by Mia Carson
“I’m sorry your grandparents treat you that way,” he murmured, thinking of how Louis must feel about Stan, thinking his dad simply hadn’t cared about him enough to be in his life.
“It’s not a big deal. I have a great family, as tiny as it is. What about you?”
“Three sisters,” he answered, working at pushing away the anger over how anyone could not want this charming woman in their lives. “One older and two younger, all married.”
“And you’re the lone wolf bachelor, huh?” she said, grinning.
“I used to be. I don’t exactly get out much anymore.” He hadn’t meant for the words to come out as sharply as they did but didn’t apologize. Remy’s smile fell a little and her hands fidgeted on the kitchen counter. “I’ll show you the rest of the main floor before we head outside.”
Stan barely said a word as he led Remy around the main floor of the house, motioning down the hall towards the guest wing that was now his so he didn’t have to go up and down the main stairs. They went through the rear patio doors and stared out over the overgrown lawns and gardens in desperate need of being pruned and given fresh soil. The flowers were usually beautiful by this time of year, as was the rich, green grass, but it looked as if the place had been abandoned for months.
“That is my workshop,” he said, pointing to the large garage turned workshop. “I work with guns—antiques mostly, but many modern versions too. There is only one key to that door and I have it on me at all times.”
“That’s probably a good idea. Why so many guns, if you don’t mind me asking?”
He spun halfway around with his chair. “You don’t know my family’s business?”
She pushed her tongue against her cheek in thought, and the motion stirred another tinge of arousal he hadn’t felt in over a year. Her dark chocolate eyes widened and she snapped her fingers. “I didn’t make the connection until now. You’re part of that Wellington family. I should’ve known.”
He offered a small smile. “Yes, I am. My father still runs the company for the most part, and I don’t exactly go into the office anymore.”
“Why not?”
Not sure if she was being serious, he glanced down at his chair. “I’d assume that was obvious. I know I didn’t explain my current situation on the phone, but after seeing me, I would assume it would not need one.”
Her friendly smile shattered, and her eyes hardened. “Anything else you don’t want me to talk to you about?”
The good feelings she awoke in his body vanished. “No, but if I think of any I’ll be sure to inform you straight away to avoid any awkward conversations.”
“Good, I’d appreciate it.” She crossed her arms hotly, the tension building between them like a rising thunderhead. “You know, if you don’t have anyone to work in the gardens, I can see they get back in shape. My mom runs a greenhouse, so I know a thing or two about plants, especially rose bushes.”
“That is not part of your job and won’t be necessary.”
“Really, I wouldn’t mind. It’s not like I’ll be watching Louis twenty-four hours out of the day.”
“I said no,” he growled. “Your job is to guarantee my…my…”
“Your son?” she filled in softly.
“Yes,” he snapped. “Your job is to see my son is cared for. School will start in a few weeks, and until then, he will need around-the-clock care.”
“He’s ten, not an infant,” she reminded him gently.
“Thank you, I’d quite forgotten how old my own son is. You will see to him and his needs and that is all that will be required of you. I’ll leave you to get yourself settled in for the rest of the day, and tomorrow, we can go over in more depth what Louis will need as far as care,” he informed her. “This home is yours now, too, so feel free to roam where you wish and help yourself to the kitchen and wine cellar.”
Her eyes wandered to the gardens again as her head slowly nodded in understanding. “Of course, Mr. Wellington.”
He flinched at her sharp tone and the formal use of his name but spun around in his chair and pushed himself to his workshop. He needed to hire a housekeeper quickly to see to the rest of the house cleaning and setting up Louis’ room. And find a gardener and a cook. Once he was inside his workshop with the door secure, he set his feet on the floor and braced his hands on the arms. Cringing from the pain shooting up his legs, he forced his body up until he stood and managed to stagger one step towards the work table. Out of breath and his heart pounding, rage and guilt filled him again and he slammed his fist down on the table, the pain in his hand numbing that from his legs, at least for a few moments.
Taking care of a child would be impossible. He couldn’t even take care of himself. A dark cloud of depression chased away the cheery, summer sunshine, and adding a bitter, loathing child to the mix would only make his life that much harder.
You should call that lady now and tell her the truth. You’re a depressed, miserable fuck who will never be capable of being a dad.
Stan caught his reflection in the glass case door, noting how his arms trembled from holding most of his body up and the dark bags beneath his eyes. He closed his eyes, unable to continue staring at himself, and heard another voice in his mind, one he hadn’t heard in over ten years.
I could never stop living or loving, Lara told him once as they lay tangled in the sheets. There’s too much out there, too many people. I want to experience it all for as long as I can. No matter what shit happens, I’m going to suck it up and keep on going. That’s all anyone can do, you know?
“Lara,” he whispered, and when he opened his eyes, he swore he felt the ghost of her touch run down his cheek. They might never have settled down, but they had a son together, a son he now had to do whatever he could to take care of. For his sake.
And for Lara.
Remy found her room with ease on the cluttered upstairs level of the old mansion. She unpacked her bags, shoving her clothes haphazardly in the drawers and hanging up what she needed to in the closet. Her first few minutes of conversation with Mr. Stanford Wellington started out well enough. She had no idea why the man was restricted to a wheelchair, but from the way he reacted to her question about it, he was not a very happy man. Bitter, that’s how she would describe him. Bitter and tired and carrying a weight on his shoulders.
“It’s not like he’ll tell you,” she muttered to herself.
Why he didn’t want her messing with the cleaning of the house or the damn gardens she had no idea. He certainly paid her enough—more than enough. Her income from him was nearly twice as much as other families had paid her in the past. Plus, he said his whole staff quit. It didn’t sit well with Remy to do so little.
She left her bedroom and meandered around the upper floor. Letters spelled out Louis on a bedroom door farther down the hall. She opened the door, expecting to see a little boy’s bedroom decorated and ready to go, but the room was filled with unassembled furniture and boxes stacked in the middle of the room. Nothing was ready for Stan’s son to come and live with him Monday morning. A stack of papers sat on top of the boxes, so she picked them up, skimming over the information on Louis Templeton. Remy spent the better part of the day in that bedroom, listening to music on her cell while she put together a bookshelf, nightstand, made the bed nice and tidy, and went to work slowly on hanging the few pieces of wall art.
“Battleship fan,” she mused, hanging up the old-school poster on the wall.
Downstairs, she noticed one of the sitting rooms was lined with battleship models from several eras and wondered if Stan realized the interest he shared with his son. She considered telling him, but he was the dad. He needed to figure this stuff out on his own.
Aside from decorations and a box of new clothes, there were no toys or games for Louis to play with once he moved in. She would have to remedy that tomorrow. She read through the papers on Louis one more time to see what other interests the boy had and decided that she would take a trip to the nearest mall and pick up a
few more things for him. Her stomach growled loudly and she laughed, glancing at the time.
“Dinnertime. I wonder what he’s got in the wine cellar?”
She smiled wide, proud of the work she’d done so far in Louis’ bedroom, but it needed more care, as did the bathroom that would be his. She had a private suite attached to her room, thankfully. Sharing a bathroom with a ten-year-old was not something she wanted to worry over. The rest of the upstairs needed a thorough vacuuming and dusting, too, but she really needed food if she had a hope of getting this house ready to go by Monday morning. Stan didn’t need a housekeeper. He had Remy, whether he liked it or not, and she was a package deal.
The wine cellar was filled with vintages she’d never even heard of. She picked a random red and carried it upstairs, humming along with her music. The freezer was filled with venison and chicken, some fish, and frozen pizzas. Since she wasn’t able to have her artistic outlet with her paints, she settled for cooking and drew out the venison. Burgers might not be the fancy food Stan was used to, but Remy was in the mood for comfort food more than anything else. She popped the cork on the wine and thawed out the ground venison. The burgers didn’t take long to make, and she found a bag of French fries in the freezer, added those to the oven, and tossed a bowl of salad to go with it.
She refilled her glass with the wine and poured a second for Stan. She spotted the intercom he’d told her about on the wall, but no other house she’d worked in had one and she wasn’t so sure about using it. Remy sipped her wine as she wandered to the windows and spotted the light on in the workshop.
“Have you been out there all day?” she mused quietly, biting her tongue.
She was sure he hadn’t eaten anything all day, and unwilling to let her new boss starve, she picked up his plate with the burger, fries, and salad, and grabbed his glass of wine. A wooden tray sat on the kitchen table. Once it was loaded, she carried it out into the balmy evening air and knocked on his workshop door.
“It’s open,” he called out gruffly.
Balancing the tray in one hand, she opened the door. “I thought you might need some food,” she said, hoping he would take this as a peace offering for how their earlier conversation had ended. She looked for him in his chair and blinked a few times to see him standing against a worktable.
“You don’t have to cook for me,” he said stiffly, not moving away from the table.
“Well, I did, so where do you want it?” The question to ask more about why he needed the wheelchair was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it quickly.
“The table beside you is fine, I guess. Thank you.”
She nodded and set it down. Tucking her hair behind her ear when it fell across her face, she stood awkwardly by the door, not wanting to leave just yet. He might be abrupt and a bit of an ass, but she would be living there for a while. Working for a man she couldn’t have polite conversation with would make both their lives miserable.
“I know you want to ask, so just ask,” he said, catching her off-guard.
“Ask what?”
“Why I was in a wheelchair when you arrived today?”
She puffed out her cheeks and cringed. “I assume you’re recovering from something?”
“Boating accident,” he said briefly. “I’m still in stages of recovery.”
“Right, so you have therapy sessions or something? My dad was in a bad car accident a long time ago. I remember him doing exercises for his leg.”
Stan’s face darkened and his eyes narrowed. “Therapy doesn’t always work the way you want it to. Thanks for dinner.”
Remy clamped her lips shut. Barely five minutes, and she’d pissed him off again. Now she was really worried about Louis moving in. “You sure you don’t need anything else? I don’t mind—or I can carry it back into the kitchen and we can enjoy dinner together?”
“I’m fine out here,” he replied, turning his back to her.
“Sure, right. Because who doesn’t enjoy eating dinner all alone in a creepy shed,” she muttered quietly, earning a blue-eyed glare from Stan. She shot him her best charming smile. “I wouldn’t mind the company. The house is pretty quiet.”
“Then blare some music. I don’t care what you do.”
“I can see that,” she snapped, and he turned around to look at her, his brow raised. “I didn’t mean to say that…ah, enjoy your dinner, I guess. Alone. All alone.”
“Whatever you’re trying to say,” he started to say as he took a step forward. His leg trembled violently and with a curse, he fell forward to his knees, hitting the floor hard. Remy rushed forward, hoisting him up under his arms. “I can do it,” he snapped, but she didn’t let go. “I said I can do it.”
Annoyed at him for being so damn stubborn, she grabbed him harder and grunted as she pulled him back to a standing position. She maneuvered him towards his wheelchair and plopped him down in it hard. She shoved her hair angrily out of her face, glaring at him, breathing heavily from picking up his sorry ass from the floor.
“Look, I get that you’re in pain and you hate being in that damn chair, but you hired me and that means you get all of me,” she stated. “Not just the nanny me, but all of me. If you want to be all alone in this house and watch your son be taken away because you can’t take care of him, you won’t do it with me around. Understand?” Stan’s eyes narrowed to slits, but he didn’t say a word. “If you tell me to leave, I’ll leave, but if you want me to stay, then I’m not going to play caregiver to your son so you can tinker out here and continue being a miserable wretch.”
“I am not a miserable wretch,” he mumbled.
“Have you looked in the mirror lately? And from the way your housekeeper quit this morning, I’d say the only person you have to blame for your entire staff leaving is you.” She glanced at the food on the tray and decided she wasn’t so willing to feed him now. She picked up the tray and walked towards the workshop door. “If you want this, you can join me inside for dinner because that’s where it’ll be.”
“Fine,” he shot back.
“Fine,” she repeated. When she was one step out the door, she pursed her lips and realized she was being a bit harsh. “You know, you can always talk to me about anything. I know we just met, but sometimes, talking to a stranger is easier than talking to a friend.”
“I have nothing to talk about… nothing you could possibly understand.”
Nope, not harsh enough, she decided at his words and rolling her eyes, took the tray with her back to the house. She hoped hunger would eventually drive him inside, but she waited for nearly two hours before she gave up and walked upstairs to her new bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Stanford Wellington was worse than a bachelor with women hanging around the house. He was stubborn, prideful, and too damn attractive for his own good. Despite her anger at him, she wasn’t blind and her hands remembered the feel of the muscle in his upper arms. His legs were weakened by the boating accident he’d mentioned. With nothing else to do, she lay in bed and researched her new boss on her phone. The article about the boating accident a year ago popped up, but the more she read, the more she wondered why he harbored so much bitterness. Was he pissed about his damn boat? Or was there more to it?
“You’re not going to find out tonight,” she whispered to herself and turned out the lamp. “Tomorrow’s a new day. Maybe he’s more of a breakfast man anyway.”
5
The night was not kind to Stan, and he woke cringing from the pain radiating up his stiff legs and struggled to take the two steps to fall into his chair. He wheeled himself into the bathroom, swallowed two pain pills, and waited impatiently for them to kick in. The pain grew steadily worse, and he cursed his damaged legs, wishing again that the accident had never happened and landed him in this mess.
Though the boating accident had nothing to do with what faced him tomorrow.
He hated using the damn chair but needed to get upstairs and see how much work needed to be done before Louis, his s
on, came to live with him. Going upstairs meant he might bump into Remy, and after their conversation last night, he doubted she would want anything to do with him. Not that he could blame her. He’d been a downright asshole to her and all she did was try to help. Help him get back to his feet, but Stan needed so much more help than simply being able to walk again on his own.
He nearly took her up on the offer to talk to her about what bothered him so much, but this was his burden of guilt to carry. That guilt had grown to include ten years of time not spent getting to know the little boy arriving at his house tomorrow morning. A little boy who already hated his guts because he thought Stan hadn’t wanted him.
Getting dressed was a chore, but this morning, he struggled to slip his legs into his jeans and after fighting with the denim, gave up on socks or his boots. He wasn’t leaving the house today. He tugged on a black t-shirt, ruffled his hands through his hair to fix it, and wheeled out of his bedroom. The house was quiet, but the strong, luring scent of fresh-brewed coffee drew him away from the stairs towards the kitchen.
“Morning,” he said as he entered and spotted Remy leaning against the counter.
She blew steam from her coffee before taking a long sip, staring at him the whole time with a glimmer of mischief in those brown depths. “Morning, Mr. Wellington.”
Stan’s lips thinned as he moved closer to the counter. “You can go back to calling me Stan.”
“You sure about that? I wouldn’t want to upset your sensitive nature.”
“Sensitive nature? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that if you’re going to have a ten-year-old kid living with you, you’re going to have to grow a tougher skin, and fast,” she informed him. She reached up and pulled out a second coffee mug, filled it, and set it on the counter. “Sugar, cream?’
“Sugar, please, and you don’t have to do that. I can manage on my own.”
She didn’t seem to hear or didn’t care and dumped a spoonful of sugar in his coffee. “Here. Enjoy your coffee.”
