His Secret Love by Ava Ryan

10

Skye

“Thanks for helpingme grab some things,” I say a few days later as I let a wide-eyed Jasmine into Marlene’s apartment and usher her into the living room. After dropping the kids at school, I’ve spent the morning packing my essentials and a few more toys for the kids. Too bad I can’t also throw an extra dose of the wisdom and self-control to stay away from Jake during the next several weeks, but I suppose that would be asking too much of the universe. “You’re awesome.”

“No worries,” she says, processing the grandeur by turning in a slow circle to take it all in. “Oh. My. God. You hit the mother lode with this one, didn’t you? Do they have those giant, fluffy bath sheets? Towel warmers?”

“She has heated floors in the bathroom,” I say.

“Lucky bitch,” Jasmine says in an awed voice as she leans closer to stare appreciatively at an oversized piece of art on the wall.

“I wouldn’t call it luck. She works her ass off. They both do. Which is why they need me.”

Don’t ask me why I feel this odd compulsion to defend Marlene. Lucky may not be the best word to use to describe her career success, but bitchy certainly applies to her personality. Matter of fact, I see flashes of bitchy every time I’m with her. Even so, I can’t help thinking that Marlene battles more than a personal demon or two. For all her wealth, I’ve never seen her take much joy in anything. Not her apartment, wardrobe or car. Certainly not her kids. I find that profoundly sad.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know how you’re going to go back to normal life after working at someplace like this,” Jasmine says with a sweeping gesture.

“Neither do I,” I say glumly, thinking of my limited career prospects, looming student debt burden and pending need for an apartment come fall. “I’ll probably need to buy a car so I can live in it.”

She’s moved over to the windows to admire the park views, but now she turns back around to give me an exasperated look. “How many times do I have to tell you? You can crash with me for a while. I have an extra bedroom. No worries.”

“You say that now. But when I’m still there six months from now, camped out on your sofa eating cereal from the box while playing online games all day, you might be singing a different tune.”

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” she says, laughing until she wanders over to the kitchen and catches sight of the range. Her jaw drops. “How many burners does this thing have? Who are these people cooking for?”

“Are you kidding? Marlene doesn’t cook,” I say, trailing after her. “And if you like this one, you should see Jake’s kitchen.”

“Jake,”she says with a smirk of feminine appreciation. “A hot dad name if I ever heard one.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” I say, hastily creating a distraction from my burning face by pointing to the little watercolor paintings on the refrigerator. Both of which show definite signs of junior Picassos in the making, if you ask me. “Look at these. Becca painted the ducks on the pond. Look at their little feet! And this one is Charlie’s. He loves dogs. I think their brushwork at this age is amazing, don’t you? They painted them at camp the other day.”

“Not bad,” she says with an eye that’s admittedly much more objective than mine. “What’s with these fancy frames? Are these magnets?”

I give her a look. “Marlene doesn’t just use tape or common refrigerator magnets in her household,” I say. “I thought you understood that.”

“I’m starting to understand,” she says, laughing as her brows creep higher. “I’m also starting to wonder where the signs of actual human life are around here. Where are the toys on the floor? The fingerprints on the wall? The crumbs on the counter?”

“You won’t find any of that around here,” I say with an exaggerated shudder of revulsion.

“Not true,” she says, spying a framed picture of the kids sitting on Marlene’s little desk area in the alcove at the far end of the kitchen counter. “This is a sign of actual human life. Wow. These two are adorable. Look at their rosy cheeks. I just want to squeeze them!”

“I know.” I stare over her shoulder at the picture, which is a shot of the kids in their uniforms on the first day of school. They look happy and proud with their backpacks and their arms slung around each other. “They’re the sweetest little things. Marlene never touches them.”

Jasmine glances around from returning the photo to its spot, looking startled. “Bullshit.”

“I’m dead serious,” I say. “She sort of, I don’t know, pats them when they come home. It’s the weirdest thing. I’m betting when they get old enough, she’ll just train them to shake her hand and that’ll be that.”

“Poor little munchkins,” she says. “I’m hating this Marlene more and more every second. What’s the dad like?”

As always, when the subject of Jake comes up, I need to resist the urge to swoon. A task that’s much easier said than done.

“He’s great. Very loving and involved.”

“Well, at least they’ve got one good parent. No wonder he divorced the evil Marlene.”

“Hmm,” I say, not wanting to get into it for multiple reasons.

First, because I’d never break his confidence about the reasons behind their split. My word is my bond, and I take secrets to the grave. I made that vow to myself way back in sixth grade, when I confided in a friend in my gym class that I’d gotten my period and swore her to secrecy only for her to blab to a couple other girls during lunch. Second, and this is the bigger thing, because I’m so grateful that he trusted me with that kind of sensitive and painful information. He reached out to me. He let me in. That makes me feel special. Not exactly a Nobel Peace Prize win, but it sure feels like a significant event in my life. I also know it doesn’t make sense for me to want to keep him at arm’s length on the one hand and to want to get to know him better on the other hand, but nothing about this situation between us makes sense. It’s just there. And I’m beginning to wonder whether he was right when he said we needed to deal with it.

A deeply unsettling thought.

I have no idea where any of this is headed. But the more I spend time with him, the more it seems increasingly unlikely that it’s going to go away on its own without a fight. Matter of fact, it’s a good thing Marlene called last night when she did. Between the way Jake was looking at me and the way my restless hands itched for the feel of him again, it’s a safe bet I would’ve spent some portion of the night with my legs wrapped around his waist or propped up on his shoulders.

And hooking up with Jake again would be profoundly reckless if not downright self-destructive. Either option wouldn’t end well for me.

But I want him. I really want him.

“So do they get along?” Jasmine asks, frowning thoughtfully. “Marlene and Jake?”

I suffer from a sudden attack of the fidgets. “They, ah, seem to. From, ah, what I can tell,” I say, struggling to get my hair satisfactorily tucked behind my ear. “I mean, I think there’s some tension. But it’s not like War of the Roses or anything.”

“Any lingering feelings on either side?”

Isn’t that the million-dollar question? Having already suffered from one inappropriate attack of jealousy recently, I do everything I can to prevent another one. I remind myself that whatever Jake and I may or may not be with each other right now, in a committed relationship is definitely not one of them. Then I remind myself that Jake and Marlene were married for years and may still have feelings and/or a physical relationship with each other. That would be normal and expected, right? For all I know, Jake considers Marlene the love of his life.

A prospect that threatens to bring out my inner Godzilla and unleash her destructive power on this unsuspecting kitchen.

“I don’t think so,” I say, praying it’s true on Jake’s end if nothing else.

“Oh, well, none of my business,” Jasmine says, opening the fridge and perusing the drink selections. “I don’t even know these people. But I always wonder about folks who hire a hot nanny like you. It’s such a cliché, but what kind of fool wants that sort of temptation around her man day in and day out? Guess it doesn’t matter here, but still.”

Guilt makes me cringe. It takes me a beat or two to snap out of it.

“Luckily, not everyone agrees with you,” I say, my voice pitching only slightly higher as I cross my arms and stare moodily out the windows. “Otherwise, I’d be unemployed.”

I think that sounds plausible enough, but evidently the long pause and the false note in my voice have given me away. Jasmine emerges from the fridge with a bottle of Marlene’s fancy water and a suspicious look on her face.

“Hang on,” she says. “How was your date the other day? You were very cagey when I asked you about it.”

“I don’t want to get into it right now.” I normally tell Jasmine everything, so I’m not sure why I’m taking this stance. Probably because I’m still trying to process my feelings about the whole situation, and something about my interlude with Jake on the terrace feels more precious than the standard romantic exploit. Part of me feels a little guilty and a little slutty, both of which are ridiculous. And a big part of me feels weird discussing my personal relationship with Jake on his ex-wife’s turf. “Come on. Let’s go to my room so I can pack.”

“There you go again being cagey,” she says, her interest sharpening to a razor’s edge. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think that your Jake was this Jake.”

Caught.

I know that hooking up with Jake wasn’t a crime or anything, but I still freeze where I am like an escaped prisoner who’s made it halfway up a barbed-wire fence when the spotlight from the guard tower finds her.

“Oh my God,” Jasmine says with the appropriate level of scandalized horror. “It’s Jake? Your date was with Jake the dad?”

Naturally, I collapse before this withering cross-examination. “Yes.”

She edges closer, dropping her voice. “You didn’t… You didn’t hook up with him the other night, did you?”

I let my eyes roll closed and scrunch up my face as I confess. “Kind of?”

“Kind of?” she cries. “Kind of?”

I shrug, letting her connect the last couple of dots.

“Oh my God,” she says, clamping a hand to either side of her head. “Oh. My. God.”

“That about covers it,” I say morosely.

“And now you’re working with him? How? Please explain to me what is going on here.”

I drag her down to my room, where I shut the door and tell her the whole sordid tale while I finish packing. Except for the parts about why the marriage ended and my jealousy over the sexting incident. By the time I finish, Jasmine looks more incredulous than ever.

“So where do things stand now?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say miserably.

“But you like him?”

“Yes.”

“And he wants to see you again?”

I think about the huskiness in his voice last night and the way his eyes glowed when he looked at me in the darkness.

“Yes,” I say, bracing myself and fighting the urge to run for cover because I know what’s coming.

“It’s because every straight dad wants to fuck the hot nanny. You know that, right? Just like every straight man wants to fuck the hot cheerleader and the hot nurse in her white uniform. Tale as old as time.”

“I know.”

“You’re not falling for that routine, are you? I know how you are, Skye. You think sex and emotional attachment go hand in hand. He’s probably giving you pretty speeches and soulful looks across the dining room table. And you’re involved with his kids? Oh my God. This has disaster written all over it.”

“Give me some credit,” I snap, probably because this whole assessment hits way too close to home. “We haven’t done anything. Not even a kiss. It was just the one night.”

“Yeah, but you want to. And you’ve got this whole forced proximity thing going? It’s only a matter of time. Mark my words,” she concludes darkly. “I hate to see you get caught up in this rich-people drama. It always ends badly for the poor person in the group. Didn’t you read TheNanny Diaries?”

“I’m fighting the good fight, Jasmine.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “Fight. Harder.”

Like it’s that easy. I’m already worn out from fighting, and it’s only been a few days.

“Well, what do you recommend that’ll save me from myself, oh wise one? Since you have all the opinions today?”

Long pause. “I say go for it,” she says, tapping her index finger on her chin. “Since you’re going to cave to your overactive hormones anyway.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I’d be less surprised to hear her suggest a throuple with me, Tom Brady and Drake.

“What?”

“Give yourself a fun fall with Sexy Dad. Have your little secret affair. Then say goodbye and go on your merry way after the holidays. You each enjoy the rest of your lives. No harm, no foul. As long as you remember that you’re just temporary visitors in their lives and don’t get your feelings all tangled up.”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say flatly, but my brain is already shifting into third gear, working hard to figure out how I could make her suggestion work.

I mean, let’s face it—it’s an intriguing suggestion. I already know that my involvement with this family is only temporary. I know to keep them at some sort of safe distance, difficult as it may be. I know that Jake is a newly divorced guy for whom the idea of a new relationship is probably as appetizing as having a ball and chain surgically attached to his left ankle. I know that my own life is in flux and that I need to focus on my next career moves.

Most of all, I know that Jake and I cannot continue to fight the chemistry between us with any real success. Hell, we almost surrendered to it last night. If we’re not sexually done with each other—which we clearly aren’t—then the only things left to decide are the terms of our hookups. Right? We’re both adults. We know what to expect from each other and, more importantly, what not to expect from each other.

Jasmine eyeballs me closely before pointing at my nose. “You’re tempted. I can tell—”

The distant sound of the front door opening and closing interrupts us. We glance around just as Marlene’s voice drifts down the hall.

“Skye? Are you here?”

“Coming!” I call.

Then I turn back to tell Jasmine that I’ll only be a second when I discover her hot on my heels.

“You don’t think I’m missing the chance to meet Robo-Mom, do you?” she says.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” I roll my eyes.

“Hi, Marlene,” I say when we emerge into the living room, where she’s standing in all her Victoria Beckham-clad glory perusing today’s stack of mail. “I just came to pick up a few—”

“And you are…?” Marlene says, zeroing in on Jasmine, who’s probably already regretting her decision to leave the relative safety of my bedroom.

“Jasmine,” she says brightly, extending a hand. “Skye’s sister.”

Marlene gives her the usual cool-eyed appraisal before glancing down at Jasmine’s hand as though she’s only beginning to understand the rudiments of how these social interactions work. Then she takes Jasmine’s hand and gives it a cursory squeeze.

“Pleasure,” she says in a tone that suggests she’d sooner stick your hand in the sink disposal before shaking hands with anyone ever again.

“My pleasure,” Jasmine says with that winning smile of hers. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Marlene hesitates, her eyes narrowing infinitesimally, before turning that glacial gaze on me.

“I’d like to speak to you. In the kitchen.”

“Sure,” I say, shooting Jasmine a death glare before trailing Marlene into the kitchen.

“You’ll find that my ex-husband has a very active social life,” she says.

I freeze, my pulse rate thundering into the red zone. “I’m sorry?” I say, startled by this non sequitur.

“I believe he’s on all those ridiculous dating sites. Men enjoy picking new faces. New conquests.”

“Okay…?” I say, my cheeks beginning to burn.

“What Jake does on his own time is his business. But I don’t want my children exposed to his parade of hookups. He’s very discreet, and I’d be surprised if brought any of his fuck buddies home for dinner. Especially since they never last longer than ten minutes. But I expect you to keep me posted about his goings-on.”

“Me?” I cry. And let me just add that there’s no way that one tiny word can express the full spectrum of my horror in that moment.

“Consider yourself my eyes and ears on the ground while I’m gone,” she says, shooting me a pointed look before pivoting in her sky-high heels to head back to the living room.

Somehow, I find my voice.

“That’s not my job description, Marlene. I’m not a spy.”

I hear the humorless tinkle of her laugh.

“Your job description is whatever I say it is,” she says without breaking stride. “I suggest you remember that.”