Chapter 11 #2
Maybe it’s because she could tell that I was thinking sizzly thoughts about Dean after he carried me back into her house that night last fall.
Maybe it’s because she’s made it clear she wants to set him up with her sister, a single mom with a little girl of her own, and a part of me doesn’t want to remind her of that plan.
Because a part of me doesn’t want to think about Dean with another woman.
It isn’t a logical part, obviously—we’re not a good fit for anything romantic, and we’ve already decided to forget that we ever had more than a friendly, boss-and-nanny relationship—but still…
Learning not to want more than friendship with Dean is a work in progress.
One that will likely get easier the longer he’s my boss and the more time I have to learn all his obnoxious habits.
Like breezing through the kitchen looking stupidly hot for seven in the morning.
And putting all the tea on a shelf too high for even me to reach—I’m tall, but not as tall as he is, and my arms aren’t nearly as long—and other things that are annoying.
Things I’m sure I’ll start to notice very soon.
Making a mental note to start a “Reasons Dean is Not Sexy” journal, where I can gather all the evidence in one place for easy reference, I roll the ball out of the bushes.
The girls cheer, but their celebration quickly transforms to gasps of horror as I emerge from the shrub looking like the final girl from a horror movie.
Ava’s eyes go saucer-wide. “What happened?”
Bella’s expression is equally shocked. “You’re dirty all over yourself, Clover.”
“All over,” Ava agrees, her jaw dropping as I push to my feet. “And there’s blood on your shirt! And on your face! Clover, you’re bleeding all over!”
“Oh no!” Bella shouts, her hands clapping on either side of her cheeks.
She looks so much like the kid from Home Alone that I can’t help but laugh again as I fetch my cane from beside the fence.
My leg isn’t happy, but it’s nothing a hot bath and a couple of ibuprofen won’t cure.
“It’s okay, guys, I promise. It’s just a scratch on my chin, and the rest of this is mud.
Just wet dirt and dirt don’t hurt, right? ”
They stare at me, looking vaguely confused and far from convinced.
“You’ve never heard that before? Dirt don’t hurt?
” I ask. They shake their heads. “It just means that getting dirty isn’t a bad thing.
It isn’t going to hurt you. It can even be fun sometimes.
” I exhale a shaky laugh as the wind picks up, reminding me that I am soaking wet over seventy-percent of my body.
“But it isn’t much fun when it’s this cold. ”
“Do you want your coat?” Ava asks, extending it toward me. “I holded it good and didn’t let it get dirty on the ground.”
I wave a hand. “No, that’s okay, honey. Thank you, you did a great job, but I’m too dirty to put it on right now.
” I nod toward the back porch. “Can you carry it inside for me? We’ll leave our muddy shoes by the door and head into the living room.
Then, I’ll figure out a way to get clean without leaving you guys alone. ”
“We could all take a bath together!” Bella cheers, perking up as she skips toward the porch. “And play mermaids again!”
Not wanting to get into a potentially awkward discussion about why adult women usually don’t take baths with kids that aren’t their own kids, I say, “We wouldn’t all fit, buddy. I’m so tall, I take up an entire bathtub all by myself.”
“You are really tall,” Ava agrees. “Almost as tall as Daddy.”
“I’m going to be as tall as Daddy when I grow up,” Bella says, leading the way up the porch steps.
“I’m going to be almost as tall, but just a little bit shorter,” Ava says, kicking off her rain boots beside Bella’s as I open the screen door. “Daddy almost hits his head on the ceiling in the little car, and I don’t want to hit my head on the ceiling.”
“Good point,” I say, leaving my shoes on the porch, too, before following them inside.
I’ll have to clean all of our shoes later and get them back on the shoe stand, but first things first. I peel off my muddy socks, leaving them on the tile inside the door, then wipe the bottoms of my feet on the dry patches on my jeans as best I can before heading into the living room.
“You two want to watch cartoons while I get cleaned up?”
“We’re not supposed to watch cartoons on weekdays until after snack time,” Ava says. “Those are the rules.”
I nod, having read up on that just this morning in my review of the green binder. They don’t have many family rules, but Dean is conservative when it comes to how much his daughters are on screens. They only get tablet time twice a week and no television until after four o’clock on weekdays.
“I know,” I assure her, “and I think that’s a great rule. But sometimes, we can bend the rules a little bit in an emergency. That’s okay. And I know you and Bella will have more fun watching cartoons while I clean up than playing with toys alone.”
They’re more likely to get into a fuss playing with toys than watching TV, and I really need twenty minutes of fuss-free time to pull myself together.
“Yeah!” Bella agrees. “That’s okay.”
Ava frowns as Bella hurries over to the coffee table, grabbing the remote in her tiny hands. She shakes her head. “No, we can’t. That’s not how we do it. That’s not how we do the day.”
I nod again, fighting the prickle of frustration creeping up my neck.
I completely sympathize with her need for routine, but I am so cold and wet and gross.
I need out of these clothes. Now. Five minutes ago, if possible.
“I promise, we’ll just watch cartoons today, Ava.
Just for a very short time while I change and put a Band-Aid on my chin, okay? ”
Ava’s eyes begin to shine. “But mama said too much television makes your brain bad. I don’t want a bad brain.”
Shit.
So, this is a Mama rule. Not a Dean rule. And Mama rules remind both girls that Mama isn’t here anymore. That she’s never going to be here again. Fork!
I pull in a breath, mentally scrambling for the right thing to say, but before I can speak, Ava bursts into tears.
A beat later, Bella joins her, wailing loud enough to make my ears ring.
My first instinct is to gather them up in my arms for a hug, but I’m wet and muddy and bloody and honestly, about five seconds away from crying myself.
And of course—of course—that’s the moment my boss swings through the front door a good forty minutes early.
Fuck my life.
Honestly, just…fuck my life.
I mean fork. Fork it. I really have been trying not to curse.
“Sorry,” I say, fighting tears as I wave and force a tight smile.
“We had a misunderstanding about television time. And Bella lost her ball, and I lost a battle with a bush. So, I was going to let them watch cartoons while I changed, but that went awry, and um…” I gulp in a breath, willing the stinging in my nose to stop. “And yeah. Sorry.”
I don’t know what I expect Dean to do—yell at me, maybe?
Fire me?
Ignore me while he gathers the girls and assures them that, as God as his witness, he’ll never let them be tempted by television before snack time, ever again?
But he does none of those things.
He just smiles, a sad, “been there, know what you’re going through” smile, and strides into the living room.
A beat later he has Bella on one hip and Ava one the other, pressing kisses to their foreheads as they twine their arms around his neck.
“Hey, guys, don’t worry. It’s going to be okay,” he says.
“Sounds like you had a rough afternoon.”
“I kicked the ball too hard, Daddy,” Bella says. “I’m sorry.”