by Jamie Beck
Gentry grinned at his concern. “No. He has a cold and an ear infection. Nothing respiratory.”
“That’s good.”
She paused because she didn’t know how to begin. Ian struck her as a guy’s guy, unlikely to consider himself perfect nanny material. With each millisecond, she felt more foolish sitting there tongue-tied. No one who knew her would believe it.
“Is there something else?” he asked when the silence dragged on.
“Actually, yes.” Deep breath and then go for it. “I’m supposed to return to work tomorrow, but with Colt’s fever, I can’t drop him at day care. Sara had mentioned that you were temporarily stuck in a motel. I can offer you seven hundred fifty dollars per week and a free place to live if you’ll watch Colt while I’m at work. It’d be temporary—like a few weeks—until he can safely go to day care.”
She closed her eyes and held her breath, picturing Ian’s face. He’d probably grimaced in horror. She opened her eyes when that vision made her stomach twist in an unpleasant way. “Ian?”
“Um,” he hesitated, blowing out a breath and a derisive chuckle. “Sure. Why not?”
On the surface, she should be thrilled. She would be, in fact, if it weren’t for his self-mocking tone.
“Gee, don’t be too excited.” She covered her mouth, shaking her head. She needed his help more than he wanted hers.
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “It’s perfect, actually. I need something temporary. I’m returning to Haiti at the first opportunity.”
That wasn’t exactly news to her. It shouldn’t matter at all, yet the living room seemed suddenly gloomy despite the sunlight pouring in through the windows. “Great. Come over anytime today. The guest room is upstairs, so you’ll have some privacy. Er, to a degree, anyway. There’s no escaping Colt’s crying.”
“I picked up on that already.” His tone shifted, sounding almost warm, like he didn’t deem her son a nightmarish devil.
“Guess I’ll see you a little later.”
“I’ll come by around six, if that works.”
“Perfect. I’ll try to get Colt down before then so we can talk. Thanks.” She hung up and slunk back down into the cushions, one arm over her eyes.
As impulsive moves went, this was nothing new, yet her erratic heartbeat had only now resumed a normal rhythm. She smiled, welcoming the kind of eager anticipation she hadn’t experienced in months. Help was on the way, and its packaging was no hardship.
Spirits renewed, she checked the baby monitor, then grabbed a yogurt, banana, and the mirror frames. Once she’d finished eating, she sorted through the photos and began to separate them while also thinking through a list of rules for Ian.
While framing, her thoughts turned toward the handsome rescuer on the way, and her devious, sex-depraved mind started to spin all kinds of scenarios that had nothing at all to do with Ian’s abilities as a childcare giver. This could be trouble, or fun . . . or both. Before she had Colt, that combination had always been something Gentry relished. Her mischievousness came rushing back, like lyrics to an old song she hadn’t sung in far too long.
It took Ian less than ten minutes to pack his duffel bag. He then sat on the motel bed, blinking into space.
A nanny, no . . . a manny, for chrissakes. Not something he’d ever considered, but Gentry’s offer had been otherwise perfect.
Temporary. Housing. Ready cash.
He’d do anything for that, including saddle himself to a colicky infant and his high-maintenance mother. In less than a month he’d have enough money for airfare and a little extra. Per his discussions with Archer, he’d go straight to Jacmel and oversee Stanley and the renovations to the cheap commercial property they’d recently leased. While still in Oregon, Ian would work on acquiring basic life-support ambulances.
This nanny gig would be fine as long as he and Gentry worked out boundaries in advance. Boundaries that should include a rule against waltzing around the house in underwear. Of course, he’d be lying if he pretended he wouldn’t like to see that again. The recollection once again made him semihard.
He smirked at himself and shook his head. Keep your cool. If Farrah couldn’t deal with Ian’s choices, a woman like Gentry definitely couldn’t put up with him and his lifestyle.
He’d approach this job like he did when training others for disaster work. Teach her some basics and establish systems she could maintain without him. At that point, he’d leave her and Colt better off than he’d found them, and then move on with his life.
Feeling better about his decision, he heaved the duffel over his shoulder and took an Uber to Lake Sandy.
As he approached the glossy black door, it occurred to him that he’d never lived anyplace this posh. An uncomfortable sensation took root, which seemed ironic, that something might be wrong with him, because he felt less anxious in a foreign land ravaged by disaster and disease than he did in an upper-class neighborhood in his hometown.
A memory of his father and him surfaced. Ian had been about eight. They’d been trolling a local neighborhood, knocking on doors to ask for pledge money for some walkathon, when they’d arrived at a newer home with a red Corvette parked in the driveway.
“Whoa!” Ian broke free of his dad’s hold, ran to the shiny car, and peered in its window. He imagined its engine roaring to life, then bounced on his toes. “Dad, let’s get a car like this one!”
His father watched him, wearing a slight frown. “Come on back. Let’s remember our mission.”
Ian returned to his father’s side, but not without stealing several more glances at that Vette and picturing himself in it with its roof removed. So cool!
A woman answered the door, polite smile fixed on her face.
Ian’s father had barely begun his spiel when she raised her hand. “Sorry, but I don’t want to waste your time. We donate to other charities already. Can’t do them all, you know.”
“Of course. Have a nice day,” Ian’s father said before she closed the door.
He took Ian’s hand and walked down the front walkway, then stopped on the sidewalk and turned toward the ruby-red stunner Ian so admired. Together they stared at it just long enough for Ian to fantasize that his father might want one, too. Then his dad said, “Think about how many meals or clothes the money for that showy car might’ve purchased for the Burnside Shelter.”
Without another word, his father ruffled Ian’s hair and tugged him along to the next house.
Ian hadn’t remembered that incident in years. Now he knocked on Gentry’s door and waited, wondering—with an uneasy kind of anticipation—what life with Gentry Cabot would bring. It wouldn’t be boring; that much was certain.
As soon as she opened the door, he heard Colt’s whining in the distance. It didn’t shock him that she’d failed to get him to sleep. On top of being sick, the kid seemed willful. “Hey.”
She backed up and waved him in, her crooked, forced smile suggesting it had been another long day. “Welcome.”
“Thanks.” He stepped inside and looked around. In less than ten hours, the living room had nearly reverted to its former state. Gentry must have pulled out every toy and blanket in an effort to entertain her son. He also noted a half-eaten slice of pizza and open soda can on an end table.
She stepped around the stroller she’d parked in the entry and crossed to Colt. “I wish the medicine worked faster. This is torture!”
“Sorry.” He stood there, awkwardly, unsure how to begin this new job. Then he remembered: establish trust—always step one. “Couldn’t get him down?”
“No. He’s not sleepy.” She cuddled her son and looked at Ian with no small amount of exasperation.
“What if you put him in the bassinet and let him cry a bit? He’d eventually give up and pass out.”
“No!” Her eyes widened. “Then he’ll think I don’t care.”
She might not have noticed the way she covered Colt’s ears, as if she didn’t even want him to hear Ian’s suggestion. So much for “step
one.”
The truth was that Ian knew very little about raising kids other than the two basic parenting styles: tough love or indulgence. He’d been raised with a bit of both—his father being tough, his mom being soft. Obviously, Gentry took after his mom, so perhaps his role should provide balance. “I doubt he’ll remember when he grows up. In the meantime, you’d get a little break now and then.”
“I’m not so wimpy that I need to torment my son just to give myself a break.” She frowned, staring at him now with some doubt. “We’d better talk through our expectations.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll follow your rules. I’m only making a suggestion.” He stood in place, scanning the room, uncertain about what he should do next. “Maybe I should put my things away?”
Her gaze landed on his medium-size canvas duffel. “That’s all your stuff?”
He patted it. “I travel light.”
Gentry’s features blanked for a second, like she couldn’t process having so little. When she came to, she pointed to the open wood-and-iron staircase to his left. “Your room’s upstairs on the right. Take your time. I’ll go rock Colt awhile. When he wears out, we can talk.”
She held herself high and strutted toward her bedroom. Although her dress covered her ass—barely—he couldn’t help but recall the way she’d looked this morning. He watched her hips sway, long legs eating up the floor until she disappeared from view.
On his way upstairs, he passed by several black-and-white photos that hung on the wall in the substantial square mirrored frames he’d piled in the corner last night. He paused to take a closer look. Most were taken while Colt slept. One caught the baby awake with his face in repose.
The collection was extensive for a kid who was only a couple of months old. At this rate, she’d have the place decked out in the world’s most expensive wallpaper by Colt’s first birthday.
He continued up the stairs and found the bedroom on the right. The Taj Mahal compared with the motel and any other place he’d ever slept. It smelled of lavender and lemon.
Like the rest of the condo, its walls were dove-gray. The room featured a huge plate glass window, providing him his own lake view. Sunrise would be pretty amazing tomorrow, and stargazing wouldn’t be too bad, either.
A platform bed with stark-white linens and a gray leather headboard dominated the room. The dark wood floors were partly covered by low-pile gray-and-white carpet. Shimmery gauze drapes framed either side of the window, and LED pendant lights hung low over the nightstands flanking the massive bed.
Along the opposite wall stood a small dresser—more than adequate for his few belongings, especially with the closet that had been outfitted with shelving and hanging rods.
After unpacking, he wandered into the bathroom, with its slate floors, modern-style vanity, and large glass-encased shower. It was almost too fancy to mess up, he thought. This bedroom suite exceeded the standards of most homes he’d ever seen.
He shook his head to clear his guilt and then decided to test the mattress.
A mistake.
A pillow top with the perfect firmness for support. He let himself fall back and stretch his arms overhead. Closing his eyes, he marveled a bit at the situation: him, in a fancy condo, babysitting. No one would believe it.
He could die on this mattress and be happy; it felt that good. No bugs or lumps. Heaven. Then, he being a guy, and a redheaded bombshell being only a few rooms away, he thought of other uses for this monster-size bed. His mind conjured a reverse-babysitter fantasy, this one featuring Gentry in the panties and tank top she’d worn this morning.
Maybe she’d come knocking in the wee hours because she couldn’t sleep. He pictured her standing against the doorjamb, hip cocked, hair piled up on her head except for a stray tendril or two.
A familiar smoky voice interrupted his answering grin.
“What in the world are you thinking?”
His eyes popped open as he sprang upright. There she was, almost like in his fantasy, except she was still wearing the halter dress.
“Nothing.” He stood, eager to move away from that conversation and those thoughts. “This room’s amazing.”
She crossed to the window and glanced down toward the lake, hands linked behind her back. “When I first saw this condo, all the trees and water views made it seem like a peaceful haven where I could raise my son. Guess the joke’s on me.”
“How so?”
She turned and shot him a “Give me a break” look. “After meeting Colt, you don’t really think I have any peace here, do you?”
“Not yet, but you will soon. Babies grow up and stop fussing.”
“So they say, but unlike other moms, I find myself wishing time away to get there, and that doesn’t feel so good.” She pressed her lips together in a tight line, as if regretting what she’d confessed. Looking through the window once more, she said, “Let’s go downstairs and talk about how this will work.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Look at you. Already a star pupil.” She grinned and twirled toward the door, walking out ahead of him.
He couldn’t help but chuckle and admit, despite it all, he liked her feisty humor. Thank God he wouldn’t be here long enough to do anything stupid.
Chapter Four
Quandary
According to Merriam-Webster: a state of perplexity or doubt
According to me: the state of my decision about Colt’s childcare
Gentry held the railing on her way down the steps, grasping at anything to steady herself. It was one thing to take impulsive risks when she’d been single, quite another to do so where her son was concerned.
Ian tromped behind her. A stranger in her home. One she’d hired on a whim, probably because he’d revived her spirit by giving her a solid night’s sleep. Meanwhile, she hadn’t asked for references (other than Sara), and had relied on the fact that he knew how to handle health-care emergencies. What had she been thinking? Guilty heat warmed her cheeks when the devil on her shoulder whispered reminders about his other fine attributes.
When they reached the living room, she asked, “How about a drink?”
“Sure.” He stood with his hands in his pockets, calm and still. Not ruffled at all. Another quandary to ponder: had he acquired that special skill because of working in disaster zones, or was he able to work those jobs because of a natural state of Zen?
Either way, she needed to vet this guy, ASAP. “Cool.”
She walked to the refrigerator to see if she had any beer. He looked more like a beer guy than a wine guy, and it seemed important to get that right. “Beer?”
“Actually, water’s fine.” He rocked back on his heels.
Water?
“I’ve got wine . . .” She stood with the refrigerator door still open, the cold air keeping her rising body temperature in check.
He shook his head. “I promise, I’m good with water.”
She kept from rolling her eyes. Eagle Scout—or something worse, she suddenly thought. “Are you a recovering alcoholic?” She slapped her hand across her mouth as soon as she blurted out the worrisome thought.
“No!” For the first time since he’d arrived tonight, it seemed like she’d flustered him. He recovered quickly, though. Good. He’d need that skill. She doubted that would be the one and only time she said something that shocked him.
“Sorry. I wouldn’t judge, though. I only wanted to know because of Colt.”
“I understand, but don’t worry. I’ve never been much of a drinker.”
“What a shame.” She grinned.
He smiled in kind, his eyes crinkling in a way that suggested he was trying to figure her out. Good luck with that!
She pointed to the narrow cupboard above the dishwasher. “Glasses are over there. You might as well start learning where stuff is.”
For a split second she debated the wine, then got irked. Hell if she’d let anyone make her feel like she shouldn’t drink wine in her own house. She’d adopt a conserv
ative role at Cabot Tea in order to bond with her family, but she needed her freedom at home.
She retrieved the opened bottle of Arneis from the refrigerator—a perfect, light white wine for summer. She poured herself a bit, then reconsidered and filled the entire glass. “Let’s sit on the deck and talk about how this will work.”
“After you.” He gestured for her to lead, water glass in hand.
On her way through the living room, she grabbed the baby monitor and a throw from the sofa to pull over her shoulders in case a breeze made it too cool.
Ian stood on the deck, waiting for her to choose a seat. His formality would not do. This guy needed to loosen up. She decided to mess with him a little—make him laugh. Earlier this morning she’d glimpsed a hint of good humor buried under all his manners. Manners were nice, but she preferred playfulness, especially in a roommate.
Donning the blanket like a cape, she started for one chair, then circled it and headed for another, cape flowing behind her, before stepping away from both. With one arm across her chest and the other bringing her wineglass to her lips, she watched him.
His brows pinched together in confusion; then one quirked upward. He looked her in the eye, mimicked her position—down to her extended pinkie finger—and sipped his water.
She lost the battle against smiling, at which point he chuckled.
“How about we sit at the same time?” she offered.
“Sure.” He reached for the chair nearest to him.
“Nope, that’s mine.” She used her hip to bump him out of the way. The brief contact—her first physical contact with any man in months, excluding family—caused her body to reverberate like a gong. She dropped onto the seat, tucked the blanket around her cool feet, and took a long swallow of wine so he wouldn’t see her blush.
He sat, stretching his long, muscular legs out, while letting his gaze take in the wooded hillside and glittering lake below. His boyishly handsome face held her attention. In another life, she might have leaped across the table and licked those freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and then bitten his shapely bottom lip. “Nice view.”
