CHAPTER 24
Finn
“Dad! I’m making an omelet!” My daughter looks over her shoulder at me, her face lit up with delight. “And you’re cussing like Uncle Declan again.”
She wobbles on the footstool, but Emma immediately steadies her by gently pressing a hand to her lower back. Emma didn’t jolt or freak out. She was just there for my kid, like it’s a natural thing for her to do.
It reassures me, but it pisses me off too. I wonder why that is. My main concern is Jasmine’s well-being, and here Emma is, ensuring it.
And it pisses me off?
What is wrong with me?
My daughter is wearing an apron, which is pretty cute but beside the point. I march into the kitchen just as Emma turns my way, ready for whatever I’m about to say.
“She’s eight years old. That is a gas stove.”
“I’m aware of both those things, Finn.” Emma’s voice is calm, and her face is… Emma’s face is radiant. She looks as happy as Jasmine, and all shiny.
The whole kitchen is shiny. The whole downstairs is shiny.
And the sound of my name rolling off Emma’s tongue is so sexy that I temporarily forget the other essential point I was about to make.
“Jasmine’s doing just fine, and she’s following all the safety rules.” Emma’s eyes are lustrous and dark as she looks right at me, unafraid. I see something in her I haven’t noticed before.
It’s pride. Dignity.
It suits her.
“But…” I’m searching for that comeback I’d prepared but now forget. I step closer to the stove. “Are you sure? Don’t burn yourself, Jasmine.”
“I know what I’m doing, Dad. Emma taught me. She’s taught me a whole bunch of things.”
Ding, ding, ding!
I don’t know what that sound is or where it’s coming from, but Emma apparently does.
She taps a button on the front of the stove, and it silences.
Just then, Jasmine expertly wields some sort of silicone spatula to flip a giant omelet.
I didn’t know we had a spatula like that.
I didn’t know Jasmine could flip an omelet.
Wait… what’s that smell?
“The muffins are ready to come out of the oven,” Jasmine says to Emma, quite matter-of-factly. She suddenly sounds older than I’ve ever heard her. Like a high-schooler. I don’t like it.
“Let’s turn off the heat and set aside the omelet pan,” Emma says to Jasmine. “Can you hop off so I can open the oven door?”
I have an omelet pan?
Wait… did I hear the word “muffins”?
“Sure!” Jasmine hands Emma the spatula and jumps off the stool. It reminds me of a smooth baton handoff at a track and field event, where the teammates have practiced working as a unit. Since when are Jasmine and Emma a unit?
Jasmine runs toward me, throws her arms around my waist, and squeezes me tight.
“Good morning, Dad! You look so very handsome today. I sure hope you’re hungry.
”As Jasmine hugs me, I observe Emma smiling to herself as she moves the footstool aside, slips two large oven mitts over her hands—I guess I have oven mitts, too—and bends over to remove a large baking pan from the oven.
Oh, fuck.
The way she moves is exquisite. She’s all female curves and grace. Emma’s wearing an apron that goes from neck to knees, but it does nothing to hide the absolutely gorgeous shape of her petite body.
She sets the baking pan on a metal cooling rack that she’s already positioned on the countertop, and I’m not even going to ask myself where she found it because it’s pointless.
This is Emma’s area of expertise, obviously.
I’m watching some kind of military operation unfolding in my kitchen, one that began with careful preparation and is being carried out with all moving pieces falling into place in the correct sequence. I’m impressed.
Jasmine’s arms slip away from me. “Can I have one now, Emma? Can I?”
“They’re still scalding hot, so let’s give them just a moment. Would you like to eat outside?”
“Dad!” Jasmine spins around to me again, the pale blue of her eyes sparkling. “Can we sit outside? Can we?”
“I… I guess, but I might have to clean off the—”
“That’s already taken care of,” Emma says. “Would you like some coffee, Finn?”
“I…” I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. It’s been a long while since a gorgeous woman stood in my kitchen in the morning and asked me if I wanted coffee. Eight years, to be precise. “Yeah,” I croak.
And oh, for the love of… how much bird shit did she have to scrape off the outdoor table and chairs? Whatever I’m paying her isn’t enough.
Wait. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be paying her. I don’t even know if she and Phyllis discussed salary. What kind of lame-ass employer am I?
Emma turns away from me and opens the refrigerator. “Cream, right?”
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Behind the stainless-steel door is a brightly lit, tidy collection of fresh produce, meats, and dairy products. And zero mold.
Am I even in the right house?
“Yes, thank you,” I manage.
She grabs the cream, retrieves a mug from a neatly organized cabinet, and prepares my coffee. Then she walks over to me with a smile. “Here you go. Enjoy.” Emma looks to Jasmine. “Can you grab the plates and silverware and set the table?”
“Yep!”
Jasmine reaches for the stack of plates and bundle of utensils already set out on the countertop, and I open the sliding screen door for her. I smile down at my happy kid and watch her walk outside.
That’s when I look up at the patio. I don’t even know what I’m seeing.
“I hope you don’t mind, Finn. It’s such a pretty spot out there.”
I turn to find Emma standing not two feet away from me. “Would you please carry the napkins and butter dish to the table?”
I look down to see the things she’s holding in her hands.
We have a butter dish. That’s in addition to our cooling rack, silicone spatula, and omelet pan, I guess. What the fuck else is hiding in my kitchen that I don’t know about—a US Navy guided-missile destroyer?
“Sure.” When I reach out, my fingertips accidentally brush along the side of Emma’s thumb. It wasn’t intentional. It was a completely innocent split-second of contact, but it felt like something else.
Something not innocent.
She holds my gaze, and I realize that the depth of honesty I see there is enough to drown a man if he isn’t careful.
I’m a former SEAL. I don’t usually worry about drowning. I’ve had to swim for eight hours straight through ten-foot ocean swells, in the black of the night, in shark-infested waters.
And yet I believe that if I’m not extremely careful, I could drown in this woman’s guileless eyes.
Her pretty pink mouth curls into a half smile.
“Uh, let me just…” I nod my thanks and head outside with Jasmine, who’s finished arranging the plates and is already seated, beaming with pride.
“Isn’t the table pretty, Dad?”
“You know what, kiddo? It really is. Did you pick these?”
“Nope. Emma did.”
She must have found these along the lane and scrounged up this jug to display them in.
Emma has a nice eye. She’s resourceful and imaginative. I get the feeling her life may have required that of her—a way to make something from nothing.
I move to sit on the far side of the round table next to Jasmine, but as soon as my ass hits the seat—which is just as squeaky clean as the rest of the downstairs, by the way—Emma comes through the door loaded down with plates.
I immediately stand. “Let me help you.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
Jasmine and I watch as Emma closes the screen door with a foot while holding her coffee cup and a glass of orange juice in one hand, a basket of muffins in the other hand, and balancing the omelet serving platter on the flat of her forearm.
She sets everything down without mishap and takes a seat. “I got you some juice, Jasmine.”
“Thank you!”
I stare at what’s in front of me.
I’m looking at an omelet with melted cheddar cheese oozing from the sides. Emma has sliced it into three servings, one much larger than the others, which I hope is for me, and has placed a few decorative strawberries around the edge of the platter.
I’m also looking at a basket of homemade muffins bursting with blueberries and crowned with perfectly browned top crusts sprinkled with sugar. If these puppies taste anywhere near as good as they look, I may have to crawl under the table and cry like a newborn infant.
“Help yourselves,” Emma says.
I serve Jasmine a muffin and a section of omelet. I glance up at Emma, and she’s smiling at me. I can’t help it. I smile back. But I’m frozen.
“Please. Go ahead.”
I nod and load up my plate.
“Oh, wow! These are so good!” Jasmine’s already got butter smeared on her bulging cheek. She reminds me of a gerbil. “Emma! Thank you!”
“Thank you. We did it together.”
I try not to stuff my face like Jasmine, but I fail. When I finish my eggs and two muffins slathered in way too much butter, I decide to come up for air. I look across the table, and the words slip out before I can stop myself.
“Hell yes, Emma.” I lick my lips.
“Dad!”
After we all laugh, I clear my throat. “What I meant to say is, thank you, Emma. This is absolutely delicious, and I appreciate it more than you know.”
As I grab muffin number three, I admit that Phyllis going behind my back and hiring Emma was the best thing I never did.
I’m in more trouble than I thought.