His Secret Love by Ava Ryan
6
Skye
“We’re back!”Later that night, the kids’ excited voices ring through the cavernous apartment all the way back to my new bedroom at Jake’s place. “Skye! Where are you? We’re home!”
I rouse myself from my semi-catatonic state sprawled on the bed, where I’ve been contemplating exactly how screwed my life is ever since Jake dropped me off here then took the kids for a quick dinner. After they left, I unpacked my weekend bag and got the kids’ jammies and things ready for bath time. Then I did a lap around the apartment, trying to get my bearings. It’s a masterpiece of industrial chic, with fantastic natural lighting, the kind of place with a hidden refrigerator in the gleaming space-age kitchen, exposed brick walls, funky pipes, black leather furniture, giant plants, umpteen bedrooms and a gym—not a treadmill in a spare bedroom that doubles as a clothing rack. A gym that could train Olympic athletes. But I digress. I want the record to reflect that I gave Jake’s bedroom—it’s at the top of a staircase that seems to float in midair—a wide berth even though the curiosity nearly killed me. A place like this probably has hidden cameras behind every mirror and piece of artwork, and I don’t want Jake viewing the footage later and painting me as a stalker on top of everything else.
As for my bedroom, which is one of several spare rooms, it’s done up in pale grays and stark whites, with a giant TV and a frothy duvet that probably doubles as a cloud in its spare time. I can’t wait to climb into the thing, pull the covers over my head and hide from the nightmare that my life has just become.
Trapped working with a man who hit it and forgot it—and I was the it in question. Pretending to his ex-wife, my boss, that we just met, and I have absolutely no idea what his dick feels like buried deep inside my body. Trying to deny my ongoing attraction to him. All while nannying his kids and living under his roof.
Fuck my life.
That about covers it.
“Coming,” I call.
I get up and plaster a pleasant smile on my face. It feels wooden, but I mentally nail the edges up and hurry out to the living room. I shoot a glance in Jake’s direction, feel another charge of electricity and decide that my policy of ignoring him as much as possible, while childish, is ultimately my best and only option. I can’t behave like a professional with all these sparks flaring between us like fireflies at dusk. The policy is working well thus far, probably because I’m very polite about it and center all my energy on the kids while pretending he’s not there. For example, I sat in the back seat of his huge SUV with the kids on the way over here and hardly looked at him at all. It was no worse than having an unexpectedly sexy Uber driver. As long as I keep that up, I don’t see why this whole situation can’t work. It’s only until the end of the year. I can do anything for the length of a baseball season if a metric shit-ton of money is my reward, right?
“Hey,” Jake says, his attention locking in on me as he puts a couple of big bags of food into the fridge.
Swear to God, it’s like being studied by one of the blue-eyed tigers I saw at a zoo once. There was no particular expression on the tiger’s face, but I never forgot what I was dealing with.
I resist the urge to fidget with the stupid uniform that Marlene slapped me into as a condition of employment. Like the kids, I’m now wearing a white polo shirt. My pants? Khakis. The kind soccer dads wear when left to his own devices. All I need is an apron, a pad and a pen and I’m ready to take the dinner orders at the Applebee’s in Times Square. This isn’t my usual aesthetic, nor is it my sexy little outfit from the other night, but all that is beside the point. I give myself a stern reminder that I’m an employee here. As such, it’s not my job to look sexy.
Especially for a guy who’s already rejected me.
“Hey,” I say. See? What did I tell you? Perfectly pleasant. Then I turn to the kids and ease into my normal smile as they swoop in for a hug. “Hey, guys! How was dinner?”
“We went to the deli on the corner,” Becca solemnly informs me. “I had grilled cheese. Charlie had chicken nuggets. We both had potato salad and fruit cups. And chocolate cupcakes.”
“Tasty,”I say. “Veggies? Charlie? Please tell me you ate something green.”
“Carrot sticks!” Charlie bounces on the balls of his feet and grips my forearms, gearing up for a big announcement. I can tell. “And we brought dinner for you!”
“You did?” I say, touched that they remembered me.
“Yeah!” Charlie again. “We told Daddy you eat tuna salad, but he got you tuna salad, roast beef and Swiss and a club sandwich because he wanted to make sure he got something you like! And he got chips! Barbecue and regular! And he got you two kinds of cupcakes and cheesecake so you can have a choice!”
“I told him it’s way too much food for one person,” Becca says, shaking her head sadly as she takes the words right out of my mouth. You’d think she got stuck with the bill. “But he just didn’t lis—”
“Appreciate the rundown, guys,” Jake says gruffly, tugging on an earlobe and avoiding my startled gaze. “Let’s get ready for bath time.”
“But I didn’t get to tell her about all the bagels and cream cheeses you got her for breakfast,” Becca says, frowning up at him and raising her voice because she does not appreciate being interrupted. “What about that?”
“Bath time,”Jake says, a flush creeping over his cheeks.
“I can get it,” I quickly say, giving myself a stern warning not to feel too touched about his thoughtfulness. First, I forgot to mention that I did some research while they were gone and now know that he’s a billionaire. With a B. So he could afford to buy me the deli if he wanted to. Second, he seems like he’s the kind of good guy who’d probably do the same for any other employee—like, say, the plumber who arrives to unclog his toilet—so I shouldn’t read into this. There’s nothing special about me. Finally, he may well want to ensure my silence about our escapade the other night by treating me well. Above all else, I cannot let this guy get into my head. Under any circumstances. “Bath time is my job.”
“I’m the dad.” Jake shoots me a glance and sparks another electrical impulse inside me as he herds the kids toward the hallway. “Bath time is my job. You relax. Eat something. You must be starving. I don’t want you to get—”
“I’m good. Thanks for the food,” I say hastily because I don’t want to hear him say the word hangry or to like him. I don’t want to see what a warm and engaged father he is, such a contrast to Marlene’s aloof drill-sergeant parenting. Most of all, I don’t want any reminders of the other night. “I’ll grab something later. And watch out for Charlie,” I add in an undertone. “His new thing is to ‘forget’ to use toothpaste when he brushes his teeth, but Becca usually rats him out.”
“Don’t you worry about me,” he says. “There’s no trick the young knucklehead could think of that I didn’t invent or do myself back in the day.”
“Noted,” I say, a wayward grin briefly taking control of my face at the thought of what an adorable kid he must have been before I catch myself.
Jake nods and turns away, his expression shadowed as they all hold hands and head for the hallway.
“You can give us our bath, but Skye needs to give me my mousse, Daddy!” Charlie says.
Jake stops cold and gapes at his son. “Excuse me?”
“It brings out my curls!” Charlie informs him.
“It really does,” Becca says.
Jake bites back a boyish laugh that activates his crow’s-feet and does delicious things to his dimples, spares me another glance and resumes the march to the bathroom.
I grab the mousse from my bathroom and hang around, loitering on the periphery, way too keyed up to eat. As a nanny, you’re not quite a standard employee and not quite a family member or even a friend of the family, even though you find yourself sharing everyday intimacies in the household. You spend a lot of time not knowing what to do with yourself and waiting to be called into service.
For example, the apartment’s acoustics allow me to hear the kids’ nonstop chattering and splashing as well as the deeper sounds of Jake’s laughter and singing. He’s got one of those husky blue-eyed soul voices that makes women want to shimmy out of their panties and toss them aside. He’s no Aretha Franklin, but he gives “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman” a special something. The kids join in, singing along with gusto.
I wait, feeling an odd pang somewhere behind my rib cage.
This is a nice family.
I don’t belong here. I shouldn’t be here. I’ll always be an outsider here.
On top of all that, I’ve got way too many feelings for Sexy Dad, and none of them are G-rated.
Eventually the bath winds down and the sounds taper off. I’m standing there like an idiot, wondering if I could get away with leaving the mousse outside the bathroom door and barricading myself inside my bedroom for the rest of the night, when the kids explode back into the living room like the two-year-olds out of the gate at the Kentucky Derby. Hard as it is to imagine them getting any cuter under any circumstances, the just-washed-fresh scent and sight of them in their little terrycloth robes gives my ovaries a sweet ache.
Thisis why humans generally don’t kill their young.
So much for making my escape.
“Look how nice and clean you guys are,” I say. “I’m surprised all that dirt came off.”
“Do my hair!” Charlie, now in possession of his stuffed wallaby (don’t ask), passes me a brush and presents me with his back, jumping up and down the whole time. “Do my hair!”
“I’m first!” Becca cries, hanging on to her stuffed animal (a koala) with one hand and trying to push him out of the way with the other.
“I can be done with both of you by the time you two finish arguing about it,” I say, going to work on Charlie’s hair and doing my best to be indifferent to Jake’s looming and silent presence. It’s not easy, though, because he seems to have changed into shorts and a T-shirt. “I could finish even faster if you’d stand still, Charlie.”
“Hurry!”Charlie says, managing to taper his jumping down to violent vibrating, a real feat for him. “Daddy’s going to read us a story!”
“A quick story,” Jake says. “I’m beat. And we’ve got work and school tomorrow.”
A chorus of protests rises through the living room.
“No, Daddy,” Becca says, arranging her hands into prayer position and hitting her father with those dewy and dramatic Puss in Boots eyes. “One long story or two quick ones. That’s fair. We hate early bedtime.”
“Well, I love early bedtime,” I say, smoothing Charlie’s hair a final time and switching to Becca. “I’m going to grab my dinner and settle in my room. I may be asleep before you guys.”
“Actually, I’d like to have a word with you before that, if you don’t mind, Skye,” Jake says, ruining all my best laid plans and throwing my pulse rate into chaos.
“Of course,” I say, stifling a curse and paying special attention to Becca’s hair so I don’t have to meet his gaze.
“Okay, guys,” he says with an authoritative clap that lets me know that while he may be a fun dad, he’s also a serious dad when required. Or maybe that’s just the clap of a guy who hopes to get laid again as soon as the kids are out of the way for the night. “Let’s go. Tell Skye good night.”
The kids lay it on thick, giving me a parting scene full of hugs, kisses and the kind of intensity you’d expect when a sixteenth-century sailor leaves his family and sets off for the New World. And then, way too soon, they’re gone, leaving me to fret for several minutes in the privacy of my own room. When I hear Jake’s quiet footsteps heading back down the hallway, I consider the relative merits of pretending to fall asleep and avoiding any further interactions with Jake until tomorrow before ultimately deciding to be a grownup about this whole godforsaken situation.
I trudge back to the front of the apartment with feet of lead and discover him in the kitchen, where he’s leaning back against the counter with his ankles crossed, his face downturned and his expression troubled. Basically a living reflection of the way I feel. There’s an open bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and two glasses next to him; his glass is half-empty.
He glances up when he hears me coming and hits me with the full intensity of those soulful eyes. My worst nightmare, ladies and gentlemen. A smart, sexy, funny guy who loves his kids and keeps his kitchen stocked with delicious wine.
I’m not sure I have a chance here. I’m not sure at all.
Now that there’s nowhere else for me to look, I can confirm that he has, in fact, changed into knit shorts and a white T-shirt. The ensemble reveals tawny expanses of skin and sinewy muscles that, ironically, I didn’t get to see the other night. That’s bad enough. Worse is the fact that all that splashing around with the kids has given his T-shirt a transparency that reveals shoulders, biceps, pecs, abs, thighs and calves in glorious detail.
Bottom line? The man is not a god or superhero, but he sure as hell could play one in the next Marvel movie.
Once again for the folks in back:
Fuck. My. Life.
I finish my approach and stand there, waiting for him to make the first move.
“You can lose the stupid uniform when you’re with me,” he says. “It’s not necessary.”
As a hater of polyester pants, I greatly appreciate that. “Thanks,” I say.
He drains his glass, staring at me with moody eyes over the rim. Then he sets it down and refills it. “Wine?” he asks quietly.
“No thanks,” I say, making the quick decision that it’s probably unprofessional to drink when the kids are nearby, even if I’m not technically on duty.
“Skye,” he says, pouring anyway. “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. You like Sauvignon Blanc. This is a nice bottle. Have some. We’ve earned it after dealing with that crew.”
You know what? He’s right. We certainly have.
He extends the glass. I take it and indulge in a hearty sip.
We stare at each other.
“Jake Quinn,” he finally says. “Divorced single dad with two kids.”
My mouth twists into a bitter smile before I take another quick gulp and lower the glass again. “Skye Graham. Clueless nanny who needs her job.”
His jaw tightens. He looks away, then back. “I don’t like secrets and lies.” He gives me a hard stare. “I had enough of that when Marlene cheated on me.”
I freeze.
When what?
There’s no way a woman was foolish enough to cheat on this man. Especially a woman as smart as Marlene. No fucking way. And I don’t even want to think about what it costs a strong and proud man like Jake to admit something so painful and humiliating.
“I had no idea,” I say miserably. “She’s never said anything about why you split.”
Self-deprecating snort from Jake. “Why would she? It makes both of us look bad.”
“Not both of you.” Sudden irrational anger now has me battling the strong urge to, I don’t know, let all the air out of the tires of Marlene’s fancy luxury SUV. I know that there are two sides to every story. I also know that marriages succeed or fail for many reasons, all of them complicated. Even so, my gut instinct screams that whatever transgressions Jake may have committed as a husband, they were nothing like Marlene’s. I’m a good judge of character, and I’ve seen enough of both of them in action to know that. “Just her.”
He seems startled by my vehemency. So am I, to tell you the truth.
“That’s not something I usually discuss,” he says, his cheeks flooding with color.
“I’d never break a confidence.”
He frowns, looking vaguely bemused and maybe a little flustered. “I know. That’s why I told you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Jake and I barely know each other. I don’t know why we keep having these moments of…of… I don’t even know what to call it.
Mutual understanding. Connection.
The moment stretches with far too much staring on both sides.
He catches himself before I do and hastily looks away just long enough to disrupt that unsettling flow of energy between us.
“The point is, we’re all adults here,” he says, shifting restlessly as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets. His voice sounds gruffer now, I notice. “I value transparency. Marlene knows I have a social life, whether she likes it or not. I would’ve told her we met on a dating app.”
I manage to choke off part of my derisive laugh, but not all of it. He can’t be that naïve. “That’s great for you. You can keep on being rich without missing a beat.”
“Don’t put that on me.” You’d think from his sharp tone and flashing eyes that I accused him of snatching money from a Salvation Army kettle during the holidays. “I’ve had money for about ten minutes. I wasn’t born rich. I’m not a snob. I struggled with student debt, just like you do. I take nothing for granted. I understand your position. And I would never think I’m above you or anybody. Trust me.”
I make a mental note to research him further the second I get back to my room tonight. I’m dying to know what his story is.
“I’m not accusing you,” I say.
He doesn’t seem mollified. At all. “Then don’t.”
“I’m just saying that she’d fire me. You know she would. And I don’t have any backup resources to live off.”
He grimaces and opens his mouth to rebut me. I refuse to give him the chance.
“Maybe there are people out there who are evolved enough to work with someone their ex has hooked up with, but I doubt Marlene is one of them,” I say, unwilling to concede the point or the floor. “Especially when her kids are involved. And I need this job.”
My urgency level seems to concern him. “Why?” he demands, frowning. “Did something happen, or—”
“No, nothing happened,” I say, feeling increasingly flustered. I don’t need his pity beaming down on me from the privileged world of his ten-million-dollar apartment. “I told you, I’m a law school dropout. I’ll have to start repaying the loans soon. Your wife is giving me—”
“Ex-wife.”
“—free room and board through the end of the year, which means I don’t have to pay rent, a signing bonus and a great salary. And I have free time during the day at school, so I can help my father out at the bookstore. He’s not getting any younger, and his rent isn’t getting any lower.”
“I see,” he says, his expression darkening as he blows out a breath and rubs his nape. “I appreciate all that. But how can we keep this secret?”
“Simple,” I say. “We don’t tell anyone.”
The look he gives me suggests that I’ve started trimming my hair with a chainsaw as he takes an agitated step forward and sweeps his hands wide.
“Skye. How can we work together?”
I have no idea what he means by that, Mr. Guy Who Can’t Be Bothered to Call After He Promised He Would. But I’m infuriated by this implication that something remains between us after the way he blew me off. As if he’s that irresistible.
As if I’m that stupid.
“Simple,” I say, hiking up my chin and wishing I had the superpower of being able to shoot laser beams from my eyes. Because God knows I would embrace the opportunity to take this SOB out at the knees right this second. “We put it out of our minds like it never happened.”
“What did you say?” he says, both his brows and his voice lowering as he stiffens.
I get the feeling I’ve struck a masculine nerve, which makes me giddy with happiness. Anytime I can pick a male ego and let him know that he’s not the only one who can hit it and quit it is a cause for celebration in my book.
“Like it never happened,” I repeat. “Simple.” I snap my fingers for emphasis.
I decide to make my exit before he sneaks in the last word and turn my back on his flashing eyes and murderous expression. I make it all the way to the kitchen threshold before I think better of it. I sweep back around with my nose in the air and, pointedly ignoring him, do a lap around the kitchen so I can grab the wine bottle, my glass and one of the bags of food from the fridge. Then I walk out, my spine stiff even though I know he’s fuming and shooting his own invisible laser beams through my shoulder blades.