THE NANNY'S SECRET

by Monica McLean

  "Thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence." He eyed the door and wondered what he should say next.

  As if she'd read his mind, Rachel patted his hand. "The beauty of knowing someone a long time is not having to say the obvious." She reached for her coat and purse and slid from the booth. "You take care, Brooks."

  "You, too, Rachel." He stood and helped her with her coat, then pecked her cheek and watched her leave.

  * * *

  Amelia hesitated outside the door of Brooks's bedroom, the final room in her nickel tour of the first and second floors. The third-floor attic had been too cold for her bare feet, so she opted to save it for later. Maybe she could wait on Brooks's room, too. Maybe he had a thing about people in his bedroom. Maybe she should ask before—

  "Oh, get over it already," she muttered, knowing full well he wouldn't care, that she was simply stalling.

  Though she'd seen Mitch's and Dean's bedrooms, there was something more intimate about Brooks's. Her feelings for him were unlike those for his brothers. She didn't want to face the futility of her attraction any more than she wanted to face the fact she was jealous of his girlfriend. But sooner or later she'd have to come to terms with both, and Brooks's bedroom was by far the lesser of the evils.

  Squaring her shoulders, she pushed open the door and stopped short. Whereas Mitch's and Dean's bedrooms had a notable, tornado—like consistency—furniture arranged more for convenience than appearance, unmade beds, clothes and clutter everywhere—Brooks's did not.

  A king-size, pine sleigh bed dominated the room, its quilt and pillows arranged with military precision. The dresser top boasted a few framed photos. Two chairs sat with a chest in between, positioned in front of a large window that faced east, the direction of endless rolling hills. Under her feet, a thick, sand-colored rug left a wide perimeter of uncovered, polished hardwood.

  As she stepped further inside, the warmth of the room wrapped around her like a cocoon. She spun around, taking in walls painted moss-green with crisp, white trim. She crossed to the bed and ran her fingers over the handmade quilt, wondering whose painstaking efforts had resulted in such a beautiful creation.

  Clean, simple and comfortable, this was a bedroom that invited sweet dreams at the end of a hard day. She allowed herself the quiet luxury of standing there, taking it in for a few moments longer, then got busy, repeating the procedure she'd done with the upstairs rooms.

  In. Out. No big deal. No need to linger over the photos on the dresser, wondering who was whom and what they meant to Brooks. No need to look longer than necessary at the bed. No need to imagine Brooks moving casually around the room, emptying his pockets, undressing each night.

  Pushing away such thoughts, she used the tape measure she'd found in a kitchen drawer and noted the dimensions of the room on her paper.

  She knew the precise moment she wasn't alone, as if sensing a shift in the air molecules. Whirling, she saw Brooks in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the door frame, brows knitted.

  Her gaze flew to the digital clock on his nightstand. Nine o'clock. Why was he home so early?

  He wore a denim jacket, the same hue as the jeans that encased his impossibly long legs. She imagined muscles hard as rock beneath soft, faded material and wiggled her fingers to stop their sudden tingling.

  Get over it.

  Clutching her notes to her chest, she rose on the balls of her feet, then lowered herself. "I, um, know what you're thinking. You're wondering what I'm doing traipsing through your drawers."

  He tilted his head as if to say, "And?"

  "I—I wasn't actually in your drawers. I was just…"

  "I'd know if you were in my drawers, Amelia."

  "Oh. I would never…" she started, then stopped. He was teasing. She knew that. Good. He couldn't be too mad then. She exhaled, then bit her lip, trying to formulate the right words before she blurted out any more nonsense.

  "I have a good explanation," she said, opting for the direct approach. "I just don't want to tell you yet. It's nothing dishonest. I don't want you to think—"

  "Okay." Brooks unfolded his hulking frame from the doorway and stepped into his bedroom, slinging his jacket over the back of a chair as he passed.

  The once-large room felt much smaller now. She blinked and shook her head to clear it. "Okay?"

  "Yeah. Whatever." He pulled the tails of his shirt from his jeans, sat on the edge of the bed and dragged the bootjack over with his foot. "Did Timmy wake up again?"

  That was it? No third degree? He'd just take her word she had good reason to be snooping around in his bedroom?

  "No. No, he didn't," she stammered. "Just the once. Haven't heard a peep since. I checked on him about an—"

  "I'm sure he's down for the night."

  She stared at him in stunned silence, the realization sinking in that to some degree, this man trusted her—alone in his house, in his bedroom, with his baby nephew.

  His faith humbled her. He was a good man, an honorable man. And she wanted him.

  Her heart pounded whenever he was around, whenever he so much as glanced in her direction with those beautiful sapphire eyes, whenever he spoke in that deep, sexy timbre.

  "You'd better go," he said. "Don't want to offend you by changing into my jammies."

  What she wouldn't have given to see his jammies. She shivered, rubbing her arms. "Do you … do you have horsies like Timmy?" her voice came out scratchy and hoarse.

  "No." His jaw set in a hard line. "No horsies."

  "Of course not." What an unbelievably stupid thing to ask. She ducked her head and made tracks for the door, but in her haste, a few papers slipped free. Stooping to gather them, she glanced up, an apology on the tip of her tongue. Glimpsing Brooks's unguarded expression, her mouth went dry.

  He looked like a wounded soldier returning from battle. She noted dark smudges beneath his eyes, recalled how he usually took off his boots in the mudroom and wondered…

  Was it just fatigue? Or was it something more?

  Whatever it was, it was none of her business. Brooks Hart was off limits for a multitude of reasons, and he didn't need her poking around his head any more than his drawers. She rose and scurried for the door. It was a bad idea coming into his room tonight. She should have known her jumbled emotions couldn't withstand such temptation.

  "Amelia?" His voice came behind her, the quiet rumble like the ocean at low tide, its subdued power rippling over her senses, its warmth lapping at her ankles, teasing and tempting and promising so much more.

  Don't do this to me. Don't tilt my world any more out of whack. Don't make me want you more than I already do.

  "Yes?" She rubbed her temples, not trusting herself to turn around

  "About Rachel…"

  "Don't. Please, don't." Whatever it was, she didn't want to hear it. Not now. Not here. Not when he was so close and yet so far. "You don't owe me any explanations."

  The weight of his gaze bored between her shoulder blades. A long pause and then, "'Night, Amelia."

  "'Night." She got halfway out the door before she caught the door frame and gritted her teeth. "I meant to tell you … a cow was circling the corral looking for her calf earlier." She told him what she knew. "Dean hasn't come back yet."

  A weary sigh. The scuff of boots. "I'll go check."

  "Brooks?"

  "Yeah?"

  She turned, her concern outweighing her caution. "Is everything okay?" she forced the words past her lips, unable to shake the feeling this was more than exhaustion and cows.

  "Yeah. Why?" The tightness around his mouth told her otherwise, but she didn't pry.

  "No reason. Just … try to get some sleep later, okay? You don't look so hot."

  He gave her a wry smile. "Thanks."

  "I didn't mean—"

  "I know what you meant, lollipop. I appreciate it."

  "Okay then. Good night."

  "Good night."

  * * *

  Brooks arrived on the scene to
find Dean smearing balm on a cow's sunburned bag while Mitch bottle-fed her starving calf. Dean had maneuvered the frantic cow Amelia mentioned into the shed to reunite with her calf, and the new mama was now licking it bright and humming. Brooks offered to finish night duty for Mitch, but Mitch said no, he had things under control, so Brooks turned back for the house.

  He was halfway up the hill when Dean hollered for him to wait up. He slowed, walking backward. "Uh-oh. What'd you do now? You got that confession look on your face."

  From the time he was a kid, Dean had never been one to cover up his mistakes. "I, uh, mighta stuck my foot in it earlier with Amelia," he said. "She asked about Rachel."

  "Oh, did she?" Brooks couldn't help but smile. Not so uninterested after all. He hooked his thumbs into his pockets and listened to Dean's account of their conversation, after which he clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Don't sweat it. No harm done." But when he started back for the house, Dean didn't fall in step. He turned and studied him in the moonlight. "What?"

  Dean shrugged. "I really like her."

  "Like, like. As in a crush?"

  "Hell, no." He screwed up his face like he'd sucked a lemon. "That's like asking if I got a crush on Jo. Gross."

  Brooks gave a rueful chuckle, wishing he could echo his brother's sentiments. It sure would simplify things.

  "I just like having her here, is all. Takes a while to get to know her, but she's real smart. Funny, too. 'Course Timmy loves her. You should have seen her dancing with him in the nursery, twirling around."

  He could just imagine. "Okay, Dean. I got that you're Amelia's new fan club president. Is this going somewhere? You want me to give her a raise? Double her salary? What?"

  "Well…" More shuffling. "I was hoping you'd maybe give some thought to, ah, making her a permanent part of the family."

  "You want to adopt her?"

  "I want you to marry her."

  "Marry her?" Brooks straightened to his full height. "You bang your head wrestling that cow into the shed?" He purposefully searched his brother's eyes. "The lights are on, but no one's home."

  "Ah, hell, I don't mean tomorrow. She's got amnesia after all." Dean blew out an exasperated breath. "It's just something to think about since you and Rachel aren't ever gonna take it to another level…"

  Damn. He was actually serious. "Read my lips, Dean. No way. Never. Not gonna happen."

  Dean dropped his gaze. "What if the Blond Widow comes back?" he asked quietly, the raw fear in his voice cutting Brooks to the quick, slicing the defensiveness out of him.

  "Is that what this is really about?"

  Dean looked up, and the moonlight caught the sheen in his eyes. "I love that kid. I don't want to lose him."

  Brooks didn't hesitate. He slung an arm around his brother and hugged him hard, then pulled back and grasped his shoulders, looking him in the eye. "Neither do I. And I promise you if it becomes an issue, I'll do everything humanly possible to keep him. But until then… We can't live our lives afraid of things that might never happen."

  Dean nodded and dabbed at his eyes. "You're right." He threw off his brother's hands and shoved him in the gut for good measure. "You're a hypocrite, but you're right."

  "Hey." Brooks caught him in a headlock and mussed his hair before pushing him away. "Watch your mouth, son."

  Dean chuckled. "You sound like Pete. I feel a lecture on the birds and the bees coming up."

  "Well, now that you brought up the subject…"

  "I … what? Ah, hell." He kicked the ground. "When am I gonna learn to keep my trap shut?"

  "Ain't your trap I'm worried about. What do you know about condoms, junior?"

  "Aw, Brooks. I'm twenty-five, not fifteen."

  "Good, then you should have all the answers."

  "But we already had this conversation back then."

  "Think of it as renewing your driver's license."

  They lingered on the porch and had their man-to-man, after which Brooks was sure Dean understood the physical precautions necessary with intimacy. Unfortunately Dean turned a deaf ear to Brooks's counsel not to risk his heart on a girl who would never stay in the Cowboy State past tourist season.

  "You don't want my dating advice," Dean said. "And I sure as hell don't want yours."

  "All right," Brooks said. "Fair's fair. But will you at least be honest with me about significant women in your life? I don't want to learn you got married after the fact, or find a birth announcement in-person on my doorstep."

  "Don't worry, I promise not to pull a Luke on you," Dean said, cutting to the heart of Brooks's fear.

  "Thanks." He opened the back door. "Ready to hit the showers?"

  "Thought you'd never ask." Dean slid off the railing.

  The big, old house was silent as Brooks walked barefoot down the hall. He eyed Amelia's closed door and checked on Timmy, then headed for the shower.

  Five minutes under the hot spray, and he thought he'd dissolve down the drain along with the soap. Exhausted, he fell naked into bed, dropping his wet towel on the floor.

  It was only ten o'clock, but he felt as if he'd pulled an all-nighter, five nights in a row. His eyes burned, and his muscles felt like lead weights, but despite his fatigue, he didn't sleep.

  It was the same every night, had been for almost three weeks with no sign of letting up. No matter how dog-tired, he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

  He couldn't go on like this much longer, suspended in some perpetual state of denial, going through the motions of his new life and pretending he was dealing just fine, while in truth he was avoiding entirely.

  Avoiding Luke's boxes in the attic. Avoiding the pain of finding out his brother's secrets. Avoiding letting go.

  The boxes would reconcile the stranger who'd shown up on the porch with the brother he'd once known. He dreaded those boxes like he'd dreaded nothing in his life, and the longer he waited, the harder it got. He knew there was no getting around it.

  Grief, like death, demanded payment in full.

  With a succinct oath he hadn't voiced in a long time, he rolled out of bed and rubbed both hands over his face. Then he took a deep breath, threw on a pair of jeans and headed for the third floor.

  * * *

  Amelia tossed and turned and finally gave up. She sat up and clicked on the lamp, took her business plan from the drawer of her bedside table and went back to work.

  She'd definitely done this before—she was sure of it. Using a ruler, she drew scaled floor plans of the first and second floors. Excited by how everything fell into place, she climbed out of bed and changed into a pair of sweats. With the tape measure and Timmy's baby monitor, she crept through the silent house to the third floor to finish the last of her measurements.

  When she got there, the attic door was open. In the dim yellow light, she saw Brooks sitting slumped over on a box, arms braced on his legs, another, smaller box open by his feet. He wore only jeans, low on his hips, every inch of his body muscled from hard physical labor. If he had an ounce of fat on him, she didn't know where he kept it. She held her breath and inched back, hoping to sneak out, but a floorboard creaked beneath her feet.

  Brooks lifted his head. Across the room, their gazes met and locked as if bound by an invisible force. At the raw, naked pain in his eyes, her heart constricted.

  Luke's boxes, she realized. Brooks was going through his possessions, all that remained of the brother he loved.

  "Not much left," he said, raking his fingers through his hair. "We arranged an estate sale for his furniture. This is just … personal stuff."

  Amelia didn't think but merely acted, crossing the room on the impulse to return even a small amount of the comfort he'd given her in her time of need at the hospital.

  Recognition flickered in his eyes, as if he understood her intent. He held up his hand, shuttering those gorgeous, blue windows to his soul, and turned his back.

  "Don't," he said. "I'm fine. I'll be … fine." His voice sounded heavy with strain, as if
he'd wrenched each word free with Herculean effort.

  She ignored his protest, placed the tape measure and baby monitor on a shelf and bent to wrap her arms around him. His shoulders were so broad she looped one arm over his shoulder, the other around his neck. His skin was so hot she half expected to see steam wafting into the cold attic.

  At her touch, his back went straight as a beam in the rafters overhead. "Amel— God." He made a low, wretched sound and reached for her arms as if to remove them. "You shouldn't be here."

  "Well, I am. And I'm not leaving. So don't even try to tell me to go." At the moan of pure agony that rumbled from his chest, she tightened her hold and realized he was shaking. "Shh. It's okay," she whispered, knowing full well he could overpower her if he wanted. But he didn't. Instead he held onto her as a drowning man gripped a life preserver. Gently she lowered her cheek to his hair and repeated the words he'd said to her at the hospital, "Just rest for a minute. Lean against me and catch your breath."

  For long moments, they remained like that, until she wasn't sure who was giving whom the comfort. Beneath her palms, his heart pounded a steady tempo. He smelled nice, like spring rain in the mountains, clean soap and shampoo and the natural, earthy smell of a red-blooded male. Her breath caught, and she shivered.

  The shiver seemed to pass from her body into his, and he shuddered. His chest expanded and contracted in choppy jags. Still, she made no move to leave.

  "Everyone hurts sometimes," she said, her voice thick, raspy. "You aren't alone."

  With the deep, tortured growl of a wounded animal, he turned, framing her face in his large hands. "You are not going to hurt again. Not under this roof."

  A hard lump of emotion closed her throat, his words like a salve on a wound she didn't realize she had. But this wasn't about her. It was about him. His suffering.

  Amelia didn't utter another word—not one syllable—simply folded herself into his arms, holding onto his big, warm body in the chilly stillness of the attic. Her name tore from his lips on a ragged groan, and he stiffened at first. But she laid her cheek against his chest, and his arms wrapped around her, holding her loosely, but holding her nonetheless.