Manservant

by Shari J. Ryan

  “You surf?” I ask.

  He flips his hair back, and it feels like slow motion as each piece of hair falls perfectly into place. With a hint of a smile stretching across his lips, he responds with, “Nah, I just like wearing wetsuits.” That are soaking wet? The idea of it sounds miserable.

  “Oh, why?” I concede, sort of wondering if he’s serious. That Jeep could belong to someone else, and I’ve heard the water here is freezing until midsummer. Maybe it’s necessary to wear a wetsuit to avoid hypothermia.

  “I’m kidding, eh.” Again, with the hair flip. He does have flippable hair. It’s nice, and blond mixed with even lighter highlights. Maybe he’s from California. That would explain the piercing turquoise eyes too—says every Southern California stereotype of a surfer. Although, I bet surfers from out there don’t have the odd accent I just heard. “My buddies and I drive down for the summer from Canada to go surfing. It’s our tenth year here.”

  “Wow, I had no idea people surfed here.” There’s a good reason to plant my butt in the sand every weekend. Which, I will be doing.

  “Have you ever surfed?” he asks.

  I can’t help the laughter erupting from my throat. “Surf? I just came from Indiana, the middle of nowhere, and I don’t even know how to swim. I’m only here for the summer, though,” I lower my voice as I’m suddenly aware of how loud and embarrassing my confession sounds in this small bakery.

  “No way,” he says, matching the softness of my voice. “That’s dangerous.” He pauses briefly, looking at me with bewilderment. “The part about not knowing how to swim.” So, I’ve gone from embarrassed to mortified in a matter of seconds. Note to self: Do not tell anyone else I can’t swim.

  “Well, I’m not going surfing anytime soon.” I grin like an idiot while twirling my short hair around the back of my ear. And I’m turning back for the counter, hoping my Danish is ready and waiting for me.

  “Hey,” the guy says. His hand touches my elbow, and it catches me off guard, so I instinctually jerk my arm away. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I turn back toward him, backing up a bit since he’s decided to make physical contact. Maybe it’s a weird reaction, but seeing as I’ve avoided men for the past year, it took me by surprise. “It’s okay.”

  “You should really learn how to swim if you’re going to be around the water for the summer. We get riptides sometimes, and they can suck you right in if you’re not careful.”

  Oh, my God. This is seriously embarrassing. I don’t even know this guy.

  “I’ll just stay away from the water,” I reply with a little snappiness that he doesn’t quite deserve.

  “Julia,” the woman behind the counter calls. She’s holding up a small paper bag and a coffee. I take my breakfast as quickly as I can and turn for the exit. “And Sterling, your order is ready too.” Sterling. Huh. It figures that he would have a sexy name like that. He didn’t even order his food—that means he’s probably a regular. I suddenly feel like such an oddball here.

  “It was nice to meet you, Julia.” I look over my shoulder just as I’m stepping my foot outside, waving my brown bag at who I now know to be Sterling.

  I slide into my car and press my hands against my hot face, wishing my palms were anything but clammy. Ugh, I need to start work today with a clear mind, not a hot surfer in mind.

  Grabbing my phone from the cup holder, I open my GPS and retrieve the saved address I entered right before I left home. Twenty-five minutes? Yikes! I thought it was right down the road. I eyeball the clock on the dash, seeing that I’ll be arriving right on time, which is not what I wanted, not when one of my negative qualities was obsessively arriving too early and leaving later than necessary from work. That’s what I get for kissing butt.

  I’ll pick up some time on the highway. It’ll be fine. If I’m five minutes early, I’m still early. I pull an illegal U-turn and head down the street, driving over the crosswalk I didn’t see until I heard someone yelling for me to slow down. Shit. My face is getting hotter by the second, and I’m going to look like a blotchy hot mess when I arrive.

  The small highway is clear for as far as I can see, and I’m crossing my fingers that it stays this way. I should have stayed at the hotel last night like I planned. That would have prevented all of this. I’ve counted three town lines in my fifteen-minute drive, and I’m seeing signs for Kennebunkport. The GPS still says I’m ten minutes away, though. Freaking GPS. How fast do you expect me to go? I’m pretty sure I’ve been doing fifty in a thirty for the past ten minutes, and you couldn’t give me a break at all? Screw you, Siri, and your damn map!

  And of course, there are traffic lights. There were no lights in the town I was just in, but now there are lights here, like every hundred-freaking feet. Why? Why? My God. The green numbers on the dash are taunting me as they slowly tick away with each red light I’m invited to stop at.

  My heart pounds as I look down at the map, seeing I’m going to be one minute late. I don’t do late. I don’t necessarily do early like I may have mentioned, but I’m never late. Until today.

  I grab my coffee cup from the cup holder as the GPS hollers at me to take my next right in thirty feet. Seriously, Siri? What the fuck? I swerve to the right, losing my tight grip on my coffee cup, and yup . . . there is burning hot coffee running down my goddamn leg now. FUCK. That’s hot!

  No, no, no. Now it looks like I peed my pants. Why? Why does this keep happening to me? I place the coffee cup that’s now half empty back down into the cup holder and look back at the GPS, showing ten more turns to go before I arrive at my destination in one mile. Really?

  After the ninth turn, I’m directed into a small development of houses . . . huge houses, that sit right on the waterfront.

  Whoa. This explains the generous summer salary.

  I pull up the long driveway covered with smooth beach pebbles, hearing my tires crunch and crackle against the rocks. Looking at my phone once more, I see I somehow managed to get here one minute early. That works for me, aside from the scalding hot coffee spilled all over me. I always believe in starting with a great first impression. Excuse me while I use your bathroom, you know, since it looks like I Just peed myself in my car. It’s so nice to meet you, nice person who is paying me money to care for your child when I can’t care for myself.

  I jump out and race up the front steps while tossing my purse over my shoulder, trying to wipe some of the excess coffee off myself with a handful of napkins. So attractive.

  The door opens as I’m reaching for the bell, and my new boss, Samantha, who is draped in form fitting yoga clothes that had to have been designed for a sixteen-year-old girl, greets me with a hearty smile. And a hug. Not just any hug, but the kind where her springy blonde ponytail whips me in the face. Samantha embraces me as if we’re long lost friends or relatives, and it’s mildly weird. “I’m so glad you made it here in one piece. I was nervous for you driving all that way alone. I could never do it. I’d fall asleep at the wheel. Gosh.” She releases her grip and tugs me into her house and I’m taken aback by the décor. By the looks of the exterior, I was expecting everything to be lavishly covered in marble and glass, but it’s almost the opposite. It’s homey, with neutral painted walls, half carpeting, and half hardwood floors. There are framed family photos strategically placed in different corners, and the scent of aromatic candles fill the air. It’s comforting.

  “Your house is beautiful,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” she says, scratching the back of her neck. “It’s home. It took a while to make it feel that way, but I love it here.”

  “You must be exhausted from that trip,” she says. Nodding her head for me to follow her, she walks into the massive kitchen with a view of an outdoor kitchen and an archway that deceivingly looks like the entrance to the waterfront at this angle.

  While staring out into the vast landscape of blues and greens, my senses are overwhelmed as I smell something delicious baking.

  The biting pain in my s
tomach quickly reminds me that in my frantic race to get here, I didn’t take one bite of my Danish nor did I get even a sip of coffee in my mouth. As if the stain on my legs and the ache in my stomach wasn’t already making me uncomfortable, it rumbles loud enough to interrupt her tour of the kitchen. “Oh, gosh, are you hungry?” she asks.

  “I got a little lost this morning, and—I actually left my breakfast in the car.”

  She looks down, spotting the coffee stain. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  “Here,” she says, handing me some paper towels to clean myself up with. “Let me get you something to eat.” Taking a pair of oven mitts that are hanging from the side of fridge, she opens the oven, bringing forth the scent of freshly baked muffins, I almost lose control and drool again for the second time this morning. God, I’m famished. How did I do this to myself?

  Gabbing away about the house and her husband, Samantha places the muffins on a cooling rack. “You bake?” I ask.

  She laughs quietly beneath her breath. “God did not grace me with that talent.”

  “Oh, so your husband is the baker?” I continue, trying my hardest to make small talk.

  She laughs again, not so quietly this time. “Oh, God, I love that man, but he does not know how to turn on a stove.”

  “Oh,” I say, kind of waiting for her to answer the first two questions with an answer other than no. Those muffins are literally staring at me. My stomach is screaming louder, and it may turn into a fire-breathing dragon in a matter of seconds if I don’t eat something.

  “I work so many hours during the day, and Daniel works just as much, if not more, so I’m afraid we don’t have much time to do a lot of the housework. Now that Dylan is old enough for his junior lifeguard training in the mornings, it’s one less thing to worry about, but he still needs supervision there, and then the afternoon hours too, of course. His class begins at—”

  “Nine, Monday through Friday,” I finish her sentence, reminding her of the conversation we had on the phone just two weeks ago. I want her to know I was being attentive.

  “Right,” she says with a grin. “Anyway, since there is so much to do around here it seems, we have a gentleman who works with us, as well. He does the cleaning, cooking, and everything else I seem to slack on most days.”

  “Oh, I see.” I guess finding out that I won’t be working here alone during the day isn’t what I expected. Not that it’s a problem, but I had imagined how this might go, and that wasn’t part of my visions. I wring my fingers around my wrist, twisting nervously as I’m now unsure about other expectations or surprises she didn’t warn me about. I just like to be prepared and not thrown into a situation. “So, the man will be here during the day with me and Dylan?”

  She reaches over to a cabinet and retrieves a small dish, placing a muffin on top. I stop myself from lunging at her like a hungry lion and wait until she offers me the plate. “Thank you very much.”

  “To answer your question, yes, but honestly, he keeps so busy, you’ll hardly notice him. He’s quiet, but Dylan seems to have a great relationship with him, so we like to keep him around.” I fill my mouth with pieces of the warm muffin as I ponder how this will all play out. “He’s been with us for almost three years now.” Yup, so basically, she will have a set of eyes on me, reporting every little thing I do. What if I screw up or say the wrong thing? Maybe I’m overreacting. It’s a job. I can handle a kid.

  “Can I show you to your room?” she asks, as I swallow the rest of the muffin practically whole.”

  “Yes, please,” I mumble with my mouth full. Nice touch. It’s like I was raised in a barn . . . I mean, I kind of was, but I have manners.

  We hike up a long flight of stairs that takes us into an open breezeway. The windows run from the ceiling to the floors and they’re open like French doors along the hall. I would do just about anything to sit here and write all day. “We built these into the house. Aren’t they great?” She seems modest, but proud at the same time. Clearly, they’re both hard workers, and loaded.

  “I love this. You must have a nice breeze right here all day,” I offer as a compliment.

  “From May through September, yes, ma’am.” Where the breezeway ends, Samantha stops in front of a slightly open door. “Here you go.” She presses the door open and waves me in. The room is taupe colored with floor and ceiling crown molding, and is brightly lit with an abundance of natural light streaming in through another set of French doors, serving as windows that overlook the water. Holy crap. “You have your own bathroom right over there too.” I walk in past the bed, then the dresser decorated with a beautiful rustic teal vase settled off to one side, rather than in the center. I consider shifting it, but that would be rude and slightly overbearing for being in this woman’s house for less than twenty minutes. I ignore the off-centered vase and continue over to the bathroom where Samantha is waving me over. Stepping inside of the massive full bath suite, decked out with a double sink vanity, a shower, and— “What the . . . !” —I didn’t mean to startle at the sight of a man scrubbing the jacuzzi tub, but I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone—”

  “Liam?” Samantha calls through laughter. “I didn’t even realize you were in here.” She pushes by me and walks into the bathroom. “I’m so sorry.”

  Liam. Last night’s Liam, in faded jeans that are slightly gaping at the back of his waist where the hem of his Calvin Klein's start. It’s enough of a sight to force my eyes up high enough to notice his tight-fitting gray t-shirt—okay, bottom line is, this is very different from the button-down shirt he had on when I saw him last.

  Liam is staring pointedly at me, kind of the way he was last night when I evidently intruded into his space on the rocks while I was offending him with my looks. How is this my luck? I find a great family to nanny for in an enormous house overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and I’m stuck with this asshole.

  “It’s not a problem, Sam,” he responds to her with a smile. Okay, so it is just me he snarls at?

  “Liam, this is our new nanny, Julia. Julia, this is Liam, our housekeeper.” A man housekeeper. This is my punishment. That’s what this is. I lied to Dad, told him I got some big corporate internship with a newspaper . . . near the beach, which he believed, and here I am, nannying because I thought it would be a breeze this summer . . . one last hurrah before I have to become a full-fledged adult and get a corporate job. I get it. The joke is on me.

  In response to Samantha, Liam snickers and stands up, holding his hand out to me, glancing directly down at the nice coffee/pee stain. “Nice to meet you, Julia. I can leave if you need to use the bathroom, again,” he whispers the last part. Unbelievable. I don’t want to shake his hand. There’s a snide look to his fake grin, and I want to hand back to him what he’s handed to me. We interacted for less than a minute last night, and you’d think I killed his grandmother by the way he’s looking at me. He’s obviously a total dick.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I try to say kindly, but I’m sure it sounded the way I feel—pissed.

  I reluctantly give him my hand, and my jaw clenches as our skin touches—my dry, warm hand against his soapy, wet one. What the hell? His hand engulfs mine, his grip holding me hostage. As he squeezes, the soap from his hand seeps between my fingers, and his smile widens with pride. “If you’re not in a rush for the bathroom, I’ll be out of your hair in just a few minutes.”

  “Thank you, Liam,” Samantha says. “Come on, Julia, I’ll show you the rest of the house while Liam finishes up in your bathroom. She glances at her watch as she speeds up her step. “Crap, I have to leave for the studio in twenty minutes.”

  I can’t stop myself from looking over my shoulder to Liam as I follow Samantha out of the bathroom. His fake smile he was putting on as a show of kindness has deflated into the same grimace he was sporting last night. In addition to his irritated scowl, he raises a brow, and I don’t even want to know what the hell that’s supposed to mean.<
br />
  I’ve been left with a list. Samantha thought it would be best if I got settled in today, learned my way around the house, and found ways to avoid Liam before having a child thrown into the mix. Well, she didn’t exactly mention the avoiding Liam part, but that is part of my plan.

  Evidently, Dylan is ten years old. He has asthma, an allergy to penicillin, and a knack for making nannies cry. Why would she include that in her note? Well, this kid is in for it then. I haven’t cried in more than ten years, and that was only when Grannie died. Some kid isn’t going to get the best of me when I’m in charge. For a moment, I forget the reason I decided this was going to be a good idea, but as if the universe wanted to remind me, a breeze blows in through the cracked kitchen window, dragging my focus out to the horizon of the choppy water. This is why I’m here.

  “Ten days, six hours, five minutes, and thirty-two seconds.” I turn away from the window, exchanging one beautiful view for . . . Liam.

  “Am I supposed to know what that means?” I fire back at him. “Or is this the part where you pretend to sound superior, knowledgeable, and like some stupid wise owl?” Liam grins, showing his vibrantly white teeth as he hoists himself up onto the kitchen table. “Do you have a loose screw or something?”

  His lips pucker into the form of an “o” as his dark brows cast a shadow over his sharp emerald eyes. “Is that all you got?”

  “What’s your problem?” I snap, throwing my hands down by my side. The paper I’ve been holding crinkles in my grip, and I realize how enraged I am when I loosen my fingers and the balled-up note drops to the ground.

  “The last nanny made it ten days. The one before, six, and the one before that, eight,” he says.

  “Well,” I say, flapping my hand at him. “I’m sure I can understand why, seeing as you were most likely a complete asshole to them too.” My head falls to the side, and I cross my arms over my chest, giving Liam a long, hard look. What could he say now?