by Julie Kriss
Five
Kate
* * *
There was no way I could be Ryan’s nanny. Absolutely no way.
It hit me as I was driving home, once the fog of estrogen and pure lust wore off. I gripped the wheel and made the list in my head.
Reasons Why I Cannot Be Ryan Riggs’ Nanny:
We have a history.
I keep picturing him naked.
It was spectacular.
I want to sleep with him.
This will end badly.
That was it.
It really came down to one thing: Ryan was trouble. For most of womankind, really. But specifically for me.
He hadn’t seemed like trouble five years ago. He’d been charming and funny and hot. We’d met at a charity benefit, and he was wearing a suit—my knuckles went white on the wheel, just remembering Ryan in a suit. I’d been standing at the bar, waiting for the bartender to notice me and wondering if I would talk to anyone at all that night—it seemed unlikely—and a man stepped up beside me, waiting too. I glanced at him and he glanced back, and we both froze.
It was a weird, electric moment. A thought popped into my head: There’s no way this guy will talk to me. But when the moment went on a little too long, he said, “I like your lip gloss.”
And from nowhere, I flirted like a pro. “Is that a come-on?” I asked him.
The corner of his gorgeous mouth curled. “Is it really that easy?”
“You could at least buy me a drink,” I said.
He tapped a finger on the bar, like he was thinking it over. “It’s an open bar, so you have a deal,” he said. “By the way, my name is Ryan Riggs.”
We talked. He was funny and drop-dead gorgeous, but he also had a rough edge to him that made my girl parts go crazy. When I told him I knew nothing about baseball, his reply was I honestly don’t give a shit. When I asked if he had a girlfriend, he said Are you out of your fucking mind? Direct and raunchy. A man who could wear a suit, but wasn’t born in one. I had just broken up with the man my parents wanted me to marry, and this baseball player of all people—sexy, uneducated but street-smart, an athlete who inhabited his body and used it to its fullest every day—was suddenly, exactly what I needed.
And he wanted to sleep with me. With me. Kate Washington, who normally would have spent this evening wearing glasses and plaid pajama pants, studying for exams that were three weeks away. He didn’t talk to anyone else that night, though there were plenty of people milling around. Only me. He made me feel sexy and special and beautiful, and when he said Let me drive you home I said yes. It was so easy.
And oh my god, the sex.
I was not thinking about it. I really was not.
I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building and turned off the car, slumping in my seat.
The first time, he’d used his mouth and I’d come so fast it was almost embarrassing. But the second time… oh Jesus, the second time. And then the third time—
Stop it, Kate.
I hadn’t had sex like that before. I hadn’t known you could have sex like that. I’d had sex exactly two times in the last five years, and both had been letdowns compared to Ryan, which I wasn’t going to admit to him.
But a man like that probably had women beating his door down. If I worked for him, would I be babysitting Dylan while Ryan went on dates? Because I didn’t think I could handle that.
Another Reason I Cannot Be Ryan Riggs’ Nanny: watching him date women who aren’t me.
Would I have to meet the women coming out his bedroom in the morning? The thought made me ill. I picked up my purse and got out of the car.
In my apartment, my roommate Tessa was in the living room watching TV with her boyfriend, and my other roommate, Melanie, was in the kitchen making an egg sandwich. Because I was twenty-six and I lived with roommates. Everything was fine.
“I got a new job,” I said to the room in general as I toed my shoes off. There was no point directing your conversation to an individual in my apartment since everyone could hear everything anyways.
Tessa barely glanced at me and Melanie raised her eyebrows. Tessa’s boyfriend—I had no idea what his name was—didn’t even look my way.
“Where?” Melanie asked.
“Working for a baseball player, taking care of his son.”
That made the boyfriend briefly perk up. “One of the Tigers?”
“No. His name is Ryan Riggs.”
The boyfriend’s eyebrows shot up higher than Melanie’s had. “No shit?”
Well, damn. I’d just impressed a man with sports for the first time in my life. Maybe I could use this on the next date I went on. “Yes. I start tomorrow.” As long as I take the job.
The boyfriend still looked amazed, and Melanie had pulled out her phone and Googled his picture. “Holy shit, girl. Is he single?”
I narrowed my eyes at her, though she wasn’t looking. Melanie was single like me, except she was the size of a toothpick. “I think he’s off the market, actually.”
“Really?” Melanie used her thumb and finger to enlarge the photo she was looking at on her phone. “He must have a girlfriend. He does not look gay.”
“He can’t be gay if he has a kid,” Tessa piped up from the sofa.
“Duh, sure he can,” Melanie said.
“Riggs isn’t gay, man,” the boyfriend proclaimed. “He punched a guy on the field last year and got suspended. It was fucking badass.”
“He punched someone?” I said. Amanda hadn’t told me that, just alluded to acting without thinking. Riggs just has bad luck, Wes had said. Punching someone didn’t sound like bad luck.
“Boom,” the boyfriend, said, miming it. “Blood all over the guy’s uniform. A spray coming out of his nose. It’s on YouTube. Check it out, it’s amazing.”
I hadn’t Googled Ryan five years ago, but it was time. I poured a glass of wine first, then retreated to my room. I didn’t think my phone was going to cut it, so I opened my laptop.
The first thing that came up under his name was a page with the article Ryan Riggs: The Bad Boy of Baseball. Oh no. I drank some wine and kept scrolling.
Riggs suspended for on-field assault
Opinion: Players like Ryan Riggs bring down the sport
“He just hit me,” Harding says of Riggs
League enrolls Riggs in anger management training during suspension
Will the league allow Riggs back on the field?
What is the future of Ryan Riggs?
After six-game suspension, Riggs pitches perfect
Shoulder injury puts Riggs in the dugout
Riggs will be out the rest of the season, doctors say
Will Riggs come back to the field? And if he does, what shape will he be in?
Riggs has no comment about the shoulder injury keeping him in the dugout for another season
I clicked on the video of the punch. There was Ryan in uniform on the field. What was it about baseball pants? Seeing him wearing them almost made me want to watch the sport.
Another player was talking to Ryan, gesturing and pointing, maybe giving some kind of strategy. Ryan stood and listened, his fingers hooked on his hipbones, a casual stance that showed off his gorgeous frame. He looked at the other man for a second, like he was just noticing he was there—and then his arm shot out and the other player’s head snapped back. Boom! Just like Tessa’s boyfriend had said. I clapped my hand over my mouth.
The headline below the video said, The Bad Boy of Baseball throws a punch on the mound!
I dragged the cursor back and watched the video again. Ryan didn’t look mad; he wasn’t shouting or even arguing. He was just listening, and then he was giving the other player a nosebleed. If you could keep from wincing, it was almost funny—almost. Because he looked totally cool while he did it. He certainly didn’t look like a man who needed anger management classes.
Sitting at my little desk, I leaned my forehead on my hand. What was I getting into? I was a straight-A Eng
lish major college grad. He was the Bad Boy of Baseball. We didn’t belong on the same planet.
And yet… that night five years ago, we had belonged on the same planet. In the same bed, in fact. It didn’t make sense, but it was there. Alone in my room, sipping my wine, I could admit that maybe, in some corner of my mind, I had a thing for bad boys. Ryan was a disaster, and something about that turned me on.
I looked at the video on my screen. To be honest, it made me a little hot. It was the way he moved, the way he simply didn’t give a shit what anyone thought. It was horrifying and sexy at the same time.
I picked up my phone and called Ryan’s number.
He answered on the second ring, his voice low like he was half asleep. “Yeah?”
“It’s Kate.”
“I know.”
I took a breath. “I’ll take the job,” I said.
“Yeah?” He sounded almost like he’d expected it, damn him.
“Yes. But I think I should warn you. I’m not really the motherly type.”
“Okay.” He seemed confused.
“I’m just saying I’m not Mary Poppins, but I’ll do my best. Also, I have a few ground rules.”
“Like what?”
“Like no sex.”
There was a brief pause. “Between us, or with other people?”
My jaw dropped. I almost barked it: No sex with other people. At least for you. Instead I said, “Between us, of course.”
He was quiet for a long second. Then his voice came, low and a little frustrated. “You ask a lot of a guy.”
Something deep between my legs melted like hot wax. Stay strong, Kate. “I think you can handle it, Ryan.”
He sighed, put-upon. “Okay, I agree.”
“Good. Also, I don’t do housework. No dishes, no laundry, and I don’t take the garbage out.”
“I’m not hiring a fucking maid, Kate.”
“No, but I’ve seen that house. It’s Testosterone Central. I’m not cleaning it.”
Now he sounded annoyed. “Kate, do not clean my house. I like my testosterone where it is. I won’t try to jump you. And where did you get this shit about being motherly? Can you make sure my kid gets to school and back without a serial killer getting him?”
“Yes. Yes, I can do that.”
“Then you’re hired,” he said, and hung up.
I stared at my blank phone screen. I was going to need a lot more wine.
Ryan Riggs. Hottie, athlete, single dad, one-night stand, face puncher, definitely not gay, and apparently badass.
And as of tomorrow, my new boss.
This was going to go just fine.
Six
Kate
* * *
Week One
* * *
Where is he? I wondered as I laid out the Snakes and Ladders game board on the kitchen table. I had picked Dylan up from school over three hours ago and there was no sign of Ryan. We had gone to the park and I’d looked at Dylan’s homework. He wanted spaghetti for dinner, so I made it while he helped me, standing on a stool at the kitchen counter. Now we each had a bowl of spaghetti and we were going to play a game while we ate.
I was still getting used to this kid—to any kid. Dylan wasn’t much trouble so far, but he had his personality quirks: he liked to make or at least oversee his own food, he never knew where his backpack was, he wanted to wear the same Star Wars shirt every day. He was trying to behave nicely for me this first week—it was cute and kind of heartbreaking—but I could tell he had an energetic and goofy side. He thought mushrooms were gross and his father was God. I wondered where his mother was.
He wanted to play the game at the kitchen table while we ate. Maybe this wasn’t something you were supposed to let a kid do, but I didn’t really know, and it sounded harmless to me. If Ryan had a problem with it, I’d remind him once again that I wasn’t Mary Poppins. Actually, if Ryan had a problem with it he could stuff it, because he wasn’t even home.
We were on our second game—it turned out that the rules of Snakes and Ladders were whatever Dylan said they were, which of course meant he was winning—when the front door opened and Ryan came home. He walked into the kitchen, wearing low-slung jeans and a navy blue Henley that fit him like a second skin. His hair was damp and mussed, like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He leaned a shoulder on the doorjamb and looked past his son to me.
“He suckered you into Snakes and Ladders, I see,” he said. “I learned my lesson a long time ago.”
“Dad, I’m winning,” Dylan said.
“Of course you are,” Ryan replied. “Is that spaghetti?”
Dylan picked up the dice. “We made it. Where were you?”
Ryan rubbed a hand over his face, and for a second I saw his expression go hard, like he was in pain. Then he erased it and relaxed his face again. “Doctor’s appointment, and then the gym.” He frowned. “Oh, shit. I forgot to pick something up on the way home, didn’t I?”
“Bread,” Dylan said, studying the board.
“Shit,” Ryan said again.
Here was Ryan Riggs as a father: he swore in front of his seven-year-old son, he was late all the time, he never cooked, and Dylan still thought he was God. In the past week I’d been showered with Ryan’s baseball stats, his strikeouts and walks and hits per inning. Or something. I had no idea what Dylan was talking about, but he knew all the numbers.
Now Ryan fixed his gaze on me. His voice was soft when he spoke. “He okay?”
I swallowed. It was best, I’d decided, if I simply acted professional in this job. Like there was nothing in the past to think about. No sir. I tucked a lock of stray hair behind my ear. “He’s fine,” I answered him. “He’s good.”
“Thanks for staying,” Ryan said. “I’m sorry we kept you. You can go if you have plans.”
I felt my face get hot. “No problem. I don’t have plans.”
Our eyes locked. Ryan’s expression went dark, intent. Between us, Dylan rolled the dice and moved his marker around—probably up another ladder—and I didn’t pay attention, because I was staring at the man in the doorway. My God, he could really fucking smolder. I could almost smell smoke in the air.
“You sure?” he said, his voice a little rough. “No plans?”
“Ryan,” I managed.
“Dad.” Dylan interrupted us, turning in his chair, oblivious to the dirty thoughts that had just been going through my head. “Can we go for ice cream?”
Ryan tore his gaze from mine and frowned at Dylan. “Ice cream? Do you see this?” He lifted the hem of his shirt, showing his bare stomach. “I just came from the gym. You don’t get this by having ice cream on a school night.”
I stared, transfixed. All those abs, slabs of tight muscle locked together. The V muscles over his hips, disappearing into his jeans. The line of dark hair that made his happy trail. I had traveled that happy trail. I had gone all the way down. Down, down…
I lifted my gaze to Ryan’s. He was watching me—he knew exactly what he was doing, the bastard. It was all for show.
His expression, though, was a mixture of humor and dead seriousness. The question was clear: You like it?
I schooled my face to look bored, even though it was too little, too late. “Do you need abs to throw a ball?” I asked.
“Sure you do,” Ryan said, dropping his shirt. It took an effort on my part not to groan. “You need them to run, too.”
“I thought you just stood on the pitcher’s mound for the whole game.”
“And I thought you didn’t know anything about baseball.”
We stared at each other. His eyes were perfect dark brown, like coffee, and his lashes were dark. He was freaking unreal. He had even tasted good.
Delicious, in fact.
“Dad,” Dylan broke in. “Ice cream?”
The moment broke. “Not tonight, kid,” Ryan said. The corner of his mouth turned up. “Have a nice night, Kate. See you in the morning.”
Week Three
* * *
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“I don’t know,” I said to my mother. “I think I might be bad at this.”
We were sitting in a café after a few hours of shopping. I had weekends off, and this Saturday was spent with my mother, watching her buy things while I window-shopped. I was used to it; I had never had a job that made much money, a fact that made my parents despair.
“At what?” my mother asked, stirring her latte. “Nannying, or parenting?”
My mother was smart, well-informed, and beautiful. She was the kind of woman who could wear cigarette pants and a tossed-on scarf and look like a million dollars. She was wearing her hair in a short cut these days, which was chic and made her look ten years younger. The worst thing was, it was impossible to hate her. She was a woman of a certain income bracket and a certain age, but she wasn’t a snob.
“Aren’t they the same thing?” I asked her.
“Not at all,” my mother said, amused. “We had a nanny for a few years when you were little. I tell you, I envied that woman for the fact that she got to go home every day.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said, pouring milk into my plain old coffee.
She smiled at me. “You were a good girl. Always so polite and well-behaved. But any little kid is a handful. As I’m sure you’re discovering.”
“Dylan isn’t a toddler,” I said, feeling oddly defensive of him. “And he’s a nice kid.”
“But?” My mother’s brows rose.
“But it’s weird being in someone’s house every day,” I said. Ryan’s house, specifically. “I mean, their things are everywhere.” Ryan’s things. “And they’re two guys, so it’s a mess. I mean a mess. Dylan loses his backpack so often that I put a Post-It note on the front hall hook that says Your Backpack Goes Here. Then I put another one on the fridge that says Clean the moldy stuff out of here. And another one on the bathroom door that says This is disgusting. Do something about it.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m being a bit bitchy, but really, come on.”
Mom frowned at me over her latte. “I thought cleaning wasn’t part of the job.”
