. So, better than yesterday when it felt like a bus hit me.” Her lips tilt into the smallest smile. Even miserable, her sunlight shines through.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re funny?”
“Everly. But she thinks farts are funny, so her bar’s pretty low.”
Now that gets me to chuckle. She’s always funnier than I expect, and I bite the inside of my cheek to hold in laughter so often it’s like hamburger meat in there.
Well, I bite my cheek for more reasons than preventing laughter—also when she bends over to pick something up and her ass looks like a juicy peach, or when she comes through the hardware store and other men’s eyes are pulled to her like magnets.
“Sorry to wake you up, but it’s time for your medicine.” I grimace, helping her to a seated position to accept the gel caps and small glass of water. She takes them without complaint but doesn’t lay back down.
“Thank you.” She huffs a laugh. “I’m not used to being the one taken care of.” Neither was I, until you came around.
“I know the feeling. Parenting is painfully selfless and thankless.”
“You’ve got that right.” She sneaks a look at the little girls huddled under a sherpa blanket, transfixed on their movie. I don’t think Everly knows her mom’s awake.
“Think you could eat something?” I ask, holding out my hand to help her up.
She takes it without hesitation, and despite the clamminess of her palm, I’m flooded with heat from her offered touch.
“Have the girls eaten?” Of course, she thinks of them before herself.
“About a half hour ago, Harper managed some cinnamon-sugar toast and apple juice, and Everly had a small bowl of cereal.” She nods, satisfied with my answer.
“I think I could eat.” She walks to the kitchen and sits at the island. I round the counter and peruse the cabinets and refrigerator despite knowing their contents, just buying time to collect myself.
“Being the only person that’s been able to eat, I haven’t bothered cooking. Just been cleaning out the leftovers you stock us with.”
When she doesn’t answer, I look over my shoulder and find her looking over hers at the kids.
“Mia?” She whips back around.
“Sorry. Um, do we have any of those ramen instant noodle cups?”
We. Not do I have one in my pantry. But do we? That hits me across the face like a wet towel. She lives here, has for a few months, so of course everything is an amalgamation of two single-parent families blending.
How did she become more than “just the nanny”? And when?
“Uh, yea. We should. Let me heat some water.” I busy myself with the world’s easiest lunch and slide it in front of her.
As I round the island to check on the kids, Mia’s delicate fingers wrap around my forearm, stopping me dead in my tracks.
“Thank you, Greyson.”
“No big deal, you need to eat.”
“No. Thank you. For everything. For giving me and my daughter a second chance, a home, financial stability, safety, friendships, and inviting us into your family. Just…thank you.” She tapers off, drops her hand from my arm and studies me closely waiting for a reply.
How do I tell her that in giving her a second chance, she opened the window for a second chance of my own? How do I explain that she and Everly are ingrained in my life, and my heart demands that I protect her? How do I tell her I’m the one who’s thankful?
I manage a single, resolute nod.
Instead of heading into the living room to check in on the girls, I turn down the hall to my bedroom and lock myself inside.
What the hell am I going to do? Because courting the nanny isn’t an option. I’m too old and jaded, and she’s too young and vulnerable.
A man like me with dirty hands and a filthy conscience doesn’t deserve anything from a woman as incredible as her.
Olivia: Happy 37th birthday to the best big brother and greatest dad on the planet! Love you!
James: Don’t forget your birthday dinner’s tomorrow at the main house.
Isabelle: HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRUMPASAURUS!
Connor: Happy birthday, old man! I owe you a beer next time we go out.
Reid: Mom wants to make sure you’re coming to dinner tomorrow.
Delilah: ? Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Greyson, happy birthday to you. ?
My phone’s getting its workout today. Two days a year, I get messages from my closest friends and family. My birthday, and Harper’s birthday.
I give my number out to very few people. I conduct most of my under the table business face to face, or a blocked phone call if necessary. These yahoos are the only people who text me, and depending on what group chats I end up roped into, I exit them regularly.
There’s one text message I’m hoping to get, though I know I won’t.
The one person I want to get nonsensical texts from throughout the day, about anything and everything. The one person I want to talk to, that I avoid for self-preservation.
The woman I leave a note for every morning, and no matter how many days pass, my heart pounds out of my ribcage every day I walk into the apartment for lunch hoping to find one from her.
I doubt she even knows it’s my birthday, I don’t exactly advertise my personal business and don’t think it’s come up in our limited conversations.
It’s Friday, and I’m slowly ascending the staircase to the apartment, preventing myself from racing in to find a possible note from her wishing me a happy birthday.
It’s a school day, so Mia’s likely running errands or helping out at the ranch, and I won’t see her or the girls until closer to dinnertime.
The white paper catches my eye immediately, and with no one home, I’m not fooling anyone by playing it cool. I hustle my ass over to the kitchen counter, desperate for her words.
Thank you for the new snow tires. They make a huge difference!