by Sierra Hill
And then she stops, a horrified look forming across face, painted pink with embarrassment, her forehead pinched at the connection between her comment and Becca’s accident.
It’s no secret and I’m sure something Brooklyn would know had she even done one simple Google search on my name. All the national papers and news stories were chock-full of coverage when Becca died. It wasn’t about her accident, so much as the aftermath and the fact that it happened to an NBA player.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry. You do not need to worry about that now. I promise. I’m a very careful driver. You do not need to worry about me driving with Caleb.”
There’s a moment of pause between us and I know I should reassure her that what she said is no big deal.
Because it really isn’t. I know she didn’t mean anything by it.
It’s only a big deal because of how I got to where I am now. Changing my direction and the rules of the game entirely.
6
Brooklyn
Not even ten minutes on the new job and I’ve already stuck my frickin’ foot in my stupid, dumb-ass mouth.
What was I thinking, mentioning a car accident? The one thing he hasn’t outright mentioned, but that I heard through all the rumors floating around campus and the high-profile media that seemed to be everywhere when Coach moved to town. I didn’t know anything about him before he started as the new Associate Head Coach, but it was everywhere. Talk of the town.
Luckily for me, Coach let my comment slide on by and we moved on to other things, such as the tour of the house. He guided me toward the back of the house where my room will be, allowing me time to put my bags away before meeting him back in the kitchen.
As I walk into the large, country-style kitchen, equipped with one of those impressive round, hanging pot racks over the center island, a thought pops into my head. Does he even cook?
Never one to keep my mouth shut, I blurt out the question before I can think better of it and stop myself.
Reaching my hand above my head, I trace the copper bottom of the pan with my finger, the movement having a pendulum effect.
“Do you cook often, Coach?”
Garrett looks up from a sheet of paper he’s making notes on, the curvature of his mouth tilting upwards, drawing my attention to his lips.
The movement of his full mouth, adorned with the right amount of stubble, sends a frisson rippling through my entire body before landing in my belly. Kicking and dancing like it was at a country bar.
He leans the length of his body against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest, the movement accentuating his biceps, probably built and maintained through years of sports strength-training, that bulge under the material of his shirt. I can’t help but stare, secretly imagining the feel of those arms wrapped around me.
“Only if you count putting a frozen pizza or chicken fingers in the oven as cooking,” he answers with a soft chuckle.
My head tips down toward the floor and I cover my eyes in mock disapproval.
“I’ll give you a little credit there,” I chuckle, returning my gaze to his brown-sugar colored eyes. “Lucky for you and Caleb, I’m an excellent cook.”
His laugh is harsh and sharp. “Good luck with that. I’m lucky if I can get any vegetables passed his lips. I don’t know how my wife did it, but she could get him to eat anything. But that was before…” He stops and the air in the room seems to stop moving. The weight of his words are heavy and oppressive. Sorrowful and fraught with pain.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Coach.”
Without realizing it, my arm automatically extends to touch his muscled shoulder. I feel him tense where my fingers lightly graze the soft cotton of his T-shirt. He seems so stoic. Unmovable and impenetrable, yet just underneath the surface is something sad and sensitive. There’s a tick in his jaw and he stares down at where my palm has landed as if it was a bug that he wants to smack away. I immediately drop my arm back to my side, taking a step back into neutral territory.
I have to say, I’m not used to someone so bottled up. I want to dig and investigate, try to figure out what makes him act the way he does. I want to delve into his psyche and identify the inner-workings of his brain so I can help.
But the way he tends to shut down makes me wonder how we’ll end up getting along this summer. Will I be in his way? Will he be sick of me within a week?
It’s too early to tell, but for now, I need to remind myself to keep to general topics and not – I repeat – NOT bring up his wife.
Coach clears his throat, seemingly more comfortable now that I’m not in touching distance to him.
“Caleb originally had difficulty with some foods and textures, and developed an affinity to chicken nuggets, apples – but only if they’re cut in a specific wedge shape – and he loves string cheese. Let’s just say, dinnertime is sometimes like going into battle.”
I keep my hand at my side, careful not to reach out and touch him again, even though it’s my natural tendency to want to do so.
“Coach, take heart. You’re not alone. I know exactly what you’re dealing with because my brother, Brayden, is autistic, and has food aversions, as well. There’s something about the texture of certain foods that can be a real deal-breaker. But we learned through trial-and-error the best way to get him his nutrients, and I bet I can employ some of those same tricks on Caleb.”
He stares at me skeptically, but it morphs into something akin to a challenge, as his eyebrows shoot skyward in a dare.
“Hey, if you can get him to eat the right foods, more power to ya. I can use all the help I can get.”
His eyes leave mine and he seems to shut down again, turning back to the notepad on the counter.
“Speaking of food, let’s go over his schedule.”
“You got it, Coach.”
“Brooklyn,” his voice is tentative, a little hesitant, which comes as a surprise to me. “You can call me Garrett. I’m not your coach. You’re in my home, not my basketball court.”
No, you’re just my hot boss.
I shift on my feet, feeling my face flush just slightly at that thought, laughing uncomfortably. “Oh, of course. Garrett. I’ve just never heard anyone else call you by your first name. Only Coach.”
I say his name, letting it roll off my tongue, allowing the taste of it to swirl around on my tongue, the sweet texture of it reminding me of melted chocolate.
“I can assure you, I wasn’t born Coach. Just Garrett.”
He gets back to the tasks at hand, discussing Caleb’s daily schedule and the routines he wants me to adhere to.
“Most weeks I’ll be here for his breakfast and home in time for dinner by six. I’ll let you know if something comes up and I’m running late. I have your number and will text or call. I’ll expect you to do the same. You don’t have to constantly communicate, but I do want to hear throughout the day how he’s doing, especially after his weekly speech therapy and occupational therapist appointments. He also starts equestrienne therapy in a few weeks.”
I nod in earnest, a massive smile lifting the corners of my mouth. “That makes me so happy to see kids around horses. I interned at an equestrian camp for kids my last semester and saw it do wonders for kids with physical and emotional challenges. I can’t wait to see Caleb riding.”
A thought crosses my mind, then, as I look around the house in search of a four-legged creature.
“What’s the matter?” Garrett asks, a crinkle in his forehead.
I consider whether to say anything but figure I should at least mention it in case he hasn’t considered it before.
“Well, I was just wondering if Caleb had an emotional support or service dog? They really are such great companions and help for disabled children.”
A scowl forms and a dark flash of something appears in Garrett’s eyes, turning his brown into a black abyss.
“No. We don’t have a dog. And we aren’t getting one, either.”
The asperity in his tone has my curiosity
piqued. And instead of backing down, it only urges me on. I don’t know Garrett well enough yet to determine where my boundaries are, but as a headstrong woman, I don’t back down even when I should.
“Dogs can be such great companions for kids. They love unconditionally and encourage children with special needs to step outside their comfort zone when it comes to their development.”
Again, another resounding “No.”
I hate failure. It’s not an option for me.
“I’m happy to look into a canine companion program for you. In fact, I can just add it to my list right now…”
“Brooklyn, listen. I said no dog. Are we going to have a problem with this?”
By this, I can only assume he means my insubordinate behavior.
His face flushes with color, and it seems I’ve found what button to push to piss him off.
And while I’d love to continue to argue the merits of service animals, I also know when to employ common sense and know it’s not good form to push your boss on your very first day.
But Garrett can rest assured I won’t drop it entirely and upon the next opportunity, I’ll be sure to bring it up.
Raising my hands in surrender, I take a step back, having not realized how close I’d gotten to Garrett’s side once again, and I provide him some room to stew.
“You’re the boss,” I say with an overly bright tone and smile on my face. “As far as the schedule goes, everything seems very manageable. How about after hours, like evenings and the weekends you’re home? Do you want me out of the way so you can spend alone time with Caleb?”
Garrett rubs a hand over his roughened chin and shrugs thoughtfully.
“Up to you. I guess I hadn’t thought that far in advance, yet. My former nanny didn’t live with us and it was only me and Caleb in the evenings and weekends, except during basketball season when I traveled.” A crease forms in between his dark-brown eyebrows as he thinks this over some more.
“I don’t want you to feel like you can’t have a life outside of the house, so you should feel free to come and go as you please. But I will need to draw a line regarding, um, well, having people over. I’d obviously ask you respect that you’re living in a house with a young child in it and be considerate to that rule. No parties or sleepovers.”
Garrett clears his throat and I want to laugh at his implication. I kind of want to mess with him because he’s being so serious, but think better of it. I’ve never even had parties in my own apartment with Peyton, with the exception of a few of my friends for movies or game night.
“No problem. No sleepovers for me, I swear.” I stick my fingers up in the Scout’s Honor. “I’ve given up on dating, anyhow, so you don’t have to worry about me sneaking anyone back.”
Garrett tilts his head to the side, an incredulous look on his face.
“You don’t date?” And then, as if rethinking this, he backpedals on the question. “Never mind. Forget I asked that. None of my business.”
And because I can’t help myself, I ask, “How about you? Anyone in your life that might not like another female in her territory?”
Yes, I did just imply that his potential girlfriend would be jealous of me living in Garrett’s house. But come on. It’s a reasonable possibility that any woman he’d be dating, whether model-perfect or not, could be a little jealous to have him sharing his house with a younger, single woman. Even if it is just me and I’m not that kind of girl.
He coughs into his hand. “I don’t date, either.”
Hmm. Questions, questions and more questions swirl uncontrollably around in my head, dive-bombing my mouth, readying their escape to find the answers to this perplexing and complicated man.
Even though I really, really want to know the answer to that, I keep my trap shut for the first time on the job and avoid the temptation of peeling back the layers of Garrett Parker.
There’ll be time enough for that later on.
7
Garrett
I can’t sleep.
Rolling over on my back for the hundredth time in the last hour, I stare up at the ceiling, groaning over my inability to wipe free the images of Brooklyn in bed in the room down the hall from my head.
She’s close enough that when she opened the bathroom door earlier tonight, the scent of her intoxicating lotion or hair product came wafting down the hallway at me, giving me all sorts of NSFW ideas. Her scent still lingers in the air, permeating my bed sheets that cling to my body, hard and needy.
Fuck, why did I think it was going to be easy living with this woman?
I’m half-tempted to call up Delinda to ask her to come back out of retirement, ready to pay whatever salary she demands just so I don’t have to wonder about the sexy-as-fuck grad student sleeping just twenty-feet down the hall from me.
It was hard enough to sit through dinner with her the second night and then have her watch as we walked through Caleb’s bedtime routine, as she stood at my side or behind me the entire time, interacting and asking me questions so she could become comfortable with Caleb.
It was goddamn torture and I brought it on myself. I only have myself to blame. I almost wish she wasn’t working out as well as she is, because then I could have an excuse to get rid of her.
Instead, she’s already bonded with Caleb in a way I haven’t seen him take to another person, or woman, since Becca. That right there says something. It tells me I should run and hide.
If there were any doubts at the beginning that she wouldn’t be able to handle Caleb’s needs, they’ve all been buried after watching her over the last week show how she effortlessly can manage herself. Caleb took to her immediately, squealing with joy when she played boats with him in the tub.
We were right in the middle of bath time a few nights ago when I got a phone call from Coach Welby that I had to take. I’d been a little reluctant to leave them alone, but I’d left my phone on the kitchen counter, so I had to hand over the reins. The beauty in that proposition was that Brooklyn was there for me and gave me the freedom to do what I had to do. To balance my child’s needs with my work demands.
For the first time in two years, I wasn’t alone.
My phone call only lasted less than five minutes, as Coach Welby had asked a question about the recent recruiting report I’d put on his desk. But by the time I’d ended the call and walked back toward the bathroom, I heard the sweet voice of Brooklyn, pitched high with an overly-exaggerated perkiness, as she sang a bath song to Caleb.
My breath nearly stopped at how overcome with emotion I’d become. It was a fucking bath time song, yet it dredged up nostalgic memories of how once Becca was the one to sing my son a song. It hit me square in the chest, and then for some reason, it turned into bitter anger. It pissed me off that Becca wasn’t the one here with me and Caleb.
I nearly flew into the bathroom in a rage, ready to drag him out of the bathtub and tell Brooklyn to leave us alone.
That is until I turned the corner and saw the two of them together. I stood at the doorway just hidden out of sight, my heartbeat kicking in my chest like a horse’s hind leg, hands binding into fists at my side, my guarded rage thawing. What I saw and heard filled me with a strange form of consuming need and hunger for this beguiling woman.
“When I take a bath, I wash my face, wash my face, wash my face.”
Even though slightly offkey, her voice seemed to cast a magical, melodic spell over Caleb, who had quieted down except for the occasional splashing of hands in the water in time with her tune.
Brooklyn sat on the side of the tub, leaning over the edge to manage the washing part, pulling back every time he splashed her. I’d finally gotten smart after struggling over a year with this task. As Caleb grew bigger and heavier, it was killing my back to try and hold him upright while I bathed him, ending up with a kinked and sore back every time. So, I purchased him a bath seat specially designed for kids with disabilities.
Soft cushiony-material that washed up easily along with a rubber harn
ess to keep him from falling over face-first and prevented back strain for me. At first, Caleb wasn’t thrilled about being harnessed up, but with Brooklyn’s lighthearted song and playful atmosphere, she successfully navigated the chore of bathing my son within an hour, where it took me a good week to get him to learn to enjoy himself.
She smoothed a washcloth over Caleb’s sweet, wet face as he blew his raspberry bubbles. “That’s it, buddy. We need to wash our face and then we get to play with the colored duckies next. We can count them, and you can tell me their colors, okay?”
A delighted squeal emitted from the back of his throat, followed by exuberant gibberish.
I watched with rapt interest as she turned the usual chore of bath time into a fun, new experience, as she sang and made a game of getting him clean. God, how easy it is for her. It seems to come so naturally, where I struggle to be a good parent.
Maybe I’m not father material? While I love my son with all my heart, honestly, when this happened, I wasn’t ready to raise him on my own. It was Becca’s territory and I just followed her lead. Without her in our lives, I’ve fumbled and stumbled to learn what works and what doesn’t, never really knowing if it’s the right way or not.
It’s pretty easy to see that Caleb has already fallen for his beautiful, sunny-dispositioned nanny. And it’s no secret as to why.
After putting him to bed every night, that’s when the discomfort seems to creep in between Brooklyn and me. It’s been the most difficult part of this whole new living arrangement. While Caleb has fared just perfectly – better than I had anticipated – it’s taken Brooklyn and me a little more time to gain that comfort level around each other.
Perhaps it would be easier if I didn’t find her so incredibly sexy.
Earlier tonight, while standing in the hallway outside of his room, Brooklyn shifting from one foot to the other in front of me, and me doing some weird shuffle myself, it became increasingly unclear as to how we’re ever going to make this work.
