by C. D. Reiss
“So does Nicole,” he continued, popping the balls into the shape. “She asks about the lady in the bathroom all the time.”
“That’s very nice.”
“I’m not going to pretend I know what she’s going through. I don’t know too many five-year-olds in the first place. But you do know. Or you pretend well enough. Both your parents around?”
“They live in Fiji.”
“Where the hell is Fiji?”
“Far.”
“Do you visit?”
“No.” I dropped my voice an octave. I hadn’t spoken to my parents in years, and I wasn’t in the mood to describe the slow, tidal drift that separated us. “Knowing what’s going on with Nicole is a matter of human compassion, not pretending.”
“And your friend? That human compassion too? Why are you coming around trying to place her?”
I felt trapped. Dug in deeper than I should be. I didn’t know how it happened, but I never intended to tell him Blakely’s problems. Now I felt as if I had to, or lie. I didn’t want to lie.
“She’s great. And she’s not making the same mistakes again. She was devastated.”
He lifted the rack off the diamond-shaped configuration of balls.
“Good rack,” I said.
“You break. You sink the nine before my turn, I’ll hire the two of you. You miss, you come work with Nicole for a month.”
“Win-win for you.”
“That’s the only way I play.”
I set up my shot and broke.
CHAPTER 6
CARA
The night after I beat Brad at pool, I dreamed of nine-ball. I made the shot over and over and every time it happened the same. I sunk it off the break, which wasn’t what had happened the day before. The day before I sunk a ball on the break and the nine off the four.
In the real world it didn’t matter how I won, just that I won. My dream life was more efficient. Nine off the break, and I was naked, because clothes would have gotten in the way of Brad Sinclair’s dream body curved over mine as I leaned over the table.
He kissed the back of my neck, and his erection pressed against my backside. I didn’t turn around, but in the dream I could see his body over me. Every bit of moisture in my body rushed between my legs. I woke up swollen and needy.
I took care of my business as efficiently as the dream told the story, turning Brad into someone, anyone else as I circled my clit with two fingertips. As I got closer to climax and my mind got weaker, Brad reappeared and I came fast and hard.
Fully awake, I promised to do a better job of controlling my fantasies. They were dangerous. Brad Sinclair was off-limits. I wasn’t going to be a Daddy-toy. Not in this lifetime.
I didn’t say that to Blakely as we got our things together for our first day with Nicole. We took separate cars up the hill to the ginormous house. I held my breath the entire way. I didn’t know if I could even look at that pool table.
CHAPTER 7
BRAD
She’d beaten me fair and square. Nine off the four. She’d turned a loss into a win. Nice. I liked that. I also liked her ass.
“Don’t talk about her ass. No one wants to hear it. Not even me.”
My buddy Michael. Prince Squeaky Clean. He’d gone from famous kid to famous teen to the guy I met in college. Famous young adult. The guy never had a problem until he met his wife. She’d been a paparazza and a real problem. For a guy who spent his life worrying about what people thought of him, she was the last woman he should be with. He lay back in the sun by my pool.
“I’m just saying,” I said. “And I have to say it to someone. My parents are cramping me. Every day’s report card day, and I got rows of Fs and Ds.”
“Tell them to go home.”
“They leave today, but believe me, they can wave the report card at me from Arkansas.”
“You taking Nicole to Blueberry’s sixth birthday?”
The invitation had come that morning. I didn’t know what it was at first. It was a cupcake in a basket tied to the bottom of four helium balloons. The delivery service had used a drone to float it over the mail chute. Then it followed the housekeeper into the house when she brought the mail in. That’s what my mother told me when she handed me the cupcake. And that my dad almost shot it out of the air.
BLUEBERRY WOULD LOVE TO
WELCOME NICOLE TO
THE NEIGHBORHOOD.
I was being welcomed too. Somehow. To something. I had no idea what. To a world where birthday invitations came on helium balloons and kids had names like Blueberry.
Nicole loved the cupcake, and the balloons made her wild. I couldn’t say no.
“You going?” I asked Michael. Stupid question. He had six kids now. He went to all the kid shit. “What should I get? For a present. I’m supposed to bring a present, right?”
“Let the nanny take care of it. They do research. Make calls. Ask the other nannies what the kid likes. Blah blah. No brainer. Just don’t bring the blonde nanny.”
I leaned back so I could see into the office off the kitchen. Paula, my right hand and easily half my brain, sat with the two nannies. Cara’s hair was dark brown. The other one, the one who came with the deal, she was blonde. Blakely. She’d fallen for Josh Trudeau’s line.
I did the Hollywood math.
Blueberry Trudeau was having a birthday. Her father was Josh Trudeau. Him in a room with Blakely was a no-go. Right.
“Dude. I’m bringing the other one. I’m not a fucking idiot.”
“If you say so.” He got up. “And the party, it’s kids. It’s not upstairs at the NV Room.”
“You’re worse than my parents. Every little thing. I’m not an animal. I know how to act, all right?”
“Good.” He dove into the pool, splashing me. Asshole. I don’t know what I did to make him think I couldn’t handle myself at a birthday party, for Chrissakes.
“Bradley!” my dad called, as if his one goal in life was to prove my point. “Ten minutes! Stop lollygagging!”
Michael laughed and got out of the pool.
CHAPTER 8
CARA
Brad’s personal assistant did what all PAs did. Everything.
When Paula opened the door to me and Blakely, she put her hand to her chest as if speaking from deep in her heart. She wore a smart linen suit and matching lavender pumps. Her skirt was a quarter inch lower than sexy and her smile was as wide as the Mississippi River.
“It is just such a relief to see you all here. I swear on a stack of peach pies she’s cute as a button and wild as a dog without a collar. Come on in.”
“I’m sure she’s very good,” Blakely offered.
“Well, bless your heart. My mother always told me I was more adult than kid, so no wonder I don’t understand them.”
She brought us to the office adjacent to the kitchen.
“We have about ninety minutes to get cozy,” she said, indicating chairs with folders in front. “I know we’re going to be the best of friends.”
Through the back patio doors, Brad hung out by the pool with a man whose face I couldn’t see.
“Bradley’s parents are leaving today out of SMO. They are so dear. We got them to go charter for the flight, but they wouldn’t agree to the expense of a helicopter.” She made an absolutely adorable wrinkle-nosed smile. “Bless their hearts.”
The man by the pool with Brad got up so I could see him. Michael Greydon. There was too much star power in this house already. Michael jumped into the water.
“Bradley!” called a deep-throated male voice from another part of the house, “ten minutes! Stop lollygagging!”
Paula folded her hands in front of her, ignoring the scene outside.
“A touch of history,” Paula said, putting her thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “The gentleman of the house and I were a thing in high school, but now it’s strictly business.” She handed us both folders. “And there’s quite a bit of business. He’s got a big old staff. On page one you can see al
l our names and cell numbers listed, including yours. Welcome to the team!”
The list was two pages long and included security, event planners, more security, caterers, housekeeping, and now—me and Blakely.
“That little bombshell sure threw him, but our goal as his helpers is to make sure he doesn’t have to take even a minute off work. We’re aiming for . . .” Her thumb and forefinger pressed together and she drew them straight across the space in front of her. “. . . seamless.”
They all wanted seamless. Every celebrity and power hitter I’d worked for had scheduled their life twenty-four months in advance and if a child came six months into that, then seamlessness had to be achieved. Actors didn’t get to cancel projects once preproduction started. One cancellation would be the last, no matter who they were.
“We can deliver very close to seamless,” I said.
“I’ve seen your résumé,” she replied. “I know you can. And between me and you . . .” Hand to her chest, she leaned in to Blakely. “Joshua Trudeau is a rake of the worst sort. I know you’ve learned your lesson, and luckily, while Mr. Sinclair might be busy with the ladies, he’s nothing like that awful man.”
I stiffened. Blakely was sensitive about Josh, and I didn’t know what she’d come back with.
“I was young and stupid,” she said, making jazz hands. “Now, check it out, I’m old and bitter.”
Paula made a wrinkle-nosed smile again. I doubted she’d ever get Blakely’s humor.
“Can I ask you a question, Miss?” Paula said.
“Of course.” Blakely tried to sound upbeat, but I feared a personal question about Josh was coming. Judging from the way she tapped her pen on her knuckle, she was waiting for just such a question.
Paula whispered as if she wanted to know a dirty secret. “Is that really your name?”
“My real name is Blair. But I hate it. It tastes like lemons.”
“Bathroom lady!” a little voice shrieked. Before I knew it, I was nearly impaled with a rhinestone-encrusted magic wand as Princess Nicole climbed onto my lap. Her hair was bunched in knots on one side of her head.
“Good morning, bombshell!” Paula said with a thick coat of sugar.
Nicole twisted to face me. “What’s a bombshell?” She patted both my cheeks with each syllable.
“A fun surprise. Who brushed your hair?”
She whipped her head around to Blakely, pointing her finger as if she’d had something to say for a long time and now was just going to spit it out.
“Do not wet the toilet paper. It falls apart.”
Blakely saluted her. “Never again. I promise.”
Paula cleared her throat. “Nicole?” Her voice was impatient, tolerant, teeth-grindingly annoyed, and an eggshell-step away from timid all at the same time. “We’re working.”
“Uh-huh.” She twisted in my lap until she faced the table and folded her hands in front of her. “I can work too. Then I can go to the airport after.”
Brad appeared at the patio screen door with his sunglasses flipped to the top of his head. They messed his hair up just enough to make him look casually flawless. The dream at the pool table and the feel of his fingers between my legs came flooding back.
“Hey, ladies. Welcome to Chez Sinclair.”
All three of us said hello. All but Nicole.
“Hush, Daddy, we’re working.”
“Can I brush her hair before you go?” I asked.
“It’s fine. She looks like Amy Winehouse. Come on, princess,” he said, opening the door and stepping inside. “Time to take Gram and Gramp to the airport.”
“Then ice cream?”
“Sure, kid. Sure.” She clambered off my lap, blew us a kiss, and took her father’s hand. Paula didn’t say a word until they were out of earshot.
“Let’s go through our folders, shall we?”
I opened the folder again and put the staff list aside. Right side. W9s. Passcodes to the back house, the back gate, the side door. Parking instructions. A boilerplate contract. A Non-Disclosure Agreement. All standard.
Left side. A few pages that included a daily schedule and Brad Sinclair’s schedule for the following month.
“I thought he was between pictures?” I said. “Ten hours a day blocked out for ‘script?’ It’s—”
“No one in the business works harder than that man,” Paula said. “They all say he’s a mindless party animal, but I will kindly beg to differ.”
That may be well and good, but I didn’t see a minute in there for him to be a father. Not that it was any of my business. Naturally.
I changed the subject. “If he needs to schedule a school tour or interview for her, do I go to you?”
“Yes,” Paula said, back to baseline. “It’s for everyone. By my heart, it’s not to create any distance between you and him. But he’s awfully busy so we worked out a system. I’m your go-to for schedule changes and requests. You can speak to him anytime. Open-door policy is what he said, but just please ask me first all right?”
Blakely and I nodded. We’d seen this before. If I was being honest with myself, the farther I was from Brad Sinclair, the better.
Paula moved to the next sheet in the folder. “We have a lovely two-bedroom pool house on the property with a really nice kitchen. You’ll each have a room. Now, if you look on page three, I worked out a schedule I sure hope you like.” She pulled the last sheet out of the left side of her folder and Blakely and I did the same. “I set it up like my daddy’s. He was a fireman. Forty-eight hours on, forty-eight hours off. During shift hours you’re on call from ten at night to six in the morning. If you need to switch between yourselves, I say . . . let’s keep it friendly. Just switch it. Except . . .” She drew out the last “e” and pursed her lips. “You ladies are going to be living with us so let’s not have anything be uncomfortable. We’re all girls here. Right?” She flipped her wrist at Blakely.
“I pride myself on my girlishness,” Blakely said in a very not-girlish way.
Paula jumped right in. “Blueberry Trudeau’s birthday party fell on your shift. That has to be switched. Don’t you think?”
“I understand,” Blakely said flatly. Crap. This wouldn’t be the last time Nicole’s and Blueberry’s fathers crossed paths. Hopefully, Brad would keep a two-nanny rotation after I left so she could dodge stuff like this.
“That sure is a load off. Now, Miss DuMont, you can cover it, right?”
“Sure can.” I tried to match her sunny enthusiasm and came up short.
Paula leaned down and retrieved a short, neatly folded pile of new clothes in plastic bags. She slid them to me.
“What’s this?” I asked, flipping through the pile of clothes. White polo. Khaki pants.
Paula rolled her eyes and waved away more concern than I actually had. “All the nannies at the party have to wear this. It’s Marsha Trudeau. She’s got some sort of ‘problem’ so we just go along to get along. Well! Do you want to see the pool house?”
“Down to the socks?” Blakely exclaimed. “I mean, sheesh. I guess I can’t blame her. Sorry, Cara. I’ll make it up to you. Think big. A cruise. A condo in the hills.”
“I’ve worn worse. Ute Maven made all the nannies wear those mechanic pantsuits with a zipper up the front. She delivered the whole getup right down to the underpants.”
“This goes down to the bra, actually,” Paula said, standing up. “I hope I got you the right size.” She looked at her watch. “Brad will be back around two. He usually has friends over in the evenings. If you could make sure we’re bombshell-free by seven, that would be just great.”
With a big smile and a snap of a stack of folders, Paula ended the meeting.
CHAPTER 9
CARA
I liked beautiful men as much as the next girl, but I was around them all the time so their effect wore off. I thought Brad would be no different.
I kept having pool table dreams about him, and it was disconcerting. I sunk the nine on the break every time. I was n
aked every time. After that, they changed.
Sometimes they incorporated a gesture or word from the last time I’d seen him. Sometimes not. It was a couple of days into the job before Dream Brad penetrated me. He got me on my back on the table and stood over me. Like half of America, I’d seen him naked before. In Technicolor. In the dream I had every detail of his chest with its dash of hair across it, the drum-tight abs, the blue eyes eating me alive. I throbbed. He spread my legs and thrust into me.
I woke mid-orgasm.
He always made me wetter than I’d ever been, and, most disconcerting, I’d stopped pushing him out of my waking fantasies. I didn’t have the mental control in the morning, and I figured if I just let it be, he’d wear out his welcome in my head.
It didn’t work out that way.
CHAPTER 10
CARA
I felt solidly settled in after six days at Brad Sinclair’s. I shouldn’t have gotten settled in at all because it wasn’t a permanent job, but I couldn’t help it.
I blamed Nicole. She had an exceptionally slow large intestine and was afraid of the sound of toilets flushing. This gave us plenty of time together in bathrooms, and I did what I always did.
I got attached. Just a little. Nothing I couldn’t handle.
She crossed her ankles when she settled in for a good number two, which could last upward of eleven minutes. Her sneakers lit up when she swung them and they hit the side of the bowl.
“Done yet?” I asked on day seven, not that I was counting.
“Two more.” She held up two fingers and hummed a tune about Thumbkin. I joined her, standing by the window. Two stories below, in a little alcove with a wooden picnic table, Brad sat across from Paula. She wore a pastel pink suit jacket, but I couldn’t tell much else about her from my angle. She had a movie script in her hands.
Anyone in Hollywood could see a script a mile away. Stack of three-hole paper fastened with brass brads or a brightly colored agency cover. Courier font. The text was arranged toward the middle of the page where dialog was formatted. Action stretched across the margins and long chunks of it were unheard of. Movie scripts didn’t look like TV scripts. They were fatter and the paper was all white instead of color coded for last-minute revisions.
