Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROWAN
Music fills the kitchen, low but steady. I genuinely don’t understand how anyone cooks without music. It’s like trying to shower in silence. Technically possible, but deeply unsettling.
Presley stands on a stool by the island, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, sleeves pushed up. Jemmy sits in his high chair, reading a book to one of his dinosaurs.
The house smells like garlic and basil.
In other words… Heaven.
I might be overstepping. Technically, I was hired to help with the kids, not cook dinner. But after learning Hayden usually doesn’t sit down to eat with them, I couldn’t help myself.
I know what it’s like to have parents who can’t be bothered to eat dinner with you.
I don’t want that for these kids.
Plus, I’ve been itching to cook something real.
Not that there’s anything wrong with grilled cheese. I love a good grilled cheese. But there’s something deeply satisfying about breading chicken, simmering sauce, and making a mess you can justify because it ends in a delicious meal.
To my surprise, Presley wanted to help.
She’d probably learn more from Dylan, considering she went to culinary school, but I’ve always loved cooking. There’s something grounding about it. Predictable. Safe.
Presley seems to feel that way, too.
“Now we bread the chicken,” I say, pointing to the bowls lined up on the counter. “Flour first, then egg, then breadcrumbs. Want me to show you?”
She nods, her eyes focused.
I pick up a piece of raw chicken and coat it in flour, tapping off the excess before dipping it into the egg mixture, then pressing it into the breadcrumbs.
“Want to try?”
I wasn’t sure I’d find anything that would pull her away from her sketchpad, but the second I asked her to help, something shifted. Like she’s used to being overlooked because she’s quiet.
Quiet doesn’t mean incapable.
Presley carefully sets the chicken into the flour, coating every inch with determination. But when she transfers it to the egg, it slips off the fork, egg splashing everywhere, including my hair and shirt.
Presley freezes, shoulders tensing, her eyes darting away like she’s bracing for impact.
I laugh and gently squeeze her arm. “It’s okay. You don’t want to know how many times I’ve done that.”
She looks up at me, relieved, then smiles before moving the chicken to the final bowl and pressing it into the breadcrumbs like I showed her.
She sets the fully coated chicken on the plate beside mine and looks at me expectantly.
“Great job! Want to do another one?”
This time, she doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for another piece of chicken and starts the process all over again.
While she works, I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, turning on the burner. By the time I’m done, Presley is finishing her last piece of chicken and adding it to the plate.
“You did amazing. These look better than when I do it.”
She beams, pride physically oozing from her.
The sound of the front door closing echoes through the house, and we both look toward the doorway.
A few seconds later, Hayden appears, stopping short as he takes in the kitchen.
My first thought is the mess — flour on the counter, remnants of garlic on the cutting board, splashes from the sauce on the stove.
“I promise I’ll clean everything once dinner’s in the oven,” I assure him, hoping he won’t use this as a reason to fire me.
It’s a strange thought, considering being a nanny or holding down any sort of long-term job was the last thing I wanted twenty-four hours ago.
I still can’t say this is a long-term thing, but I’d like to stay here more than a day.
“It’s fine. I just…” He trails off, looking between Presley and Jemmy. “Usually by this point, the nannies I hired would be on the couch and the kids would be glued to the TV.”
“I’m not like most nannies.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.” His tone is low and soft as his gaze drifts over me. Not in a way that feels inappropriate, but enough to send a small thrill through me, awareness prickling my skin.
I look away, needing to focus on something other than the way my body responds to his presence. Especially when he looks at me like this.
“I hope you like chicken parmigiana.” I set a sauté pan on the stove and ignite a burner. “I figured it was a safe bet. I mean, who doesn’t like chicken parm?”
“You don’t have to cook for me. Just the kids.”
“I can do both. That way you can all eat together. Plus Presley likes it.” I gesture to the plate of breaded chicken. “She did all of those.”
He looks at her. “Is that right?”
She gives a slight shrug, averting her gaze.
“You did great,” I tell her. “Own it.”
She perks up, a smile curving on her lips.
After adding a bit of oil to the pan, I turn back to Hayden. “Why don’t you go get comfortable? This should be done in about thirty minutes. I wanted it ready when you got home, but my timing’s still a work in progress.”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “And…thanks.”
“Of course.”
He lingers for a moment longer, like he wants to say something else. Then he turns and heads out of the kitchen.