CHAPTER FIVE

Reva

I should never have touched him. I know that. He’s my boss, not my friend. I just felt so comfortable here—which is unexpected because I’ve never been at ease around wealthy people. I forgot myself for a minute. He looked so different after I told him about Benny. I wondered if I’d shocked him or said too much, so I tried to normalize the situation and touch his hand the way I’d soothe someone if they were upset.

I cannot touch this man. I can never touch Ridge Carter again. If I do, the entire house will catch fire, I think. It seemed like a possibility that I’d go up in flames just from brushing his hand with mine. Instantly, attraction flooded my body like a live wire whipping around loose. I licked my lips, felt myself flush as my skin heated from the slight contact with his. His hand was strong and firm, the wiry hairs on the back of it springy against my palm. Oh, I want him. I want him in the desperate, dry-mouthed way I wanted Slade Winslow my freshman year in college the first time I saw him dive off the block at a swim meet. My palms itch and my toes curl inside my shoes with wanting him. I glance up at his face from where I’m looking at our hands. He looks stricken, pale even.

He jerks his hand away from mine like I did something terrible, which I think I just did. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I’m sorry and that it won’t happen again, but the door swings open and a flurry of dark hair and glittery purple backpack storms in and launches itself at him.

Ridge Carter is immediately transformed.

It’s as astounding as that time in the Harry Potter movie where the teacher turns herself into a cat. It’s that dramatic. Only instead of becoming feline, he becomes human all at once. He’s smiling and the grin is heart stopping and gorgeous. His eyes crinkle up at the corners as he hugs his child. Every stern, paranoid expression I’ve seen on his face just disappears until he’s no longer made of uncompromising granite. He’s flesh and blood and pure joy. He shuts his eyes when he hugs her like this is all the world to him. My heart clenches. It makes my chest hurt, and I rub it a little absently and blink to stop the tears that swim into my eyes. This is what he’s so desperate to protect.

The little girl tumbles off his lap and onto the couch between us. I knew she’d be pretty. I’d seen her pictures all over the walls, but now that she is right in front of me she’s even more beautiful. I guess with a father like that, the DNA was on the side of angels. She has the sweet round cheeks and wide eyes of a child who would be in fashion ads or commercials. She slides her eyes toward me and gives a half smile that’s all mischief.

“No more Food Network, huh?” she says.

“We haven’t even talked about screen time,” he says, “so watch your step, Noodle.”

She giggles. It’s every bit as arresting and bubbly as a little kid’s giggle can be.

“I’m Reva,” I say, “I’m new here. Maybe you can show me around.”

“Daddy already showed you everything. That’s why he’s home from work. He tells me stuff,” she says a little importantly.

“Good. That explains why you didn’t scream and panic when you saw me,” I say. She gives me a good impression of his stony glare. I half expect her to tell me this is no laughing matter—she’s that good.

“So, he probably told you about the shoes,” she sighs heavily, looking down at the spot by the couch where she’s kicked off a pair of purple rainboots.

“Yeah. They go in the closet. Every time,” I say.

She wriggles away from her dad, picks up her shoes and proceeds to dump her sequined backpack on the floor as she runs the shoes to her room. I want to hoot with laughter, but I don’t think he’d appreciate that.

I look at him, “She’s definitely yours,” I say. She looks just like him, and more than that, she has the hardcore look meant to intimidate. “First kindergartener I ever met who could stare me down. You’ve taught her well.”

“If I’d taught her well, that backpack would be on the hook. The one by the door hung at exactly her level so she can reach it,” he says.

“But where’s the challenge in that?” I tease.

“I’m staying through lunch to get the two of you acclimated to each other and teach you all the codes.”

“Can’t you text them to me?”

“No digital record of the access codes. Ever,” he says stonily. Just like that, he’s back to commanding officer.

“Right,” I affirm.

He takes me to a panel hidden improbably in the laundry room and scans my thumbprint into the system, tells me a series of numbers and letters that make up the front door and garage access codes. I repeat them back to him and he quizzes me. Lydia finally comes back from her room by the time we finish.

“Backpack,” he says. She heaves a sigh so huge that her shoulders droop visibly.

“I take it she came with the drama built right in,” I say.

“I didn’t add it as an option package,” he deadpans back to me. I smile. I feel like we had a moment. I’m less scared of him than I was, if that makes sense.

When the little girl comes back, she smiles obediently, “I’m Lydia Carter,” she says, “It was nice to meet you Reva.” She looks expectantly at her dad who nods his approval.

“You have great manners, Lydia. Now show me your favorite part of the house,” I say.

I’m ready to show wonder and adoration of her blue mermaid room, so when she takes me to the bathroom I’m surprised. She points to the big sunken tub that is surrounded by every girly looking bath toy imaginable.

“I love this big thing. It has jets to make bubbles.” She points proudly to the controls. I stifle the urge to ask sarcastically if he isn’t afraid she’ll drown from taking a bath. I just nod and say it’s an amazing tub, which it is. It’s about seven times the size of any bathtub I’ve ever sat in and practically a swimming pool.

“It’s so pretty,” I gush.

“You can use it anytime you want,” she says generously.

“That’s so sweet of you. But I think I have a shower in my bathroom.”

“You do. Let me show you!”

She runs down the hall and takes me to a bedroom. It’s lovely with cream colored walls, lots of space, and a big, comfortable bed. My bags have already been deposited on the big upholstered chair in the corner. There’s a thick rug on the floor and empty shelves for my books. The closet is bigger than everything I own put together. She shows me the bathroom, also beige but with sleek chrome accents and a steam shower. There’s even a new Diptyque Tuberose candle on the countertop. It looks like the nicest hotel bathroom ever.

“See, no tub,” she says sadly, “so you can use mine, but never put bubble bath in it. It’s bad for the jets. Daddy said it would burn up the motor,” she tells me seriously.

“Okay, I won’t,” I tell her.

Ridge appears in the doorway. I tuck my hair behind my ear, bite my lip. Why am I looking at him like he’s a guy I see from across the club? He’s my boss. I tell myself that about six times while he’s talking to his daughter. They seem to be negotiating about lunch. He’s so different with her, being open and present, responding to everything she says with warmth and confidence. They’re really close—it’s obvious from their rapport, from the way she says something about a frog that sounds like nonsense to me and it makes them both laugh. She’s holding his hand, looking up at him. They lead me to the dining room and food has appeared. Like lunch just happens like magic in this place.

“Mrs. Whitman said if you eat your carrots—all of them—you can watch the Barefoot Contessa with her this afternoon,” he says.

“How many carrots is that?” she says, narrowing her eyes.

“However many are on your plate,” he counters.

“Five? I’m five so I can eat five, but that’s all.” She says.

My eyes go from one of them to the other like I’m following a tennis match. Watching him make a deal over carrots with his little girl is adorable. Adorable is not a word I would have expected to apply to Ridge Carter. Sexy? Sure. Gorgeous? Definitely. Stone-cold serious and kind of terrifying? Yes, but not adorable. Yet here he is, being sweet and cute with his kid. He’s not ordering her to eat all her damn carrots or he’ll bust her ass. He’s not threatening to take away her screen time or some other privilege. They’re discussing it like they’re dealing on equal footing. I can’t look away. It doesn’t hurt that he’s very nice to look at either.

“There’s more than five on your plate. Eat those and the chicken.”

“What’s the Contessa even cooking today? If it’s just meat, I don’t care if I watch.”

I take out my phone under the table and look it up, “Looks like a cake with berries on it,” I say.

Her face lights up, “The American flag one? I love that thing!” she starts spearing carrots with her fork and shoving them in her mouth. She grimaces and chews bravely, determined. It’s kind of funny to watch and I’m unable to suppress a smile. I can just hear her thinking that if she gets the carrots down she can watch the cake show. I slide a glance at Ridge. He smiles to himself without looking at me and eats his lunch.

“Your Mrs. Whitman is a great cook,” I compliment as I finish the last of my lemon chicken and vegetables.

“She is very good,” he agrees.

“What’d you do to deserve a cook like that?” I tease.

“I pay her very well. And I got her the Wolf cooktop she’d always wanted. You would’ve thought I was sending her on a cruise around the world. She was that happy.”

“I’d rather have the cruise since my cooking repertoire ranges from microwave popcorn to baked potatoes.”

“Frozen dinners?”

“Oh yeah. I have microwaved nearly hundreds of those Lean Cuisines.”

“Those are practically pure sodium,” he says.

“Probably,” I shrug, “but they’re easy.”

“Is easy the ultimate goal?” he says. I’d swear he’s flirting with me.

“That depends on what you’re talking about. With food, absolutely,” I remark.

Lydia’s cheeks are full of carrots, and she’s chewing as fast as she can like a furious little chipmunk. I try not to laugh but when I look at Ridge, we both start laughing. She gives us a quelling look, but her mouth is too full for her to say much. I take a drink of my water.

“I think you can slow down,” I say, “the show isn’t on for another hour. You have time to chew.”

Lydia nods but continues to chew. When she finally swallows, she takes a huge drink of water, then triumphantly stands beside her chair and bows.

“All gone!” she announces.

“Good. Now eat your chicken.”

“I’m kinda full of carrots, Daddy,” she says, slightly whiny.

“If you need to get back to work, I got this,” I tell him. I tear my dinner roll in two and offer her half. I have never met a woman of any age I couldn’t win over with bread. She takes it gladly and bites it, sliding back into her chair.

“Eat the chicken and you get the other half. It was really good chicken.” I persuade.

“It’s the one from the Giada show. I watched it.”

“You like cooking shows a lot, don’t you?”

“I mostly like cartoons, but Mrs. Whitman doesn’t watch SpongeBob.”

“Neither do you. It’s rude and obnoxious,” Ridge says.

“I can only watch PBS Kids,” she sighs as if she’s being forced to sit through old episodes of SportsCenter or something.

“They’ve got some good stuff,” I say, waiting for her to jump in with a favorite. She shrugs and finishes her roll.

“Do you play Minecraft?” she asks.

“Nope. But I can learn if you want me to play with you,” I tell her.

She seems satisfied by this and takes a bite of chicken. With her mouth still full, she says, “Can I play on your phone?”

“I don’t really have any fun apps,” I admit.

“You can get some. I know how.”

“You’ve got three dollars and one cent left this week,” Ridge says, a warning in his voice, “No trying to con the nanny into buying apps for you on her phone.”

Deflated, she swallows her chicken. I look at him. I’m totally considering buying one app for my phone, something she wants. I can use it for an incentive. I can download it, but she doesn’t get to play it if her chores aren’t done or something. I wonder what the long-term implications of that would be—if I show that I’m willing to skirt a few of her dad’s rules. Does that undermine him? Does it undermine me? This is… more complicated than teaching. Teaching had the backbone of school rules and expectations. There wasn’t this gray area. I have to bond with this child, but I don’t want to do the wrong thing. I put my phone in my pocket, thinking better of my plan to download just one.

“I have some music. Maybe you can check it out later,” I say. I’m sort of proud of Ridge for not asking to check my phone for dangerous music—satanic chants or something.

He asks her about school and if her friend Gabbie is back in class and feeling better. I like that he’s engaged with his daughter and knows her friends. I also find myself liking him more than I should.