Manservant

by Shari J. Ryan

  “I should probably stick around . . . you know, shadow you and stuff.” Isn’t that the purpose of him being around us for the next few days? Other than playing house, of course.

  “Sure, whatever floats your boat.” He takes a seat next to me as the kids spring from the water, right into land laps. “You can’t be feeling sorry for him now that I told you that, and you can’t say a word to him about it.” Who is he to tell me not to feel sorry for him? I can feel whatever I want to feel.

  “I won’t say anything about it to him.” I clear my throat because it sounds like I’ve been crying, and now he’s staring at me with question.

  “Were you over here crying?” There is a hint of arrogance to his question, or at least I think it’s snide, but it’s hard to tell with him, seeing as I’ve experienced less than sixty seconds’ worth of pleasantness from him since we met.

  “No,” I lie.

  He snatches my sunglasses off my face. “Yeah, okay.”

  I grab them back. “Why are you such an ass?” I shout my question a little too loudly, and some of the kids, as well as Sterling, glance in our direction.

  “I’m not an ass,” he mocks me. “I’m protective.”

  “Of who?” I snap.

  “Who do you think, smarty?”

  I force an angered snicker. “Considering how self-absorbed you are, I’d say you’re protecting yourself from something, but that seems too obvious.”

  “I’m not protecting myself, Julia. Especially against someone like you.” Again, he looks me up and down like he’s sizing me up. What is it with him?

  “Okay, fine, you’re just a—a manservant, so who the hell are you protecting?”

  “I think it’s adorable you think you’re getting under my skin.” Thankfully, I’ve gotten sunburnt sitting here without sunscreen for the past ninety minutes because my cheeks are burning from the inside now too. Who the hell is he to call me adorable? He doesn’t get to say that to me.

  “Liam!” Dylan is shouting over to him as he’s running toward us. He has a smile from ear-to-ear. “Guess what my time was?”

  Liam appears to think about it for a minute. “A minute and fifty-five,” he finally says with a proud grin.

  “How’d you know?” Dylan shrieks with excitement. Wow, the kid smiles. Who would have thought? He appeared to hate everything about everything when I was in his room with him before training, so this is a total one-eighty, a nice one.

  “I was timing you, dude.” Liam holds his hand up for Dylan to slap. “I’m proud of you, kid. You’re five seconds away from passing out of your age group. That’s craziness.”

  “You think I’ll get there by the end of the summer?” Dylan asks.

  “No doubt, little man.” Liam grabs Dylan’s towel, tosses it over his shoulders and hands him his flip-flops.

  “How’s your foot?” I finally pipe in.

  Dylan looks over at me and stares for a few seconds. It’s like he’s silently debating how to react toward me now that he’s in a good mood. “It’s okay. It only took a little skin off, and I can’t feel it much because of the salt water.” Wow. A whole sentence without a hint of heartlessness.

  “Can I see it?” I ask him. He responds by proudly holding is foot up for me to examine. “Wow, that looks like it hurt.” I lean down and glance at the raw mark left behind. “You’re pretty brave. I’m sure I’d be that brave.” I’m pressing my luck with him.

  “You’re definitely not that brave,” Liam cracks. “You can’t even swim.”

  My eyes are bugging out, but he can’t see that because they’re hiding behind my sunglasses. It’s taking everything I have not to say something equally as obnoxious, so I grit my teeth and refrain from replying the way I’d like to.

  Once again, I follow them back to the house like the lazy third wheel I’m becoming today.

  “What would you like for lunch?” I ask from behind them.

  “It’s on the list,” Dylan informs me.

  “PB&J, a banana, and a smoothie,” Liam follows. “Protein helps him out.”

  I glance up to the sky, trying not to roll my eyes, but God, I need to memorize the binder worth of notes Samantha left for me so I don’t have to ask either of them any more questions. I thought I was on top of everything. I did. Not that it matters since Liam will be tripping to Samantha’s side later to tell her how shitty of a person and nanny I am.

  When we get into the house, Dylan quietly goes upstairs and I hear the shower turn on a minute later. “Wow, he’s pretty on tap with his schedule, huh?”

  “He needs a schedule,” Liam tells me. “Predictability gets him through the day. When things are out of sorts, even just a little bit, that’s when he starts to lose his cool, which is why the switching of the guardians has been so detrimental to him this past year.”

  “I’ll be doing my research on Asperger’s tonight. I don’t know much about it at all, and I’m not sure I understand why Samantha didn’t mention it to me.”

  “She’s got her reasons.” Again, I’m left without many answers. At least I have a little bit of information now, which explains at least one thing, but I don’t know where the pain stops for Dylan and the disability takes over.

  I head into the kitchen and familiarize myself with the cabinets and the pantry to find where everything is, but once again, Superman comes in to save the day. Reaching above my head to one of the higher cabinets, he pulls down a jar of peanut butter, and I’m sure he “accidentally” dropped the loaf of bread on my head while doing so. “Thanks,” I mutter.

  I head over to the fridge for the jelly, then continue rummaging around for the silverware. The kitchen is fairly large, making my search more difficult than necessary, but Liam nicely opens the correct drawer and takes a seat at the kitchen table, crossing one leg over another and resting his arms behind his head. “So, you’re just going to watch me make a sandwich? Is that part of your job?”

  “Why were you crying on the beach?”

  “Liam, when you tell me the real reason you’ve been such a jerk to me, I’ll tell you why I was a little misty on the beach.”

  “Your eyes are bloodshot and all puffy right now. I’d say that’s a little more than misty,” he counters with a raised brow. I turn back to the cutting board where I’m preparing the sandwich and ignore his statement. “No crust. Cut it in fourths.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Peel the banana and slice it into ten pieces.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. It’s in the binder.” The fucking binder. “You’re fine,” Liam says.

  “I know I’m fine,” I say, smirking at him. Screw this flustered crap. I got this. I can handle shit. Maybe I can’t swim, but everything else, I can manage.

  Without bothering to turn around and see if I got an ounce of a reaction out of him, I keep my focus on the sandwich I’m still working on, but I hear the chair Liam’s sitting on scratch against the title floors as his shadow covers the counter in front of me. I shouldn’t be afraid to turn around, but I am. I feel his close proximity, and there is no reason for it. None. Unless maybe he’s going to stab me with a butter knife. The thought of that is more likely than any other reason he would have to be standing so closely.

  “Fine?” he whispers in my ear. As unexpected as his voice is, being so close to me, his words make my heart pound in a way it hasn’t beat in a very long time, possibly ever. “I could think of a few different words to describe you, but ‘fine’ would be at the bottom of that list.

  I swallow hard before conjuring an appropriate response. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

  The mere fact that I was able to say what I did without losing my breath is impressive, and I kind of want to pat myself on the back.

  “An insult or a compliment . . . that’s for you to figure out,” Liam says, squeezing my shoulder firmly before leaving the kitchen.

  Okay, what the hell just happened?

  My mind is lost in a freezing h
aze as I watch Liam walk through the living room and head up the stairwell. I know he made some snappy comment about my Fifty Shades of Grey song choice yesterday, but I thought it was all part of his asshat game. Men don’t really act like this when they like a woman, not grown men. That’s ridiculous. This is ridiculous. It doesn’t matter. He’s gorgeous, which means he’s a no, but he’s more than a no because I already know he’s an asshole, just like all good-looking men I’ve encountered. Since I already know what he’s like and what I could potentially get involved with, there’s no way I’d even step one foot closer.

  Okay, I may be getting a bit ahead of myself here. My thoughts are obviously jumbled, and he’s just screwing with my head. I bet that’s what this is. He wants me to think he finds me attractive just so he can shoot me down and make me feel like an über loser. No way. He can try his hand at me all he wants because I’m stronger than he could ever know . . . I hope. No, I am. I’m not letting him get in my pants—my head, I mean. Oh, my God. Wow. Okay, breathe. Finish the sandwich. Do your job. Serve lunch, and then move on to the next activity, which would be . . . I need that goddamn binder because I’m not asking Liam any more questions.

  I’ll shadow him, but I will not stare at his ugly perfect ass, and we’ll get through the next few days as such. Then I’ll be in the clear. It’s not like I have to work with him every day for the . . . Entire. Freaking. Summer.

  I’m just going to cry a little while no one is watching. Then I’ll be just fine . . . yes . . . fine.

  As if Dylan never left his spot from where he started the day, he’s on the couch with his iPod. I desperately tried to switch it out for a book, but I didn’t want to pick that battle so soon after his tolerance for me suddenly grew. Instead, I’ve been sitting beside him like a prison guard for the last hour, staring at the wall, afraid to rock the boat by saying anything else to him, while avoiding the thoughts threatening to enter the weak parts of my brain. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand playing the reruns of certain moments from the day, but I can’t help reliving them over and over again. Thankfully, Samantha walks through the front door during the tenth time I heard Liam’s voice tickle the inside of my ear with the very last thing he said to me while I was making Dylan’s sandwich.

  Since that moment, Liam has made himself scarce. He’s been moving from room to room, cleaning every nook and cranny like he owns this job he’s claimed. I have to admit, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man clean so well, and if I wanted to continue lying to myself, I’d say it isn’t a complete and utter turn on to watch a man dust so diligently—especially when reaching for a ceiling fan, while offering a certain passerby a quick peek at the tan lines where his pants slip a little too low and his shirt rises a little too high. I’m not thinking about it, though, because the thought is inappropriate, and we work together.

  “How was your first day?” Samantha asks while closing the front door. She looks far more exhausted than she did this morning, or even last night for that matter. She falls against the back side of the door and releases a loud exhale while pulling her running shoes off. “Three hot yoga classes, three Slow Flow, and two private lessons . . . I’m about ready to drop,” she says, breathlessly.

  “I’ve never tried yoga before, but that sounds like a very tiring day,” I offer. I’ve watched people practice yoga at the gym I used to go to, but I don’t think my body would ever move like that. I’d be the one lying on my back for the entire class.

  “You haven’t tried yoga?” She sounds appalled.

  “Never. The sight of it scares me a bit.”

  “Well, I’ll have to show you it’s not so bad.” She waves the air as if it’s nothing, but I don’t think she quite understands my lack of coordination or the fact that I can’t even walk down a set of stairs without twisting my ankle . . . or float in five feet of water.

  “Sure,” I say, trying to sound upbeat about it.

  “Where’s Liam?” Samantha asks.

  I shrug, truly not knowing. “I’m not sure. He’s been upstairs for a bit.” I haven’t seen him since I walked by Dylan’s room and saw him dusting the ceiling fan. I bet that ceiling fan is super clean, though.

  Samantha points at Dylan and mouths the words, “Oh my God,” to me, as if she were shocked to see him content. I get a thumbs-up from her, and I feel sort of proud for a moment. One moment is all I get, though.

  “I got bit by a crab today, and Julia almost drowned trying to help me,” Dylan outs me, all without taking his eyes off his device.

  Samantha’s big hazel eyes bug out of her face as she takes a couple of steps closer. “Oh my gosh, what happened?”

  “She can’t swim, Mom,” Dylan says, with more than just a hint of sarcasm.

  She places her hands on the side of her face, and they slowly slide down the back of her neck. “You must think I am the worst person in the world,” Samantha says, and I’m completely taken aback by her statement. I was expecting her to think that thought about me, not herself. If Liam weren’t there, I’m sure Sterling would have helped Dylan, but I don’t think he could just leave his class in the water either. Whatever the case, I needed just as much babysitting as Dylan did today. It’s humiliating, to say the least.

  “I would never think that. I feel like a failure after today,” I tell her. I’m being honest. I don’t want to be fired but, geez, I’ve seriously screwed up.

  “I should have asked you if you swam, and I know I didn’t warn you about—” She looks over at Dylan and nods her head toward him. With a deep inhale, Samantha walks over to me and takes my arm, pulling me into the kitchen where she pulls a seat out from the table for me. We both sit down, and her head falls to the side. “Dylan has had a rough few years. His dad—my ex-husband—took off three years ago and hasn’t returned since. To make matters worse, it was right after Dylan’s Asperger’s diagnosis, and unfortunately, Dylan was old enough to correlate the two events in his life.

  “I was hoping he’d get over it like children often easily do, but having Asperger’s made it more difficult for Dylan to deal with his dad’s abandonment. The thing is, in most ways, Dylan is a normal kid. He just has some special challenges. He struggles with social skills, he requires structure in his routine, and he gets very upset when things change. It makes him feel out of control. He’s sensitive. It’s who he is and has always been, but right now, he’s angry, and it’s understandable. I purposely didn’t tell you about him because I have lost more applicants than I can count. Nannies experienced in working with kids like Dylan are difficult to find, and they usually have a waiting list for their services. People without experience in disabilities don’t want to take a chance on Dylan, I guess.”

  I listen and watch as Samantha pours her heart out. Learning about Dylan’s dad from Liam today made the confession a little less shocking, but the look on Samantha’s face is crushing. What do you say to someone who’s gone through this? I place my hand on hers. “Samantha, I don’t know what to say, but Dylan is so lucky to have you as a mom.”

  “Is he?” She laughs, sounding unconvinced. “I work all day.”

  “It’s your life too,” I tell her. “You come home every night and see him every morning.” A frail smile stretches across her lips like she wants to believe what I’m telling her, but I can imagine the guilt that comes along with her circumstances, even though they were mostly beyond her control. Dad felt the same kind of guilt when Mom left us. There was nothing we could tell him to make them feel differently.

  “Well, you’re leaving Dylan in good hands, I promise. Tomorrow, I’m going to start learning how to swim so today will never happen again,” I tell her. It’s all I can offer. I will do whatever I can to help her this summer, and Dylan too for that matter.

  “I’m sure Liam can help you with that,” she says. Just hearing his name forces me to remove the affectionate gesture of resting my hand on hers. I pull it up and drop my hands to my lap.

  “He offered, actually.” Can she hear th
e frustration in my voice? I’m not sure I’m great at hiding something I feel so strongly.

  “Are things going okay with you shadowing him?” Her nervous smile from moments ago is turning into a more curious straight line across her face, and it’s making me wonder what’s going on in her head.

  “Yup,” I tell her. That was definitely not convincing. What I’d like to say is: Things have been fabulous. Oh by the way, were you aware you have Satan working as your manservant? Just thought I should let you know.

  “Speak of the devil,” she announces as Liam walks into the kitchen. So, she does know . . .

  “Hey Sam, how were those private classes today? I know you were stressed about them.” What a suck-up. Liam moves over to the oven and pulls it open, checking on whatever is in there, and whatever smells like heaven. He cleans and cooks. What a pretty and talented asshole/manservant.

  “Oh! They both signed up for memberships. It went very well.”

  “Awesome,” Liam says with an excitement I’ve yet to realize he is capable of.

  “I forgot to ask you this morning. How was your date last night?” No. Come on, Liam told her where he thought I was or where he was convincing himself I was? What the hell?

  I peer up at Samantha, feeling my gut twist into knots, assuming she’s going to think I’m a slut for staying at some guy’s house two nights after arriving in a new state. However, when I see where her focus is, I realize she’s talking to Liam. No way. Ha! She’s asking Liam how his date was last night.

  Except, Liam was at the bar, sitting beside me all night.

  I turn my head and smirk at him, waiting for the same response Samantha is evidently waiting for.

  “It was the third date, right?” Samantha asks, jiggling her brows at the same time.

  Liam makes an odd noise, sounding like a groan and a sigh at the same time. Taking a minute to pause the conversation, he grabs a pair of hot mitts and pulls the oven door down to retrieve a casserole dish.