His Secret Love by Ava Ryan

4

Skye

“Becca! Why did you do that?”cries Charlie, age four, with the sort of righteous outrage that only a wronged younger brother can truly manage. Even his little glasses with their green frames seem to flash with indignation. “It was my turn! I was supposed to push the button!”

“Well, you can’t, because I pushed it.” Becca, a smug six-year-old who wears her two additional years of wisdom and life experience the way Anna Wintour wears a cardigan slung across her slender shoulders, withdraws her hand from the oversized yellow button on the light pole at the corner and adjusts her blue-framed glasses.

We’re on our way home from school (they go to a fancy and obscenely expensive private school that employs a tragic year-round attendance policy), where I just retrieved these two junior hooligans in training. I provided them with their standard post-school snack of cheese and crackers, then watched as they raced around the playground at the park for half an hour or so, praying the entire time that they’d dissipate most of their energy. It didn’t work. It never does. I’ve only been their nanny for four days, but I’ve already learned that painful lesson. Oh, and I took some great shots of them with my phone, but all credit goes to their adorability rather than my developing photography skills.

“You’ll have to be faster next time,” Becca adds.

“I was fast!” Charlie’s voice pitches higher. He’s only got two tones (high and higher) and two speeds (hyper and manic). If he’s ever uttered a sentence that didn’t end in exclamation point, I haven’t been around long enough to hear it. “You smacked my hand away!”

“Because you were slow,” Becca says serenely.

“You can’t do that! Miss Skye—”

“Yes, I saw what happened, Charlie.” The light changes just then, so I take their hands as we set off on the crosswalk. “I’m surprised she’d do something like that, frankly. She must’ve forgotten that I promised that kids who follow the rules on the way home get two Life Savers each—”

“Cherry Life Savers!” Charlie interjects.

“—cherry Life Savers when we get back to the apartment. Now she’s down to how many Life Savers, Charlie?”

“One Life Saver!” Charlie says with the kind of triumph you expect to see from the most valuable player at the end of the Super Bowl when he’s hoisting the Lombardi trophy over his head.

“That is correct,” I say.

“I don’t even care,” Becca says, her pert little nose in the air. “Orange Life Savers are better.”

“If you say so,” I say, exchanging a sidelong glance and raised eyebrow with Charlie, who works hard to stifle his grin, because we know better. “You can press the button when we get on the elevator, Charlie.”

This announcement elicits a cheer from Charlie and a scowl from Becca.

Nevertheless, we make it several more feet down the sidewalk before encountering a new distraction.

“Oh, gelato! Can we get some gelato, Miss Skye?” Becca says.

The two of them yank their hands free and run over to press their hands to the glass window under the yellow-striped awning and chatter happily—all hostilities now forgotten—about today’s flavor options and the relative merits of each choice. Peach and strawberry seem to be the front runners, but it’s hard for me to say, because my mind has already drifted to the last time I saw peach gelato. To the other night…to Jake.

From whom—and this will shock your sensibilities, I know—I haven’t heard a peep since I left his apartment.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. Congenital stupidity, probably.

The melancholy memory of our goodbye is cued up for another rerun inside my head. I don’t know why I keep reliving it and wallowing in the sorrow. You’d think I bought tickets to some overpriced production of Romeo and Juliet on Broadway and can’t get enough of the balcony scene or something.

I’m sick of myself at this point. I’m not going to see him again. I need to accept that and move on. And I will.

But first? Another showing of the final scene between our star-crossed lovers.

I retreat into his magnificent marble powder room, where I try to collect my thoughts and hurriedly do everything I can to reverse the visible effects of his touch on my body. An enterprise that’s severely limited by my complete lack of toiletries. I splash water on my face, run wet fingers through my hair to try to stop it from standing up like a rooster’s comb. Then I take a deep breath and face myself in the mirror, where I discover that I look like what I am, which is a woman who’s just been fucked to within an inch of her life. Bright eyes. Rapid breathing. Trembling hands. Feverishly high color. Prominent nipples despite my bra. I repress a burble of semi-hysterical laughter with great difficulty, surprised that my pussy isn’t visible through my clothes. It feels like she should be glowing with the radiant warmth of ET’s pointer finger right now. She’s that happy.

But I can only hide for so long before making Jake suspicious that I’m stealing his expensive hand towels. So I take a deep breath, open the door and emerge into the hallway, where I discover him waiting for me.

His face seems harsh now, the lamp from the console table casting it into shadow. His shirt is partially untucked and badly wrinkled. He’s got his hands in his pockets, emphasizing the persistent bulge at the front of his pants.

I freeze as our gazes connect, waiting because I know what’s coming. The awkward price to pay for an unforgettably perfect date.

I’d feel better if I could decipher anything about his expression, but I can’t.

Because he’s a total stranger and I’ve known him for less than three hours.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey.”

He opens his mouth, clearly gearing up to say more, but I decide to cut this whole thing off at the pass. We’re both adults who’ve done this mating dance before. We both know this was a one-time deal. No need to prolong the inevitable.

“You know what? I’m just going to go,” I say, gesturing vaguely over my shoulder toward the door. “It’s late.”

“What?”

He seems startled. A nice but unnecessary touch.

“But thank you. For an amazing evening.”

I mean that. I really do.

I walk to the door and slip back into my heels, which I kicked off earlier. I’m leaving, yeah, but I really want to stay. I’m trying to maintain my dignity and my whole sophisticated woman-of-the-world façade here. The last thing I want is to force him to frogmarch me out, throw my purse out after me and slam and bolt the door behind me. But I would kill to spend more time with Jake, in bed or out. What’s that Tracy Chapman song? “Give Me One Reason”? Yeah. That. All I need is a look. A touch. Hell, at this desperate moment I’d probably even settle for a sneeze, because then I could offer my nursing services to make sure he survives the night.

The one thing I won’t do? Throw myself at a man who doesn’t want me.

And then, miracle of miracles, it happens.

“Skye.”

The sudden urgency in his voice surprises me. So does his unexpected tenderness as he hurries forward, holds my face and gives me a lingering kiss that reignites the embers of all my smoking nerve endings.

“I’ll call you,” he says when he lets me up for air.

“You don’t have to say that,” I say, flushed and overheated again, just like that. “You said you wanted casual fun.”

“I’ll call you,” he says firmly, staring me in the face like he really means it.

That was nearly a week ago. And has he called me?

Fuck no.

Of course he hasn’t.

So why say it if he didn’t intend to call? I was on my way out the door. He’d nearly made a clean escape. Why not just wave goodbye and keep it moving? Why get my hopes up and act like he wanted to see me again? Honestly, I’d have had more respect for him that way. I’d have remembered him as a presumptively good guy who gave me the thrill of a lifetime.

Now he’s just a snake. Like every other man who’s crossed my path recently—

“Can we?” Charlie yanks my hand, jarring me out of my sour thoughts. “Miss Skye? Are you listening? Can we have some gelato?”

“Not before dinner, guys,” I say. “Sorry.”

“We can get the small cup,” Becca says. “With no toppings.”

“No can do,” I say. “Your father is picking you up soon. I’m sure he has dinner plans for you.”

“We can put it in the freezer,” Becca says with infinite problem-solving skills and tenacity. I’m looking for this one to change the world once she’s old enough to get a credit card and driver’s license. No joke. “And take it with us in case he forgets about dessert. Dads don’t always think of everything.”

“That’s going to be a final no from me. Good attempt, though,” I say. I try to sound stern, but a tiny smile escapes despite my best efforts. “I was almost tempted this time.”

“It’s because we’re so cute!” Charlie says gleefully, his little dimples working overtime in the charm department.

Truer words were never spoken. They look like smart and professional cherubs with their curly, dark hair, apple-cheeked, heart-shaped faces, glasses and Star Trek backpacks. Their eyes? The color of fine whiskey. They wear the cutest little navy and white uniforms. Becca sports a pinafore; he wears shorts. Both have polo shirts. Their scent is an irresistible combination of berry shampoo and Johnson’s Baby Lotion (I know because I supervise bath time and put them to bed at night), and I adore them already. That’s what kids do to you. Especially these two, who are old enough to be delightful and somewhat self-sufficient, yet young enough not to be snotty.

I seriously love kids.

Even when they get on your nerves and leave you wrung out, exhausted and badly in need of several glasses of wine for medicinal purposes at the end of a long day, they sneak in and steal your heart.

“You are cute!” I scoop a kid in on each side and give them a joint squeeze. “Ready? One…two…three!”

“Skye sandwich!” they shout together, returning my hug with giggles and squeals.

“Okay, guys,” I say once we collect ourselves, shifting my grip to their hands as we set off again. “We’d better hurry. We don’t want to be late for your dad. We need to make sure everybody’s all packed for the weekend.”

“Are you coming with us?” Charlie asks, looking anxious.

“That’s the plan,” I say. “It’s my job to stay with you guys and go back and forth between your mom’s house and your dad’s house. Makes things easier for everybody.”

“But only until the end of the year,” says Becca, ever the stickler for rules and regulations. “You’re the backup nanny. Mommy was mad because she hired the other nanny. The older one. With the grumpy face. But then she hurt her back.”

There’s nothing like a kid for reminding you of your place in the pecking order. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Grumpy Nanny’s unfortunate injury was my big break. I’ve worked as a nanny before, most notably during my gap year and summer breaks during college, and the money was always decent. So the first thing I did when my law school career met its abrupt end was sign up with an agency that caters to wealthy families. Grumpy Nanny had her accident, and—voilà—here I am, working hard at a job with both a great salary and room and board. Which means that I was able to let my law school apartment go when the lease expired and can use that money to save for a smaller place that I can afford by myself.

Oh, and guess what else? They gave me a signing bonus because I stepped in on such short notice. A signing bonus! To be a nanny!

See? A win-win situation that was the best possible outcome for all parties concerned.

Except for Grumpy Nanny and her bum back. But I’m sure she’ll be fine.

“That’s right,” I say brightly, taking this as a private reminder not to get too attached to these munchkins because I won’t be with them for that long. Although the ship may have sailed on that one. “The other nanny will start in January when she’s done getting her back fixed. Here we go.”

I steer them up the steps of an elegant, old-school apartment building, the kind where a uniformed doorman performs gymnastic feats to prevent the residents from ever opening the door or throwing their luggage into their trunks on their own. As he leaps to our assistance and ushers us into the Art Deco extravagance of the lobby, I marvel, once again, over my second encounter with the wealthy residents of the Upper West Side this week.

He grabs the elevator for us and starts to push the button for the eighteenth floor—

“Don’t touch that!” Charlie screeches. “It’s my turn!”

“Sorry,”I mouth as the doors slide shut on the doorman’s bemused face.

The ride passes with a quick lecture about manners, and then there we are.

“Race you to the door,” Becca tells Charlie, exiting at a sprint. Charlie races after her, whooping with excitement.

“Quiet down, guys,” I call after them, but it’s already too late. They race off, leaving me to hurry after them with the key. I pray that my new boss is somewhere deep in the apartment where she can’t hear the commotion. “You know your mother doesn’t like noise—”

The door swings open without warning.

“How many times do I have to tell you two not to clomp down the hallway like a herd of elephants?” says Marlene Smith.

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing Robo-Mom.

The kids and I freeze and kill our smiles because fun cannot exist in Robo-Mom’s presence, a law of the universe with which we are all intimately acquainted. How to describe dear Marlene? Remember Frau Blücher, the humorless housekeeper in that great Mel Brooks movie, Young Frankenstein? Now take Frau Blücher’s soul and insert it into the body of Audrey Hepburn wearing a Chanel suit and you’re starting to get the idea of what we’re dealing with here.

“Sorry, Mommy,” Becca says, taking the lead on today’s apology tour. Poor little thing. Her shoulders are already drooping.

Robo-Mom’s expression de-ices somewhat as she puts a hand on top of each kid’s head. I can’t decide whether she never smiles because she’s Botoxed her face into oblivion or because her body lacks the genetic sequencing that makes such a move possible. Either way, for the life of me, I can’t understand why she doesn’t smother these adorable kids with hugs and kisses at every opportunity. I can only assume it’s because her high-powered job (she’s a corporate titan with a job as a CFO, CEO or COO—one of the Os; I forget which) sucks the life out of her.

Anyway, none of my business.

“Go say hi to your father,” she tells them. “He’s here early. Then make sure your little bags are packed and ready to go.”

The kids explode into huge grins and cheers before taking off again. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

“Skye,” she says, swinging the door shut behind me. “How did they do? Snacks? Sunscreen? Playground?”

“All that,” I say pleasantly, trailing her through the massive foyer toward the living room. She has a way of ticking off items about their day as though she’s a member of a ground crew trying to make sure a 747 clears inspection for takeoff. “And Charlie’s teacher put a note in his backpack about—”

“Not now,” she says, pressing a delicate manicured finger to her temple and letting her eyes roll closed. “Let me introduce you to Jake. He’s in a mood because I hired a nanny without his input. Big surprise.”

Wait, what?

Jake, did she say?

I frantically scan my memory banks for the name of her ex-husband and come up empty. She’s always referred to him as my ex or the kids’ father. She gave him the Voldemort treatment and never spoke his name.

I take a deep breath and try not to freak out. A coincidence like that would be the rough equivalent of a lightning strike.

But…

Jake?

The answer to that question comes as soon as I turn into the living room and find myself confronted with the startled face of my lover from the other night.

Jake Q., the guy joyously piggybacking the kids around the room.

The sexiest dad in the world.