Page 51

THE HIRED HELP

Sabrina

But morning always comes, the sun rising on our choices and their consequences. As the sun streaks through the window, my phone trills, rousing me from a dream with a jolt. Grabbing it from the nightstand, I spot Elle’s name on the screen.

What the…?

Snapping my gaze to Tyler, who’s soundly sleeping—and soundly snoring—I bolt out of bed, then answer it the second I hustle past the doorway.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask without bothering to mask my concern. She was supposed to drop the kids off at school…I glance at the time on the TV. Fifteen minutes ago. Panic rushes through my veins.

“Hey!” Her tone is bright, and that’s somewhat reassuring. “I called Tyler, but he didn’t answer, and I’m walking up the steps right now, about to knock on the door.”

She’s here ?

I spin around, hunting for clothes in my living room. “Oh, okay.”

“I can just leave their bags on the porch but I figured if he was home it’d just be easier,” she says, apologetic.

I rub my eyes. “Their bags?”

“They didn’t want to take their overnight bags to school. I guess I kind of understand; it’s a pain to lug them around.”

That’s a fair point. A lot of times she’ll drop the bags off in the morning or in the afternoon when she’s had the kids for a sleepover.

I spot a sweatshirt on the carpet by the couch.

I make a run for it as she says, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you, Sabrina.

I don’t really know what hours you keep or what the rules are about calling you for this,” she says.

She sounds flustered for the first time, like she’s crossed some sort of line with the hired help.

I wince as those words flash through my brain.

Hired help.

Yep, that’s what I am. I’m the hired help, and my tits are flying free because I banged my boss last night.

Fine, he didn’t technically bang me, but…

semantics. As shame courses through me, I jam on the sweatshirt, stuffing my arms through it then readjusting the phone.

“I’ll be right up,” I say, then hunt for jeans.

But I don’t have any pants out here. My stomach tips as I hang up and tiptoe furtively back to my room, opening the door as quietly as I can.

I don’t want to wake him and explain this shitshow.

Tyler rustles in bed, but the man isn’t a lover of sleep for nothing.

He doesn’t wake—just snores a little louder as I slide open a drawer quietly and grab a pair of leggings.

I dart into the bathroom, yank them on, then douse my dragon breath with some mouthwash.

A ten-second gargle later and I’m grabbing a hair tie and yanking my hair into a messy bun.

I stuff my phone into the pocket of my leggings then race up the stairs to the front door, swinging it open when I realize—I grabbed Tyler’s hoodie from the floor.

It’s the same color as mine, and I’m swimming in it. It hits me mid-thigh.

But there’s no time to change.

I flash back to all the times I’ve performed on the ice.

When I wobbled during a competition. When I missed a jump. When I fell flat on my ass and had to get right back up. You pick yourself up and you smile, then skate on. I paste on the brightest never let them see you sweat grin ever and skate on. “Good morning.”

Elle blinks, looking down at my clothes. “Oh, I didn’t mean to…” She thrusts the kids’ bags at me. “Here.”

I take them and set them down in the foyer. “Thanks.”

She waves a hand like it’s nothing, then she tears her gaze off of my torso and focuses squarely on my eyes.

“If you could just let Tyler know that I dropped them off. And that he doesn’t need to return any of my text messages or phone calls about them.

We’re all set now.” She spins around, ready to fly down the steps.

But then her shoulders pinch and she turns back toward me, holding up a finger.

“Though he does need to return my messages about Christmas because I should definitely be able to put the kids on a flight to New York on the twenty-third or the twenty-fourth. I’ll get unaccompanied minor tickets,” she explains quickly.

I freeze.

I didn’t know she had the kids right before Christmas Eve. Sure, he mentioned they were discussing holiday plans, but I didn’t know what those plans were. He didn’t share them with me. All I know is the last hockey game before Christmas is in New York on the twenty-third.

Christmas is around two weeks away. I don’t know if he expects me to work. We didn’t talk about this. It never even came up, and now I feel so unbearably stupid.

What kind of employee doesn’t ask their boss what the plans are for Christmas? Do I have the day off? The week off? What kind of boss doesn’t tell the employee if they have the day off?

My chest feels like concrete.

Is this what happens when you start sleeping with your boss? You just take all sorts of things for granted? My head throbs and I barely listen as Elle tells me the details.

When she’s gone I shut the door, feeling sick all over. I have no idea what to do next. And I definitely don’t know what I’m going to do in a couple weeks when I’m all alone out here in his house, and he’s in New York for the holidays.

I trudge into the kitchen, trying to get my bearings. I stare briefly at the living room. There’s no tree yet, but will he even do that? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just be alone in a tree-less house. I guess that’s fine too.

I hunt for a piece of fruit to munch on.

A minute later, heavy footsteps echo on the stairs, and he rounds the corner, then appears.

He’s wearing his slacks and nothing else, bleary-eyed as he scrubs a hand across his beard.

He looks impossibly sexy, all messy morning hair and soft eyes.

“I think I overslept,” he says, his voice rusty with sleep.

I can’t let it affect me though. I straighten my shoulders. “Yeah, I think you did.”

His gaze drifts to the duffel bags in the foyer. “Are the kids here?” He goes ramrod straight, pointing to the staircase toward his room. “I should?—”

I hold up a hand, waving that off. “They’re at school. Elle just dropped off the bags.” I swallow down my pride and add, “She said she called you, and she also said to tell you that she’s going to book a flight for the kids to join you in New York for Christmas.”

“Oh,” he says, then looks at me with perhaps a touch of guilt flashing in his eyes. “That’s helpful. I have them for Christmas.”

I take a beat, ignoring the hurt, since I have no right to feel hurt. Skate on . “I guess that means I have the holiday off,” I say chipper and bright. Like a little fucking Christmas elf.

He freezes, his eyes flickering with embarrassment. “Oh. Yeah. I guess so. I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought of that before,” he says, sounding genuinely remorseful. But for what? For not telling me? “I should have said something sooner. I mean, Agatha used to take the holiday off every year.”

Right. Because I’m just like Agatha. His last nanny.

Of course you’re like Agatha. You have the same job.

In fact, I should act like the nanny, not like his girlfriend, who’s annoyingly hurt that she wasn’t invited for Christmas. Clearly, that ice-skating invitation last night was nothing more than a sleepy, offhand remark—not a real request. We’re not dating.

“It sounds great,” I say, laying on the holiday charm so thick.

“I’m going to be hanging out with Trevyn for Christmas,” I say, improvising.

“We made some plans. It’s like a Friendsgiving.

Actually, like a Friendsmas. With Isla, and Skylar,” I say and I am babbling.

It is like the Night of 1001 Confessions all over again, but it’s the Morning of a Million Holiday Lies.

But maybe Trevyn is free. Maybe we’ll do karaoke.

Or watch a movie. “I really appreciate the time off, so thank you.”

His brow knits, but he manages an awkward, “You’re welcome.” His gaze drifts over me, slow and deliberate, lingering just a second too long. “Is that my sweatshirt?”

And I didn’t think it was possible, but now I feel even worse. “Yes, it is. I grabbed it by mistake. Would you like it back?”

His lips part like he’s torn on what to say, but he eventually says, “No.”

And I have no idea if he feels guilty or if he’s trying to figure me out.

“Don’t worry. Elle didn’t say anything,” I say crisply, trying to get out of this awkward conversation.

I head toward the stairs, abandoning the fruit pursuit too.

“And I won’t wear it this afternoon when I take the kids to the science museum. ”

He grabs my arm before I can go, his grip firm but hesitant. “That’s not what I meant, Sabrina.”

“What did you mean then?” I snap.

He lets go of my arm, looking…chastened. “It just threw me off. I didn’t mean to?—”

“Fall asleep in my room?”

He tilts his head. “No, that’s not what I was going to say.”

“So you did mean to fall asleep in my room.” Holy shit.

What am I doing? Am I giving my boss the third degree?

I shake my head, embarrassed now too. “It’s all good.

Let’s just move on,” I say, trying to erase this entire uncomfortable moment.

“I should work on my skating lesson plans. And I have to do some prep for the science museum visit. You have community service with the team this afternoon—distributing compost bins in the neighborhood.” I’m reminding him of the schedule so he knows I’ve got my act together.

And so he knows I’m well aware of my place.

I’m not the girlfriend. I’m the nanny, and even if he didn’t tell me the holiday schedule, I still know the daily schedule and it’s my job to make sure everyone else does too.

“Anyway, you should probably charge your phone. Elle only called me because you didn’t answer, and I was rushing to answer the door without waking you up. I guess your phone died.”

He grabs it from the pocket of his pants and looks at the technological carcass. “Fuck. The kids could have called. I need to be more responsible,” he says, and now he’s beating himself up.

This morning could not have gone any worse.

I pluck at the sweatshirt. “Me too. I should have been more careful about the sweatshirt.”

He reaches for my hand again. “There’s nothing wrong with you wearing that,” he says, his voice firm and full of meaning.

But the sweatshirt is causing problems. “I guess we should be more careful.”

He parts his lips but doesn’t say anything for several seconds. His loss for words speaks volumes, then he says, “Yeah, I mean, we talked about it. For the kids and everything.”

My throat tightens, shame rushing through me, but also real concern for the two young people in his life—Luna and Parker.

I know their parents have a so-called good divorce .

I know they get along. But the kids are still young.

They’re being shuttled back and forth between two homes.

They don’t need to be more confused. They don’t need to think of me as their dad’s sidepiece .

They need to see me as the nanny who plans amazing visits to science museums, teaches them math in cool ways, and tracks down disco balls at thrift shops.

“I should probably give you your sweatshirt back then,” I say, starting to take it off, catching a whiff of his woodsmoke scent, and it nearly stops my heart. But then his hand comes down on mine once more.

“Wear it. Don’t take it off,” he says, his voice firm and commanding as he tugs the neckline back down on me.

His eyes hold mine, his gaze full of longing, and something else—something I can’t place.

“I want you to wear it. I like the way it looks on you. I don’t care if she knew it belonged to me. ”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. His fingers twitch, like he wants to touch me, but he won’t.

My wild heart settles the slightest bit, but only the slightest.

He looks at the time and swears under his breath. “I have practice.”

And just like that, he’s gone.