His Secret Love by Ava Ryan

8

Skye

“When’s Dad coming home?”Charlie asks early that evening.

Ah, yes. Isn’t that the million-dollar question? When is Sexy Dad coming home?

“Around bedtime, dummy,” Becca says before I can answer, idly flipping another page in the children’s cookbook I grabbed from the bookstore the other day after they expressed an interest in helping with dinner and making cookies. The kids sit on barstools at the marble counter while I hover behind them. “You know that.”

“Because he’s a ’portant doctor?” Charlie asks.

“Important,” Becca says, still not bothering to look at him.

“But we’re important kids!” Charlie says, craning his head to look at me. “Right, Skye?”

“Absolutely correct,” I say, giving him a little squeeze for emphasis. “And you know what important kids like you guys don’t do, Becca?”

Becca freezes like a golden retriever that’s been caught with his snout in the trash can, her guilty gaze darting in my direction.

“They don’t call each other names!” Charlie cries with unmitigated glee. Honestly, the name-calling seems to sail over his head half the time, but nothing lights his little fire like seeing his bossy big sister receive a warning from local law enforcement.

“That’s right,” I say solemnly. “Because name-calling is…?”

Charlie bounces in his seat. “Rude!”

“And kids who engage in rude behavior don’t get to…?”

“Have microwave popcorn when we watch the movie later!” Charlie concludes with a delighted wiggle.

“And that would be a shame, because this baby makes the best popcorn,” I say, giving the little dome-shaped popcorn maker I grabbed at a thrift shop for five bucks earlier a fond pat. The kids track my movements with the avid attention of a pair of hungry tigers watching their keeper unwrap raw steak for dinner. “Right, Becca?”

“Right,” she says glumly, returning her attention to the cookbook. “Sorry, Charlie.”

“It’s okay! Skye, can we watch Toy Story tonight?”

“That’s fine with me,” I say. “Becca?”

“We’ll see,” says Becca, who likes to prolong the suspense and thereby control the room whenever possible.

“Will Daddy get to watch Toy Story with us, Skye?” Charlie asks.

“Depends on what time he gets home,” I say, trying to pretend that I only have a passing interest in the question. I’m just grateful the kids are too young to notice what a terrible actress I am. The last thing I need is for one of them to pick up on my gooey-eyed behavior around their father and mention it to Marlene. “We’ll have to see.”

“But he won’t get to give us our bath tonight if he gets home before we go to bed?” Charlie says. “I wanted him to give us our bath!”

“Seems like you would’ve remembered that before you trekked through the mud in the park on the way home,” I say with a glance in his direction. “When you come home with dirt caked all over you, you get thrown in the bathtub. That’s a rule.”

“Rules stink!” Charlie says.

I can’t argue with that heartfelt declaration. I’m not a fan of the rule that prevents me from hooking up with my new boss’s ex-husband again, to tell you the truth.

“Rules do stink,” I say sadly.

“Oh, let’s make this for dinner,” Becca says, pointing.

“Spaghetti and meatballs?” I say, peering over her shoulder. “Are you guys up for that? We’d have to mix the meatball ingredients and then roll them into balls between our hands. And one of you would have to butter the garlic bread.”

“And make the salad!” Charlie says.

“And make the salad,” I say with exaggerated doubt. Nothing motivates these two like a challenge. “I don’t know. I think this recipe is for older kids…”

“We can do it! We can do it!”

I relent with a smile. “Okay,” I say, extending my hand straight out. The kids eagerly leap off their stools and stack their cute little hands on top of mine. “On my count. One…two…three—”

“Mobilize!” we all shout like a team coming out of the huddle with only seconds left in overtime at the Super Bowl.

“Charlie, you get the aprons,” I bark.

“On it, chief!” he says, scrambling for the pantry.

“Becca, you grab the ground beef and the eggs from the refrigerator, being very careful not to break any eggs,” I say. “I don’t want to lose a single egg. Not. One. Egg.”

“I won’t, chief,” she says happily, easing toward the refrigerator as though she’s tiptoeing through a minefield while balancing invisible plates on her head.

“I’ll get the bowls and the spices and breadcrumbs,” I say. “Who’s going to set the table?”

“I will,” Becca says.

“And I’ll get the ice water!” Charlie says from the depths of the pantry.

“How are you coming with those aprons, soldier?” I call.

“Got ’em!” Charlie says, sprinting back with them slung over his arm.

“Let’s go,” I say, relieving him of his burden. “There’s no time to waste. Music selection?”

“Aretha Franklin!” they both yell.

We get the music going and the aprons on. Becca returns with the eggs. I remember to get out the cheese and crackers plate I made for them to snack on, and the kids receive it with universal acclaim. We reconvene at the counter. We’ve just started measuring the spices and breadcrumbs into the bowl and are all chattering excitedly when a new voice startles us.

“What’s all this?”

“Daddy!”

“Kids!” he says with a wide grin and a come here gesture.

Believe me when I say that Jake’s early arrival provokes strong responses in all of us. The kids shriek, leap down from their respective barstools and fling themselves at him. I, meanwhile, grapple with the unsettling sensation of nerve endings tingling to life all over my body and heat flooding my cheeks. I really wish I could neutralize whatever it is about him that makes me so hot and bothered so quickly. If only the makers of Narcan would swing into action and invent something to reverse the effects of Jake on my body and equilibrium the way they reverse the effects of a heroin overdose.

God knows I could use the help.

I absently whisk the eggs and watch as he scoops the kids up and gives them kisses and rough tickles, doing my best to regulate my breathing and not swoon outright at the sight of him. But it’s hard. He’s golden-haired and effortlessly sexy in his white linen shirt and dark trousers. His honeyed skin glows as though he stores sunlight just beneath the surface. Those bright blue eyes zero in on me over the tops of the kids’ heads, hitting me with the same intensity he deployed on me this morning.

I was planning to call you,he said.

I needed a minute to process how great everything was between us.

And here’s the thing: I’m just idiotic enough to believe him even though I keep telling myself that I shouldn’t. That this is exactly the sort of thing men say when they hope to get laid again. I remind myself that they hit you with their steamy looks, seductive smiles and reluctant confessions and watch as you unravel at their feet. I know that.

Yet I still foolishly believe him as he gives each kid a final kiss and sets them on their feet again, watching me the entire time.

“Hey,” he says, a husky new tone in his voice that wasn’t there a second ago. “How’d it go with these two today?”

“Good.” Maintaining eye contact quickly turns out to be impossible, so I attack those eggs with gusto. You’d think that Julia Child and Martha Stewart are watching me on hidden camera, getting ready to issue a grade. “They got into the mud at the park, though, so I went ahead and gave them their bath. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.” He comes closer, bringing his body’s force field with him. Heat. Latent power. The fresh scent of sandalwood that tells me he took a shower before he left the hospital. I resist the urge to squirm as he peers into the bowl and checks out the cookbook. “Spaghetti and meatballs? Have you been reading my mind?”

“I chose it, Daddy,” Becca informs him. “We’re cooking dinner.”

“I see that,” he says. “I didn’t know kids cook.”

“Of course kids cook!” Charlie says as though he’s putting the finishing touches on his châteaubriand. “Skye’s teaching us how!”

“Do I need to grab the fire extinguisher?” Jake asks, brows creeping higher.

“No, silly,” Becca says, giggling. “Skye won’t let us set anything on fire. She watches us like a hawk.”

“Like a hawk!” Charlie says. “And she took pictures of us again!”

“Oh, yeah?” Jake says with what looks like real interest as he turns to me again. “Are you any good?”

“Getting better all the time,” I say. “Just with my phone, though. I don’t have a fancy camera.”

“I’d love to see them,” he says.

“Of course,” I say lightly, trying not to read anything into this. “They’re your kids. But we need to focus on dinner for now.”

“I can help,” Jake says, setting his phone on the counter and washing his hands. “Is there a salad? I can chop the veggies. I’m good with a knife. Because I’m a surgeon.” He nudges Charlie in the ribs. “Get it?”

Charlie smacks his own forehead, groans loudly and makes an embarrassed kid face. “Why does Daddy always make surgeon jokes?”

Everyone but me laughs. I’m too busy eyeballing the limited counter space (it’s only fifteen feet or so) and deciding there’s not enough room for both Jake and me in the kitchen. Not if I want to keep my feminine wits about me.

“You know what? You can probably take it from here,” I tell him, flustered and trying to hide it. “It’s easy to brown the meatballs, and I can throw the pasta in a pot. Or maybe you wanted to take the kids out again tonight. I just wasn’t sure how late you’d be.”

“My fault,” he says, the color intensifying across his cheeks. “I should’ve given you a heads-up that I, ah, got done early today. I figured we could, ah, all eat at the table like civilized human beings for once.”

“Well…”

“Please don’t leave me alone with these two in the kitchen,” he adds in a stage whisper accompanied by an exaggerated shudder. “Someone will have this meatball mixture on the ceiling in the next five minutes. No one wants that.”

“I won’t,” Becca says with all her six-year-old dignity. “Charlie probably will, though.”

“Yeah, Skye!” Charlie says, ignoring this assault on his good name. “We can all make dinner together! Then we can all watch Toy Story together! It’ll be great!”

Nothing about that sounds great to me. Matter of fact, it sounds like exquisite torture that will inevitably lead to a spectacular train wreck.

“First things first,” I say brusquely, giving myself a stern mental reminder to focus on the kids, ignore Jake as much as humanly possible and do everything in my limited power to avoid becoming any more fascinated by him. That way lies disaster. “Let’s focus on getting dinner on the table sometime before breakfast. Now, who wants to shape the meatballs?”

“We do! We do!”

“Can you cooperate? With each other?” I ask.

“We can! We can!”

The two siblings throw their arms around each other, put their heads together and smile beatifically, a performance that would make a great photo for the holiday card but doesn’t fool me for a second.

“We shall see,” I say, taking the meatball mixture over to the far end of the countertop, where I get them settled.

By the time I return, Jake’s got his salad station going and does, in fact, demonstrate good skills with a chef’s knife. He pauses julienning the carrots long enough to give me a smug grin.

“Impressive,” I say grudgingly.

“Yet you doubted me.”

“Still do,” I say, going to work on the pasta water. “Let’s see how you are with the radishes.”

“Ouch. Tough crowd. Grab some wine.”

By now I’ve noticed the open bottle of Sauvignon Blanc chilling in a bucket on the counter and two glasses on standby. My mouth waters accordingly. I hesitate, torn. On the one hand, I’m not much of a drinker and I ran through my week’s quota with last night’s bottle. On the other hand, if I’ve ever been in dire need of liquid fortification, it’s now, when I’m excruciatingly aware of every time those blue eyes twinkle in my direction.

Bottom line—why look a gift horse in the mouth?

“Thanks,” I say, still grudgingly, as I pour. “I made a cheese plate, by the way.”

“I saw that. Wasn’t sure I’m allowed to touch it.”

I frown in his direction, still doing my best to avoid eye contact. “It’s your cheese on your plate in your house. Who’s going to tell you no?”

He’s about to sip his wine, but now he pauses for a self-deprecating laugh. “My money’s on you.”

Here’s where it gets tricky. I’m not sure whether he’s flirting or not, and I make the mistake of looking him in the face to get to the bottom of that mystery. His gaze is open and direct over the rim of his glass, with a hint of humor and much more seriousness.

We stare at each other for another of those sizzling moments that stretches way longer than it should.

“I’m not the one in charge here,” I say, my heartbeat a hard thump in my throat.

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

There’s something about the way he says it. Reluctant. Rueful. Maybe even a little vulnerable. Whatever it is, it makes me fluttery inside. As does the fact that we’ve drifted closer, as though our bodies are magnetized for each other.

Which, I suppose, they kinda are.

“You’re not forgetting I’m your kids’ nanny, are you?”

“Nope,” he says lightly, something closing off in his expression. “I just want to.”

I stand there like an idiot, searching his face for things I shouldn’t hope to find. Not from him. What am I supposed to say to that?

“Jake…” I begin, with no real idea what words I’m about to produce.

Luckily, a new commotion from the kids prevents me from having to think of anything.

“Charlie, you’re not even trying,” Becca says. “Your meatballs are way too big.”

“No, they’re not!” Charlie says.

“Charlie’s ruining the meatballs, Daddy,” Becca calls.

“Duty calls,” Jake tells me with an exasperated sigh as he puts his knife down and heads over to mediate.

I appreciate the reprieve and the chance to pull my thoughts together. They were swerving out of their authorized lane and into the direction of Crazy Town. Things like:

Why can’t we hook up again?

It could work if we’re discreet, right?

Matter of fact, I could sneak into his bedroom tonight after the kids go to bed…

It’s insanity. All of it. Starting right now, with me standing here making dinner with him, and especially the whole bit about me watching the movie with them. If I keep on this trajectory, I’ll find myself snuggled next to him on the sofa doing God knows what under the blanket.

Keep your guard up, Skye. This man is not for you. This is not your family. Remember that.

I add pasta to the boiling water and stir, only dimly aware of what I’m doing and of the low voices of Jake and the kids as they work on the meatballs. When Jake’s phone buzzes on the counter, the sound barely registers with my frazzled brain.

But then I hear him say my name loud and clear.

“Skye? Do me a favor and check my phone,” he says, rolling a perfect meatball, putting it on the tray and heading to the sink to wash his hands. “It’s not the hospital, is it?”

“Hang on,” I say, picking up his phone and checking the display.

Whereupon I get a startling and unwelcome eyeful of some woman’s naked boobs and an accompanying message:

Missing your tongue and other parts of your body. Praying you’re free tonight. Let me know.

Her name? Jessica.

I all but choke as a wave of irrational jealousy swallows me whole and heats my face and ears up until it feels as though I’ve dunked my entire head in the boiling water.

As if I have the right. As if his personal life is any of my business.

You’ve got to hand it to the universe, boy. Catching me in a weak moment when I need a reminder that Jake Quinn is not for me. Well, this is a reminder.

Shall I run through the list again? Just to make sure the painful truth has finally sunk into my thick skull?

He’s my boss’s ex-husband.

He’s barely divorced.

He’s a single dad with a high-powered career and zero time or inclination—as far as I can tell—for foolish women like me. The kind who can’t help but get emotionally attached to every man they fuck.

And just to bring it on home for the grand finale? I’m not the only woman creaming for him and dying to have him between her legs again.

“Skye?” He appears at my side again, startling me out of my thoughts as he dries his hands and slings the kitchen towel over his shoulder. He looks bemused. I want to grab that towel and flick him in the face with it. “Was that the hospital?”

“Nope,” I say, keeping my voice pleasant as an icy calm descends on me. “That was not the hospital. That was Jessica. She and her naked breasts miss your tongue and your dick and want to know if all three of you are free tonight.”

“Skye…” he says, all the color draining from his face.

I don’t want to hear anything he has to say. It’s not my place, and I know it. That’s part of the reason why I hate myself so much right now. But not as much as I hate him and his unholy power over me.

“Oh, and here’s a pro tip: keep your phone in your pocket. Not out on the counter where anyone can see it. Otherwise, you’re going to find yourself explaining nipple rings to your little kids.”

He freezes.

I turn away, feeling oddly satisfied by his stricken expression.

“Okay, you two,” I call to the kids, clapping my hands for emphasis. “Are you done with the meatballs? Let’s get those babies in the frying pan so we can enjoy our dinner sometime soon.”