But Montgomery Manor was disappointingly modern. Real life had a way of completely ruining things.
The lunchtime chatter turned to ordinary topics, and Amy forced herself to relax and enjoy the company. Even Sarge, who spent most of his days shouting out orders in a hoarse voice—not unlike a dog who’d had its bark removed—used mealtime as an opportunity to unwind. Work hard, play hard. It was a motto Mr. Montgomery embraced not only in his business life, but at home as well.
Of course, that didn’t mean she wasn’t acutely aware of how long Ryan was closeted with Jake. Or that she didn’t run through various scenarios in her head about their topic of conversation. Macho stuff like sports and carburetors? Nah. Jake had never been into that kind of stuff like normal boys were. The difficulties of maintaining a crease in your slacks? No way. Ryan seemed like the kind of guy who would rather eat his clothes than talk excessively about them.
When Ryan finally returned—alone—he had the grim look of a man who had been challenged to do just that. And as if maybe he was deciding between condiments.
“What was that all about?” Amy asked as he returned to his seat. She’d never been very good at subtlety. That was for women with tact and dainty limbs. “Important driver things?”
He turned to look at her, his eyes clouded. “Something like that.”
“Is this where you’re going to tell me to mind my own business? Because you totally can if you want. I was just telling Sarge the other day that I thought he’d look dashing with muttonchops, and he threatened to lock me in a closet if I didn’t shut my trap.”
“What did you say?” Sarge cupped one hand around his ear and leaned over the table.
“I said you’d look dashing in muttonchops,” she repeated, louder this time. “The big, hairy ones all the way down to your chin. Civil War style. You know, like the ones from your youth.”
Sarge had been at the Manor even before her mom—he was practically a fixture, like the cherub fountain in the garden. More than one rumor floated around that he was actually a ghost tied to the land and unable to leave or risk entering the ether. His daughter, Katie, had never confirmed or denied these claims. Though, to be fair, she almost never talked at all—not even when Amy tried her very hardest to draw her out.
Sarge raised a gnarled finger and pointed it at her in warning, but his lips wobbled at the sides. “That’s enough out of you.”
“See?” Amy said happily. “I’m a menace.”
Ryan looked as though he believed it. “What time do you have to be back to the nursery?”
“Eager to get rid of me, Lucas?” Her playfulness didn’t lighten his mood any, but she wasn’t about to let that get her down. He was here, and that was enough. She’d accomplished the impossible and gotten Ryan out of the garage during the workday. Now if only she could get him to stay long enough to work her busybody magic. “I have until Holly returns with what remains of the pumpkins and her pride. That could be five minutes from now or, let’s be honest, five hours. I probably need to stick around either way. I’m a slave to my duty.”
Ryan pushed back from the table, and she thought for a moment he was going to leave, that she’d failed in her mission of Befriend the Hot Chauffeur. But he merely turned and lifted the plates from Katie’s hand as she started clearing the table.
“I’ll take those,” he said kindly. Over his shoulder, he called back to Amy, “As long as you’re stuck where you can be at Mrs. Montgomery’s beck and call, we might as well do the dishes for Holly.”
Katie’s eyes flew to Amy’s in an exaggerated gesture of surprise, a smile lurking in the dark brown irises for what had to be the first time. All Amy could do was offer a wide-eyed stare in return.
A sweet gesture to do dishes. From the last man on earth who volunteered anything. Who knew that would be the one thing on this planet that could render her speechless?
* * *
“I don’t have any more of an idea how to run this thing than you do.” Ryan leaned down and examined the panel of complex buttons on the outside of the large stainless steel appliance. “Are you sure it’s the dishwasher?”
“What else could it be?” Amy drew close and dipped her head so it was on an even level with his, her hair tickling the side of his neck.
Pineapples. Today she smelled of pineapples.
“I don’t know.” He pushed what looked like a power button and was greeted with the unmistakable screech of metal on metal. “A garbage disposal?”
“Oh, shitballs.” Amy stabbed at the same button—and then, when the screeching increased, at all the buttons she could reach. “I think it might be the dumbwaiter.”
A rattle and a clank sounded before the ominous lull of silence filled the kitchen. Amy giggled and turned around, as if showing her back to the machine would render it invisible—a child’s game, another charming way her perspective of the world differed from everyone else’s.
“If I’m not mistaken, we just sent the entire load of dirty lunch dishes to the dining room,” she said, her delight easy to read.
“Oops.”
“I think you should offer to wash Holly’s car for the rest of her life when she gets back. Maybe she’ll be so grateful she won’t notice.”
“I may have to.” He pushed a few more buttons before finally giving up. “You wouldn’t consider her the type of woman to hold a grudge, would you? Like the kind of grudge that might lead to untraceable poisons in my dinner?”
“Holly? Nah.” Amy waved a hand and hoisted herself up on the kitchen counter—also stainless steel, but much easier to navigate in terms of technology. Also much more pleasant to look at, what with her long bare legs swinging to and fro, mesmerizing him like a hypnotist’s pendulum. “She’s old school. Think ground-up glass shards. Toadstools. That sort of thing.”
“How comforting.”
“Or a knife plunged in your back.”
“I’m not sure that’s better.”
“Told you,” she said happily. “In the kitchen. With a steak knife. I always win at Clue.”
“I’m not falling for that one again,” he said. “Every time you say you’re good at something, it’s a secret code that you’re actually terrible at it. I saw your laser tag score.”
She laughed and patted the counter. Ryan found himself leaping up next to her before he could think of a good reason not to. They remained there, thigh-to-thigh, awareness of her proximity crackling in the space between them, for what felt like hours. In reality, it was only a few seconds, but time had a way of losing meaning when a man struggled to pull out the words he didn’t particularly enjoy harboring in the first place.
Hey, Amy—want to hear something weird? Your employer is so against the idea of you dating his son that I’ve been hired to keep you apart.
Hey, Amy—what would you say if I told you I’m planning on using your personal life as a stepping stool for my own career? Crazy, right?
“Did you know Holly from before?” he asked instead. It was cowardly of him, he knew, but yesterday’s outrage had given way to a sense of acceptance he couldn’t quite shake. Was it really the worst thing in the world to keep an eye on someone you cared about, whatever the motivations?
“As a kid, you mean?” She shook her head. “Oh, no. Holly came with Serena. The cook we had growing up was this huge, jolly man named Patrick who used to sneak us cookies under our plates. I think it was his life goal to fatten us up, like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, but without all those nasty plans to eat us afterwards. I liked Patrick. He quit when Mrs. Montgomery—the first Mrs. Montgomery, I mean—died.”
“I’m sorry. Were you close to her?”
Amy closed her eyes and tried to conjure up an image of Mr. Montgomery’s first wife, who she remembered as being a sharp, controlled woman who was beautiful to look at but scary to touch. “I didn
’t really know her, to be honest. She was always busy with work and her charity functions, and for some reason, my mom was always careful to keep me out of the way when she visited the nursery. I don’t think she liked me—or at least, she didn’t like the idea of me. Nannies aren’t supposed to have families of their own or love anyone but their charges. Otherwise it spoils the illusion.”
“So you’re not allowed to have a life outside the twins?”
“I don’t have a life outside the twins,” she said with a laugh. “It’s just me and potty training as far as the eye can see.”
“But that’s not true.” Ryan’s natural intensity drew the lines of his face taut. “You have a lot of things. You have your friends and your family and your dancing career.”
The smile on her face froze into position, the deer in headlights making a rapid return. “I’m retired,” she said tightly. “Twenty-six is ancient in the dance industry—ballet years are worse than dog years and cat years combined.”
“I don’t believe that. Not for a second. I chatted with your mom a few times before you took her place here—did I ever tell you that?”
“No. No, you didn’t.” Amy sat up straighter. For some reason, the idea of Ryan and her mom hitting it off filled her with a warm, effervescent sensation. Her mother was a good woman to turn to in a pinch, and Amy didn’t doubt for a single second that she’d done her best to make Ryan feel welcome. It was a nice thought to linger on, as if her mom had paved the way for their eventual friendship.
Or more. You know, if he ever decided he wanted more. And if Amy didn’t make a total fool out of herself in the meantime.
“She didn’t tell you embarrassing stories about how I used to take naked baths with Jenna or anything, did she?” Amy asked.
“We weren’t that close. Why? Did you take a lot of community baths when you were a kid?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. You should ask her.”
“When I see her again, I will.”
Some of the warm fuzzies in Amy’s gut multiplied. Not if he saw her mom again, when.
“You totally dig my mom, don’t you?” When his ears began to change color, she laughed. God, he had cute ears. They were like mood rings. Pert, adorable, auditory mood rings. “It’s okay. She’s pretty much my favorite person on the face of the planet. I wish I had a chance to see more of her—I don’t think I realized how much of my life would be taken up here.”
“It requires a lot of people and a lot of time to run this household.”
“It does.” Amy nodded. “And my mom really doesn’t like that I quit my job to be a part of it.”
He waited, not expectantly, but as though he knew with absolute certainty she’d keep talking. And she wanted to, she really did, but it was harder to form the words than he realized. There were many things about her life that no one here at Montgomery Manor knew about.
“She says I’m giving up my life by choosing to spend it here instead of on the stage.” Amy splayed her hand on the counter, staring at the spaces where her fingers didn’t touch. “She thinks I’m lowering myself, and that it’s her fault for not being well enough to take care of the twins herself. It’s hard for her to see me taking the same path she did, I think. She wanted more for me.”
“She used to talk about you.” Ryan relaxed and leaned against the tiled backdrop. “About your dance troupe and how proud she was you were a part of it. She used to get this look in her eye, like you were superhuman or something. I was totally intimidated by the idea of you coming to work here. I had this vision of a seven-foot-tall ballerina who dazzled audiences and spoke four languages.”
Amy swallowed heavily, unsure how to evade such a pack of bald-faced lies. It wasn’t that she’d ever set out to purposefully mislead her friends and family about where she’d worked all those years—she really hadn’t. After twelve years of private lessons, she was sent away at age eighteen to study classical ballet at Mr. Montgomery’s expense, and it had been her intention to justify his faith in her a thousand times over. She knew, even back then, that she’d never be as smart as Jenna, as charming as Jake or as driven as Monty, but it hadn’t seemed outrageous to imagine she could carve out a niche of her own in the world.
And she had, in a way. It was just that her niche wasn’t shaped the way she’d led everyone to believe—not so much an elegant cutaway as a small, cramped hole.
It all started when an early performance in Paris, Texas, had been misinterpreted to mean something of an entirely different order—and country. Things had progressed steadily downhill from there, but she’d been powerless to stop it. Everyone had just been so freaking proud of her when they thought she was making it big. Disappointing them with the truth—that her most successful audition to date had been to play the role of Fairy Princess Number Three at a theme park in Iowa—had seemed needlessly cruel.
And the worst part was that she’d liked being a Fairy Princess a heck of a lot more than she’d ever liked the rigorous diet and exercise and constant struggle to keep up with all the other dancers with flawless, flat-chested builds and way more skills than her. She’d liked dressing up in the billowing pink gown every morning and waving a magic wand at little girls whose eyes lit up at the sight of her. She’d liked dancing the waltz every night with her pretend Prince Charming, a theater major and aspiring actor who, like her, had all too quickly realized that the world of prefabricated castles and regular paychecks was preferable to the constant rejection of the real world.
She almost told him.
She almost opened her mouth and told Ryan about the lie she’d perpetuated every Sunday when she called her mom to chat, every lie she continued telling now that she was home and content to remain here. This was her castle now. This was what she wanted. She might not get to wear her pink gown anymore, but the light she saw in Lily’s and Evan’s eyes whenever she approached gave her the same feeling of satisfaction.
But how did you admit to a man whose past was littered with empty whisky bottles and death-defying stunts that your biggest problem in life was falling in love with mediocrity and a tiara?
She couldn’t do it. No matter how much she might want to.
“I only speak four languages if you count being able to ask where the bathroom is,” she said, feeling like a cheat. “Baño. Toilette. Loo.”
“Loo is technically English.”
“See? I only know three languages. I’m the least intimidating person on the face of the planet.”
“I know,” he said simply. “It’s one of the things I like best about you.”
She had to laugh—partly because it was such an absurd thing to say, but mostly because she felt suddenly giddy. He liked her. He frowned and made it a point not to kiss her and begrudgingly accompanied her to mealtimes, but he liked her all the same.
“Oh, yeah?” She bumped his hip playfully. “What are the other things?”
“Fishing for compliments?” He made a tsking noise as he flung her words from the other day back in her face. “Shame on you.”
She gave in to the impulse to grab his hand, which rested in the narrow gap between their legs. Lifting it, she studied the rough palms and short nails, ran her finger along a light scar that cut from knuckle to wrist. He was warm to the touch, the texture of his skin coarse.
He watched alongside her, curious but not withdrawing, as if seeing the extremity for the first time. “I like a lot of things about you, Amy, but most of all, it’s how you always put other people first that really blows me away.”
She didn’t look up or acknowledge the way that compliment—innocuous and kind—made her want to cry. “How’d you get this one?”
“I’d like to say it was a piece of scrap metal from a ’67 Chevy I jumped over a river, but I think it might actually be from where I dropped a screwdriver a few years back.”
“You
don’t remember?”
His fingers grew tense. “I don’t remember a lot about those days. It’s the reason I don’t do bars, remember?”
Oh, she remembered. She remembered each time she saw him frown, each time his gaze turned inward and distant. Unable to stop herself, she lifted his hand and kissed the scar, a featherlight touch of her lips on skin so rough and delicious she had an overwhelming urge to keep going—strong forearms to bulging biceps to sinewy neck, where a vein throbbed its warning at her.
“There,” she said, and released her grip instead.
His hand stayed aloft, almost accusing her. How dare she initiate human touch? How dare she desire to press her lips on him?
“That’s what I do for the twins,” she explained, hoping to rob the moment of its awkwardness. “Kiss it and make it all better.”
He continued staring at his hand before dropping it to his lap. “I think that stops working sometime around the age of four.”
“Do you?” she asked, feeling sad—though whether for Ryan or herself, she couldn’t quite say. “Not me. I like to think it never stops working.”
“Amy, listen. I’m not—” He lifted his eyes and stared into hers. She waited, breathless, for what came next. A kiss? A confession? A slap on the face?
He sighed instead, the doors closing on the moment with a crash. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but your mom is right. That’s the compliment you deserve most. I’m sure the twins love having you around, but you can do better than this place. You are better than this place. Why did you come back?”
She answered as truthfully as she could, feeling it vital that he understand her motivations, if not the exact details behind them. She could handle other people thinking she’d lowered herself, that she’d settled by choosing a life as a nanny, but not Ryan. She couldn’t bear the thought that he might look at her and see something less.
“My mom was reaching a point where she needed to retire. She’s young, but she has fibromyalgia. Even though she hates admitting it, keeping up with the twins got to be a real struggle. And of course she loves them way too much to hand over the reins easily, so she probably would have kept working through the pain and fatigue until she collapsed. Which is why Mr. Montgomery called me up and asked if I wanted to take over. He set up a pension for her and I arrived the next day. We sort of ousted her, and she’s having a hard time coming to terms with it.”
If I Stay Page 10
