A Nanny for Christmas: A Single Dad Nanny Holiday Romance

by Jess Bentley

  “Well,” he announces finally. “That’s just about it, I guess. Welcome home, Vanessa!”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I smile. I know I have a thousand things I need to say to them if we are going to work through this together, but I don't have to say them all right at this moment. We've got the rest of the summer.

  CHAPTER 2

  VANESSA

  A fter getting my clothes out of boxes and into dresser drawers, I figure I'm pretty much done unpacking. My newly pink room is easy to organize. Just like my dorm room, it's more or less made to hold a modest amount of stuff and that's exactly what I've got.

  My dad was right, though, this bathroom really is nice. In the dorms, I shared a bathroom with about forty other women. Their stuff was everywhere, and they were constantly making a racket, twenty-four hours a day.

  Having this nice, clean space all to myself is an unimaginable luxury. It's white from the ceiling to the floor tiles. Even the shower is enclosed in white subway tiles. The counter is white, the cabinets are white. Someone has thrown a nice, fluffy, turquoise rug in the middle of the floor as the only splash of color. I wiggle my toes against the kitten soft tufts and smile to myself. It's like being in a hotel, almost.

  I suddenly realize all this counter space is mine. I can just leave stuff right on the counter: toothbrushes, hairspray, nail polish. Whatever I want. No more carting a basket back and forth to a communal bathroom.

  Holy crow, this is amazing.

  Actually, I could use a shower. I twist the handle to set the temperature at about two o'clock, which usually corresponds to some kind of warm temperature water. After undressing, I glance myself in the wide mirror over the sink. I’m not a little girl anymore. I definitely got the freshman fifteen. Sophomore seven, too.

  I pinch the cylinder of plush that circles around my middle, and switch my weight to my other side. It's not bad. I was always a skinny, wiry child. But now I look grown, womanly. My roommate at school was just a tiny cheerleader of a thing, and when we would go out the boys all stared at me. They liked the cleavage. They liked the jiggle when I walked. I like it too. It's nice to feel so feminine, so solid.

  I have to remember to thank my mother for stocking my shower, too. I didn't even think about it before I stepped into the enclosure, but there's already a couple of shampoos and a nice fluffy shower puff in here.

  As I lather up with the lavender scented liquid soap, I feel my irritation with my mom revealing itself for what it really is: nervousness. She's really sweet to me. She's really thoughtful, even if she's not much of a talker. I'm just worried that quitting college is going to disappoint her deeply. I'm worried what she'll think of me.

  I should try to be nice. I should try to appreciate the little things, like this wonderful sulfate-free shampoo she picked out. Or this hibiscus scented conditioner. I love floral conditioner. We both have really thick, blonde hair, and sometimes when I shake my head I catch a little whiff of my shampoo throughout the day. She knows that. She knows me really well.

  So, she will probably understand what I have to tell her.

  Steam and heat dissolves my anxiety and I feel good, better than I have in a long time. I feel clean, pampered. I turn around and let the strong water currents massage my shoulders, the rivulets trickling down my spine and into the deep crevice between my butt cheeks. As I'm washing, I let myself enjoy the sensation of the water, the slippery soap, as though the perfume saturates me from the inside out.

  My fingers drift down my smooth, slick belly to my sex, lightly flicking back and forth over my swollen lips. Circling lightly with my middle finger, I let myself lean forward against the tile and push my heels shoulder width apart. In moments I can feel my own juices adding to the slickness, thinking about this luxurious privacy, my body alive and solid.

  The orgasm is quick, sparking like a match, burning and then going out. My heart pounds as my body clenches twice, three times, releasing the last of my frustration.

  I smile to myself as the water pushes itself over my shoulders, covering me like a veil. I stand there for a little while longer until the water starts to cool. I probably used up the hot water. Good thing it’s the middle of the afternoon and nobody else is likely to try a shower.

  Now what I'd really like is a nap, but when I emerge from the bathroom, I hear voices in the hall below my room. Who is my dad talking to? I towel off quickly and slip on a flowered dress, the kind that gathers under my boobs and flows over my hips. A nice, simple way of getting dressed in a hurry. My skin is still a little damp and my panties don't seem to want to slide back up, but it is nice to have them all neatly arranged in the dresser drawer. Sometimes at school I felt like I was living out of laundry baskets.

  I braid my hair quickly over my shoulder and descend the stairs, listening to the voices in the front room.

  “Oh, here she is,” I hear my dad say as I come into view. “Vanessa? Come on in here, hon.”

  An older couple turns toward me as I walk into the parlor. I recognize them immediately as the people who were sitting out on their front porch when I pulled in. The woman is about seventy, I guess, with curly, wispy silver hair that frames her face like candy floss. She gives me a big smile and sticks out her hand.

  “I'm Margie,” she announces. I shake her hand, surprised at how firm and supple her skin is.

  “I'm Ben,” her husband adds, offering me his hand as well.

  He's tall, slightly stooped. I imagine he was a baseball player fifty or sixty years ago, with broad shoulders and a lanky build. Now he looks like someone who gardens for fun. Probably knows everything about native plants or something like that. His blue eyes sparkle when he smiles, and I decide I like them both immediately.

  “We just wanted to welcome you to our little neighborhood,” Margie continues. “Your dad tells me you're in college?”

  “Done now,” I say. “For the summer,” I add when I see my dad glance at me.

  “What's your major?” Ben asks.

  “Um, well… didn't really pick one. Not yet.”

  Ben raises his eyebrows, but Margie immediately intervenes by taking my elbow and angling me toward the doorway. I realize she's guiding me out of the room and am immediately grateful for the way she's taken charge.

  “Plenty of time to pick a major!” she declares. “Everything can be done in its own time. For instance, in this time… we need to think about dinner. Right, Ben?”

  “Right!” I hear Ben agree as he and my dad follow Margie and me to the kitchen.

  My mom is already arranging vegetables on a giant tray, a pile of flatbread dough sitting under a clean kitchen towel on the counter next to her. She's a wonderful cook, always making eclectic things with a creative but delicate touch. She's picked up recipes here and there, and always seemed to be asking whatever neighbor we had for their family secrets. As a result, her style could be called a Cajun, German, southwestern, comfort food hybrid. She will make everything from curry to biscuits, all in the same meal. Somehow, it always works out.

  “That smells delicious!” Margie exclaims.

  “Anita is wonderful cook,” my dad beams, sidling up to her and planting a kiss on her cheek. She smiles, crinkling deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and then raises her eyebrows at the fridge. My dad automatically goes over and retrieves two packages of celery, without even exchanging a word.

  The older women immediately start working together, with Margie finishing tasks my mother had started, and my mother starting new tasks. It seems completely effortless, the way they work together.

  When Margie takes over the cutting board, my mom steps to the side and begins rolling small bowls of the dough from under the towel. I know that's going to be flatbread and I see the cast-iron skillet heating up on the flame behind her. Her homemade flatbread is one the most beautiful things in the whole world. My mouth waters just thinking about it.

  A shadow darkens the sliding glass doors to my left and I glance over, startled to see two huge figures
blocking the light. My heart catches in my throat as the door opens and the hulking masses come into the back room.

  “Oh, hey, boys,” Ben says. “You’re just in time.”

  The figures step forward, entering a beam of light that comes down through the skylight in the kitchen. As the shadows fall away from their faces I’m startled to see that they’re exactly the same: twins.

  Everything seems to stand still. I don't know if I'm startled they’re here, or startled by their size, or startled by their physical similarities. But for a moment, I’m frozen. I can't do anything. I just stare at their shiny, mahogany hair. The square jaws, the thick necks. The broad shoulders barely stuffed into tight, thick T-shirts.

  “Oh, hello,” says the one on the left. “I'm Tim Braden.”

  I swallow, not sure I can make a sound.

  The one on the right raises his hands, holding out two gallon jugs filled with a honey colored liquid. Something about the way his thick wrists flex as he holds up the weight snaps something like a rubber band in my belly. I feel my body go taut with electric tension.

  “I'm Tom Braden,” he adds stiffly. “We brought some wine. Wanted to say hello.”

  “Fantastic, guys, fantastic,” my dad smiles, reaching out for one of the jugs. He doesn't even seem to notice the electrical current zinging back and forth between me and these massive, powerful men. They look like lumberjacks. Sexy, sexy lumberjacks.

  “I think we’re about done here,” Margie announces as my mom plucks another steaming flatbread off the griddle and adds it to a pile that has somehow gotten at least six inches high. “Can we head out to the patio to eat? Boys? Grab a platter.”

  As if we've done this before, everybody takes a platter or bottle or some other vessel off the granite topped kitchen island and heads out the sliding glass door to the patio. It's already set up with a long, rustic table and a mismatched collection of chairs. Candles in jelly jars line the top of the table down the middle. As I come to the door, somebody flips on set of string lights. It looks like a scene out of a movie. It’s all so rustic and sweet, yet completely perfect, I find myself almost giggling about it.

  “What's so funny?” comes a voice very close to my ear. I feel a trickle of ticklish breath slide over the seam of my neck and shoulder then dribble down between my breasts. It feels like I've just been kissed.

  “Nothing…” I stammer, flinching away to glance at Tim, or is it Tom? They really do look so much alike. “It's just all so pretty.”

  He pauses for a second, then winks at me, a smirk curling up one side of his mouth.

  “It sure is,” he says meaningfully.

  My belly clenches dramatically, releasing a gush of wetness into my panties. Literally, I gasp, afraid somehow they're going to notice that I've turned into a puddle of hormones and high school stupidity right in front of them. To cover my embarrassment, I take my bowl of salad and lean over to place it in the middle of the table. As I do so, I feel someone brush against the back of my thigh, or maybe it was just the wind lifting my skirt?

  Startled, I glance to my left and see one of the twins settling into a chair at the end of the table, he smiles at me, his gaze direct and unflinching. Did he just do that?

  Did that really just happen?

  My cheeks are hot and I feel like I can’t breathe. My panties are so wet I feel them dripping between my thighs.

  I really need to get away from these men. I don't know what's happening to me, but I'm confused, almost dizzy. I feel breathless and dumb. I need to get to the other end of the table… which is now impossible. Mom, Dad, Margie and Ben all chat pleasantly together as they settle into seats on the other side of the table. Looking around, I see I've got only one choice now: sitting between Tim and Tom, and their matching smirks.

  I swallow, nervous but determined to act cool. Holding my skirt deliberately around my thighs I drop into the seat, wishing I had worn something longer with more coverage. I feel both of the brothers glance at my thighs as I sit, noting the way the skirt rides up immediately and reveals my admittedly plush leg flesh.

  But when I glance up to my left, he doesn't seem judging at all. His dark eyes are intense but smiling.

  “I'm starving, you?” he murmurs, his voice practically a whisper.

  He leans in so close I feel like he's going to reach out and touch me. My hand slides across the table, finding my glass and gripping it defensively.

  “Actually, I’m pretty thirsty,” I choke out. “Did you say something about wine?”

  “You’ll want to take it easy on the wine,” says a voice on the other side of me. Still, he takes my glass from my hand and fills it with a splash of the golden liquid. “This is strong stuff. Not a lot of people can handle… all of it.”

  “I'm sure I can take it,” I snap back, instantly realizing how outrageous that sounds.

  But now that I have said it, I don't want to retreat. I stick my chin out defiantly and take a swig. The flavor is deep and sweet; refreshing, with a little hint of effervescence. I feel it trickling through my body and remember I haven’t eaten breakfast or anything today. I was too nervous to do anything like that. Instantly I'm warm and almost as golden as the liquid itself.

  “That's it,” the first brother whispers as he watches me swallow. “It's good, right?”

  “Actually, it's amazing!” I breathe. I stare at the glass like it holds some kind of magical artifact. “What did you say this is? Wine? I've never had anything like it.”

  “No, you haven't,” the first brother smiles. “It’s our wine. Special reserve, for special occasions only.”

  The other brother refills my glass nearly to the brim.

  “Special reserve?” I repeat, feeling the glass drift automatically back to my lips.

  The second glass is even better than the first one. I detect almost a caramel flavoring and the bubbles tickle the back of my tongue.

  “Yes, we only make a few bottles a year.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask. “You added something to this? Tim?”

  “No, I'm Tom,” he chuckles. “It’s what we do. On our farm, next door. Did you notice it?”

  “Oh,” I mumble. I think back to the orderly rows of trees that I saw on my way in, the house beyond. “That's an orchard? That's your farm?”

  “Only for the last hundred years or so,” he shrugs. “Course, it's a little different now, with all the trendy organic stuff. The specialty stuff. But, yeah. That's what we do.”

  “That's amazing,” I shake my head. “You seriously made this? Really, that's… amazing!”

  Okay, I tell myself. Time to get a new word. You can't just say amazing over and over again, Vanessa.

  “Well, it's nice that you think so,” the second brother says. Tim. I’ve got to try to remember that. “I guess we kinda get used to it, doing it day in and day out. But it sure is nice to hear someone else appreciate us.”

  I take another sip of the wine, then set it down carefully. If I'm not cautious, I'm going to end up drunk — college girl drunk — before I even have a bite to eat. I reach out and pluck a still warm flatbread from the pile and drop it on the plate in front of me. Then I grind some spices over the top and finish it with a healthy dollop of hummus.

  “Okay, we should eat,” one of the brothers says. Tom, I’m pretty sure. “What is this? Flatbread, you said?”

  “Yeah…” I nod. “You eat it like a taco. Just get some of the things that you like, put it in there, and fold it in half. It's good! You’ll love it.”

  The late afternoon air fills with the sound of bowls and cutlery clinking, and things being slid around the table as everybody piles little morsels of this and that on their plates. I finish my flatbread off with some strips of red pepper and chicken curry, and then balance a couple of grilled shrimp on top. It's an interesting variety, but I hope it'll soak up the apple wine I just had. How did I manage to down a glass and a half before the flatbread was even cool?

  “Oh, man, this is delicio
us,” says the brother on my right as he tucks into an abundantly overstuffed flatbread.

  I watch his jaw knot as he chews and his throat flex with each swallow. Momentarily transfixed, I barely notice when he lets his legs fall open a little bit. When his knee touches mine, the connection is electric. He cuts his eyes toward me, still chewing enthusiastically, as if to make sure that I felt it too.

  Boy, do I feel it.

  I push up on my toe, nudging him back with the side of my leg. The corner of his lip twists up in a slow, eager smile, tight with anticipation. Slowly I let my leg fall again, dragging my skin against his and watching to see his reaction. His eyes never waver as he holds my gaze with keen, burning interest.

  Then suddenly, on the other side, I feel a hand brush my other leg. Fingers sneak around the back of my knee and pull it toward the other brother.

  Stifling my reflex to gasp, I look over as slowly as I can, not letting anyone else at the table in on what's happening. That brother gives me an identical look of intense concentration. An identical smirk. An identical invitation, I feel certain.

  Is this happening? I'm certain it is, though I have to admit the wine is affecting me already. I almost feel it sloshing around in my belly as I scoot closer to the table, surreptitiously tucking my chair and the lower half of my body out of sight. If my mom or dad look over this way, all they will see is me being friendly with our shy, rather intense neighbors. Nothing strange here, right?

  Then I feel their hands drifting over my thighs, fluttering under my skirt, slipping up toward the warmer parts of me. Something holds me captive in my seat as their hands pry apart my humid, curvy thighs, all while their expressions hardly change.

  Something about the magic of the wine makes me let them. My heart is beating like a hummingbird, so fast I can barely breathe. Yet I'm eager, so eager to have their hands on me.

  I let my legs fall open and feel the first tentative friction across the surface of my panties. I bite my lips together to stifle a moan and instead grab my glass, holding it up to my lips so that I can sigh into it. The glass of this intoxicating elixir holds my secret moan as curious fingers probe the outlines of my panties, searching for a way in.