6. Andi
Chapter 6
Andi
I set my duffel bag, purse, and guitar down on the floor in Griffin’s mid-size Colonial as he carries in the rest of my belongings. From the outside, it looks like the rest of the houses in the small development, with a two-car garage, stone walkway from the sidewalk to the front door, and rows of shrubs on either side. It’s cute.
The inside? Not so much.
The entryway is stark white and meticulously clean. I take a deep breath, the scent of lemon cleaner and something distinctly Griffin filling my lungs. I’m not sure what I expected, but this place is so…sterile. In the brief time I spent here two days ago, I didn’t notice any family photos or school art projects like I’d assume there would be in a house of two ten-year-olds. No sneakers out of place or bikes in the yard.
Behind me, the door closes, and I turn to find Griffin with his arms full, bags hanging from his shoulders and elbows, two boxes stacked in his hands. I tried to carry some, but he insisted he had it. And he does. Not a hair out of place.
His biceps look mighty fine straining like that.
The veins running along his forearms and the ink…
I force myself to stop staring. “Thank you.”
He ignores my appreciation, as per usual, and steps around me to set my boxes and bags down before sticking his index and middle fingers in his mouth to whistle. It is both a shock to my eardrums and my nervous system at how hot it is. Before I have time to wonder about what a weird new kink I have for whistling, two sets of feet patter down the staircase.
I’m not sure what I expected since the idea of being a nanny to a set of ten-year-old twins was sort of nebulous. In my mind, I pictured them as faceless paper dolls, but now that they’re in front of me, I’m both surprised at how big they are and a little disappointed that they’re so old. When I thought of activities we could do, they were crafts and sing-alongs and Chutes and Ladders…things these prepubescents would obviously not be interested in.
Griffin moves next to the staircase and gestures to his kids standing side by side on the step. “This is my son, Logan, and my daughter, Grace.” Then he motions to me. “This is Miss Andrea, your new nanny.”
They both stare at me, unsmiling. Logan has the same brown eyes as his father, while Grace’s are a warm hazel behind her glasses. Her dirty-blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail, while Logan’s dark hair is cut short, a mini-me of his dad, even down to his straight-back posture.
I smile brightly. “Hi. It’s so nice to meet y’all. You can just call me Andi.”
When neither of them responds, Griffin clears his throat, and the two march down the remaining steps, stopping in front of me.
“Nice to meet you,” Logan mumbles, holding out his hand.
I shake it, taken aback by the firmness of his grip. “Nice shake you got there.”
Grace copies her brother, shaking my hand as well. “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” I say, wanting to wrap her up in a hug, but the stiffness of her posture tells me she wouldn’t like that.
Griffin’s voice cuts through the awkward silence. “All right. Each of you, help Miss Andrea and grab a bag to bring downstairs.”
They both immediately reach for one of my bags without complaint and head to the basement. Griffin hoists my boxes back up and carries them downstairs as well, so there’s nothing left for me to do but follow. By the time I get downstairs and place my guitar on the bed, Logan and Grace are standing by the steps as if waiting to be dismissed.
It’s strange, but I slap on a this-isn’t-weird-at-all smile. “Thanks so much. It’s nice to have it all moved in one trip.”
They don’t reply, and I glance to Griffin for help, who tips his chin to his kids. “Dinner’s in two hours. I’m back to work tomorrow, so make sure all your chores are done.”
With terse, mumbled acknowledgments, they take off, leaving Griffin and me alone in my new little apartment.
I turn to him, eyes wide. “They seem very—” Disciplined? Rigid? “—respectful.”
Griffin’s face remains impassive. “As they should be.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I force a smile and let my gaze wander about my room before meeting his again.
“After dinner, I’d like to go over the schedule for the week and show you a few more things.”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
His eyes trek down the length of me, his jaw ticking in that way that makes me think he’ll explode at any moment, but of course, he doesn’t. Captain Stone is nothing if not in control at all times.
He nods once. “I’ll leave you to get settled. Make yourself at home.”
After I’m alone, I let out a long exhale and sit down on the edge of the bed, absently tracing the geometric pattern on the comforter, my mind spinning. The kids’ distant politeness, the sterile house, Griffin’s no-nonsense demeanor, it’s all so jarringly different from the easy rapport he and I have shared. I feel off-balance, like I walked onto a movie set and everyone knows their lines except for me.
I shoot a few texts to Dahlia and spend a good long while contemplating if I should call my mother before deciding it’s a no from me, dawg. I unpack my clothes, making a mental note to buy a few things to make it feel homier once I get my first paycheck. In the bathroom, I set up my toiletries and find hiding spots for my curling iron and hair products before checking my reflection in the mirror above the sink. “You can do this,” I tell myself. “You’re smart and capable and have really great eyebrows.”
Running my finger along said eyebrows, making sure each hair is in place, I mentally repeat my mantra. You’re smart. You’re capable. You’re smart. You’re capable.
Because if there is anything I learned from my time in LA, it’s if you tell yourself something long enough, you might just start believing it. Fake it till you make it and all that.
Then I go upstairs to begin this new job.
Dinner is about as odd as our meeting in the hallway. Griffin asks the kids questions, which they give yes or no answers to, and everyone pretty much ignores me. Griffin explains that when he’s home, he doesn’t expect me to stick around the house, but if there is an emergency with the firehouse, he’ll be on call—ergo, I’ll be on call. I notice Logan roll his eyes and tuck that away for later.
After we eat, the kids do the dishes as Griffin takes out the garbage, and I feel terrible sitting there twiddling my thumbs so I brush off imaginary crumbs from the table until the kids are finished loading the dishwasher.
“Can I hire you two to clean up my room?” I joke, and the twins turn to look over their shoulders with the same bland expression.
I force a laugh. “Or not.”
They stalk off, shoulder to shoulder, and I thump my forehead on the table, trying to remember what it was like when I was ten. Working on the ranch. Running around. Learning to play the guitar with Mimi.
“Feeling okay?”
I lift my head at the sound of Griffin’s voice. “Oh yeah. Fine. I’m fine. Just tired.”
“I get that.” He drops into the seat next to me, his forearms on the table, his right hand over his left fist, and some of that intimidating veneer fades away to reveal a dad. A hot dad. But a dad, nonetheless. One who’s exhausted and in need of help.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly. A secret. And when he hits me with those magnetic eyes of his, we’re suddenly back in the cab of his truck, and I have an overwhelming desire to put on his sweatshirt. The one that I have draped over the small dresser downstairs.
The one that’s mine now.
I try to bite back my dopey smile, keep it from growing, but I can’t. He raises his hand to my face, his fingers barely grazing my jaw, the tip of his thumb skating back and forth below my mouth until I release my lower lip from under my teeth. That’s when he places the pad of his thumb there, pressing down on the roundest part of my lip, dragging it down. Unconsciously, my tongue follows.
Without thinking, I wrap my hand around his wrist, keeping him in place so I can taste the salt of his skin. Except he tears his arm away from me like I’ve burned him, and the whiplash has me frozen with my hand in midair, rejection slithering along my skin until I feel like peeling it off.
I sit back slowly, tucking my hands under my legs, chastened, and he shakes his head like the surfers I used to watch at Topanga Beach. Like he fell off his board.
Or maybe I did. Maybe I’d been aiming for too big of a wave, and I needed a dose of reality. A crush of cold water.
“I’m sorry,” Griffin mutters, not meeting my eyes as he stands abruptly from the table. “I shouldn’t have…” He trails off, repeatedly opening and closing his fists at his sides. “I need to maintain professional boundaries.”
“No, you’re right,” I say immediately, my voice brittle. “I overstepped.”
An awkward beat passes before he reaches for a drawer in the corner cabinet, pulling out a manila folder. He slides it across the table to me. So he doesn’t have to risk touching me, I guess.
The thing about shame is that it’s invasive. Once it’s been introduced to you, it’s impossible to completely ignore. That brand can’t ever be hidden or cleaned off. It can’t be cut out or thrown away. And my father’s voice rings in the back of my mind.
Whore.
Slut.
No man will want you now.
Ryder’s words echo.
She’s got those cock-sucking lips.
Worthless.
I know it’s not true. And yet…that scarlet letter is not only stitched on my shirt. It’s in my blood. I stand to refill my glass of water so Griffin won’t see me wipe my tears away.
“I made copies of everything you might need,” he tells me in his no-nonsense tone that must have served him well in his career. “Copies of insurance cards, basic medical history, contact information for doctors, and some authorizations you’ll need to fill out for the school.”
I nod. “Okay. I’ll do that tonight.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but neither does he leave, so after a few awkward moments, I turn to find him rubbing at the back of his neck.
“Anything else?”
He lifts his focus, resting his hands on his hips. I don’t know how someone can be so paradoxically imposing yet obviously uncomfortable.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” He shakes his head once, his five-o’clock shadow catching the light above us, highlighting the grays along his jaw. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Andi.”
I start to speak, tell him that he doesn’t have to worry. I’ll be professional. No more daydreaming and fantasizing. I’ll keep my hands to myself, though he clears his throat before I can get any of that out, and he informs me that he’s going in to work a few hours early. I assure him that everything will be fine and the kids will get on the bus Monday morning.
He nods. “That’s all for tonight.”
I’m dismissed. I very nearly salute him, but I keep my hands at my sides, taking the folder on my way to the basement.
Downstairs, I collapse on the bed, ignoring how it probably would have been easier for him to fire me. Because now I’ll have to pretend as if our first meeting never happened, and that I never felt an instant connection with him. And how it didn’t seem as if he wanted to kiss me that day in his sister’s bed-and-breakfast. And how he didn’t break my heart minutes ago in the kitchen.
Yes, packing my bags would have been much easier than this.
But I carry on. The following day, he leaves with nothing more than a wave, and I reread the schedule for Sundays even though I already know it’s for grocery shopping, Logan’s baseball games in the afternoon, and changing the bedsheets in the evening. The kids file into the kitchen, and I turn to them with high hopes.
“So, it’s just us now.”
They don’t answer.
“I was thinking I could make brunch. Maybe French toast and bacon and a fancy mocktail?”
With how they’re sneering at me, I might as well be the mean girl in Addams Family Values at Camp Chippewa before Wednesday lights the whole place on fire.
“Or we could hang out and watch TV while we make the grocery list.”
“Dad makes the grocery list,” Grace says, pointing to the magnetic pad hanging on the refrigerator. Everything is itemized already in Griffin’s neat block handwriting.
“We don’t hang out with the nannies.” Logan spits out the word “nannies” with the same ire I might say I don’t hang out with spiders.
“Okay, well?—”
“No, thank you,” Grace interrupts, and the two pivot on a dime, stalking out of the kitchen. Headed for anywhere I am not, I would estimate.
Great. Really great.