Page 21

“I want stickers for my ceiling,” he says. “Moons, and planets, and stars, and constellations.”

“That sounds cool,” I reply, picturing myself wishing upon shooting stars when I was younger. Maybe we can bond over that. “What about shooting stars? I used to wish on those before my skating competitions. Do you want stickers of those?”

He sighs heavily. “A shooting star is not a star. It’s a meteor burning up in the atmosphere,” he says, like I’m dumb and he’s a rocket scientist.

“Huh. You learn something new every day.” I peer into the rearview mirror, catching his blue eyes. “Maybe you can teach me about the stars, then?”

For a second, he’s quiet. “Maybe,” he says, a little less sharp this time before turning to look out the window.

Maybe, too, I’ll hold off on trying to win him over today. Winning him over might take more than gummy bears and hope—but I’m not giving up.

But if I can’t win Parker over right away, at least I can help more around the home. Sure, Tyler said he’d cook, but there’s no reason I can’t pitch in with prep. I’m here to make his life easier, after all.

As the kids do homework—Luna upstairs and Parker in the open living room—I chop up tomatoes, cilantro, cheese, and lettuce, setting each in small white bowls I find in the cupboard.

I grab some rice and beans, putting them on the counter as well, next to an avocado.

He’ll want to cut that last so it doesn’t brown too soon.

I remove the chicken breasts from the packaging, even though I don’t like touching meat.

But it’s my job, so it’s fine. I can handle it for Tyler and Parker.

Luna doesn’t eat meat, so I make sure there are enough beans for her.

I slice the chicken into chunks for Tyler to cook, put them in a glass dish, close it, and set it in the fridge.

I glance around the bright, sleek kitchen, with its white counters and polished surfaces. All the groceries are put away, the counters are wiped down, and dinner is prepped. Not bad. Not bad at all. Hopefully, Tyler will be happy.

Right on time, the garage door vibrates lightly. Parker perks up, sitting straight on the couch, his ears practically pricked like a dog’s. “Dad’s home,” he says to no one in particular, which somehow makes it sweeter. Then he bolts up.

And my heart—it swells.

A minute later, he launches himself at Tyler, who comes around the corner dressed in workout shorts and a T-shirt. Tyler scoops up Parker easily. “What’s up, little buddy?”

“I’m not little,” Parker says, but it’s full of affection, not any of the attitude he gave me. Good. It’s nice to see someone have a good relationship with their father. And I can handle attitude, no problem.

Once Tyler sets his son down, he turns to me in the kitchen and blinks in surprise as I wipe my hands on a towel. He peers at the array of food, then back at me. “You…didn’t have to cook.”

But he doesn’t actually sound mad. He sounds delighted.

“I didn’t,” I say, feeling a little buzzy from his reaction. “I only prepped things to make it easier for your ‘build-a-taco night.’ ”

Parker snaps his gaze to me. “Build a taco?”

I meet the eight-year-old’s eyes, playing my ace. “Yes. I figured you can set everything out and pick your own ingredients for it.”

“Isn’t that just…taco night?”

“Ah, but is it? You can build the whole thing from scratch—from the rice to the beans to the chicken to the guacamole. Sort of like when you build Lego,” I say, feeling a little proud of myself for the comparison.

“Okay, but we already do that,” he says, thoroughly unimpressed.

But after years of performing skating routines that rise and crest, I know a thing or two about how to make a point.

“Right. Of course you assemble your own tacos. But if your dad says yes, maybe if you build something cool out of the taco—like a car, or a house, or a shooting star—you might be able to convince your dad to give you something sweet.”

“I want to build my own taco,” Parker says to his dad, and yes! Parker’s enthusiasm is small, but it feels like one thing going right with him. Score one for the nanny.

“When you finish your homework. And after I cook the beans and meat,” Tyler says, then sends Parker to tackle his books.

Parker runs off as Tyler strides into the kitchen, a quirk in his brow. “Build-a-taco night?”

“I figured a name like that might make it seem more fun,” I say, but I don’t tell him why I want more fun for Parker. I don’t want to worry him about his son not liking me.

Tyler’s astute, though, because he says, “Let me guess. He was standoffish?”

And he knows his son well. Giving in, I hold up my thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space.

“Yes, but it was the first day. It’s all good.

However, I have a very important question—can Parker have gummy bears?

” My stomach spins with nerves, chased by the raw awareness that I was too caught up in word play with Tyler earlier to nail down the details of what to buy and not buy.

Not sure I want to admit that? But then I can hear Elena’s voice in my head.

It’s okay to admit you need a little help .

“I wasn’t sure actually after our conversation earlier if you were good with that or not.

Or how you feel about candy and such. I mean, I know you think chocolate chip cookies are scandalous,” I tease, reminding him of our wedding night conversation—the one that took place before my 1001 Confessions.

“I’m not a big candy person. Sweets aren’t my guilty pleasure,” he says, and instantly I want to know what his pleasures are—guilty or otherwise. “But I try not to be a hard-ass either. So every now and then can’t hurt.”

“I agree,” I say, relieved that I made the choice to buy them. “And now you have dessert for them tonight.”

“They’ll love you for sure then,” he says, and I hope so. Truly, I do. But I know, too, it’ll take time.

I glance around the neat, clean kitchen before looking toward the stairs.

Luna seems happily ensconced in her room.

It was only one afternoon. Only a few hours.

But here we are, and everyone is safe and sound.

I should play it cool, but I’ve never been the cool one.

“We made it,” I add, letting out an exaggerated, “whew.”

Tyler’s businesslike demeanor slips away, and a smile takes over. “So I guess you’re not quitting?”

My jaw drops. “What? No! Were you worried?”

He shrugs. “No. Yes. Maybe. You never know.”

“You’re stuck with me,” I say, since I will dig my heels into this job like a dog refusing to let go of a one hundred and eighty-seven-day-old bagel it’s found on the corner.

“Good,” he says, and his shoulders seem to loosen a notch, a sense of ease relaxing his smile as he gathers supplies around the kitchen .

That’s my cue to go. I gesture toward the stairs leading to my apartment. “I should leave you to it.”

Give him space to be the dad and all.

“Right,” he says, but he sounds a little wistful. Almost like he wants me to stay? But no, that can’t be it. This is family time, not get-to-know-the-new-nanny time.

Besides, that soft look in his eyes right now? He’s probably just tired after the team meeting. Which makes me wonder…

“Are you sure you don’t want me to cook?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I’ll handle it.”

And yeah, I should go. “Just let me know about tomorrow’s schedule. Text me, maybe. If you can’t find me, that is,” I tease, since I can’t seem to stop running my mouth.

“I will.”

“You’re leaving soon for an away game, right?” The Sea Dogs season opener is in Las Vegas against one of their main rivals.

“Yes, in three days,” he says, and that’s when I’ll be really busy with the kids—it’ll be all me on Thursday and Friday. “Tomorrow you’ve got some skating lessons in the morning, right?”

“I do. I’ll have to rise and shine since it’s really early,” I say, grateful I can work my skating schedule around the job.

“I’ll take them to school so you can get to it.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. You’ll be busy when I’m out of town. And Elle won’t have them till the weekend after this one.”

“Right,” I say, since Tyler’s shared a schedule with me already.

The kids are with him most of the time since Elle’s swamped with med school, but she’s got them a couple weekends a month, and a few nights here and there.

I’m glad she’s still involved in their life—for them, of course, but also for him.

Being a single parent with a full-time job that takes you out of town a lot is hard .

I don’t want to infringe on the time he has with his children, so I make my way to the staircase that leads to the garden apartment as Luna trots down from the second floor to the main one. But before I round the corner, Tyler calls out, “Do you want to build a taco?”

It’s sung, and it sounds exactly like the famous song “Do You Want to Build a Snowman,” and it tells me that Tyler watches Frozen with his kids.

I can’t resist singing back, “It doesn’t have to be a taco.”

A few seconds later, Luna’s joining in, inviting me to build a taco too. It’s tempting. Truly it is, especially with the a cappella invite, but I should let them be a family. “Thank you, but I’m all good.”

They both serenade me more as I head down the stairs. I nearly turn around and join them.

A couple hours later, I’m researching wildlife sanctuaries in the area for Luna, how far they are from here and the programs they offer, when there’s a knock on my door.

When I open it and see Tyler standing there, he’s quick to say, “The kids are getting ready for bed. Do you want to build a taco now? It’s pretty fun.

Parker made the Big Dipper, which is an asterism, as he likes to remind me, because god forbid I not know every detail about the stars.

Luna made a taco cat, with lettuce as the tail, and everyone got gummy bears. And there’s more than enough.”

My first instinct is to say no. I’m not sure I need any more awkward moments with this sexy man.

But then he goes for the kill with: “And I figured you and Luna eat the same things, so there are plenty of veggies for you.”

That does it for me—the way he noticed this little detail. “How did you…?”

“I paid attention,” he says, and I replay when he would have figured that out. I haven’t mentioned my personal food preferences to him, and we haven’t eaten together…except. Holy smokes. He remembered from the nachos on my wedding night? When I said no meat . This man’s memory is…sexy.

My stomach growls in appreciation for his offer for so many reasons.

Maybe especially because Chad was always goading me to eat medium-rare burgers or braised fish or Chicken Pad Thai.

Like my not eating meat was some kind of challenge he needed to win.

But my nothing with a face choice wasn’t about control or perfectionism.

It is just who I am. It is my choice and mine alone.

“Veggie tacos sound perfect,” I say, meaning it. Because he’s not trying to change me—he’s just listening.

As we head upstairs, I say, “But what did you make with your taco?”

“A puck,” he says, his voice low and rumbly, like he knows how that word sounds—a little bit dirty.

And I like it too much.