CHAPTER SEVEN

Reva

 

I’m glad Angela’s home when I swing by to get my stuff. I already took my packed bags to the house, but I still have some extra things to pick up. The latest catalogs, a magazine, and, of course, my half-eaten box of Reduced Fat Wheat Thins and the emergency Oreos. When she sees me come in, she jumps off the couch, nearly dumping her Cheez-Itz on the floor. I hug her in exhaustion.

“I missed you,” she says.

“Yeah, I’ve been gone like one day. And here I am.”

“Do you have time for wine?”

“Always, but I’m pretty sure I can’t drink when I’m on the clock. And I’m a live-in, so pretty much it’s water and Diet Coke for me.”

“Here, Diet Coke, then,” she obliges, pulling a can out of the refrigerator. I pop the top and drink.

“Thanks.”

“Why is there a car outside our building by the way? There’s no parking.”

“Oh, that’s my driver. Well, Ridge’s driver. He’s supposed to take me wherever I want to go.”

“He’s just gonna wait there?” She asks suspiciously.

“I guess so. I’ll text and say I’m going to be a while. He can go get a frozen yogurt or something.”

“Is he allowed to have dairy when he’s on the clock?” Angela teases.

“Okay, yeah, he’s waiting,” I say, “I texted and he says to take as long as I need. That it’s no problem.”

“Bet it bugs you that he’s waiting,” Angela says.

“Yeah. I don’t like making people wait. It’s why I’m early all the time.”
“I know. Believe me. But since he’s gonna wait, at least tell me how it went. Did you have to solve a Rubik’s Cube before time ran out or defuse a real bomb? What did Paranoid Daddy have you do at orientation? Crawl under barbed wire?”

“No. He gave me a lot of information about the little girl and he, well, he explained why he’s so hardcore about her safety right now. There’s a possible threat against him through work. I still think he’s overboard, but he’s got his reasons.”

“You like him. Does he look like that English guy from The Nanny?”

“No. I loved that show when I was little, though. Ugh, but I don’t want to think about that. I’m there to take care of Lydia—she’s adorable, total handful, though. It’s definitely not going to be boring. And Mrs. Whitman, the housekeeper, is an amazing cook. I haven’t really got to talk to her yet, but—”

“Sorry if I don’t care much about the old lady. Tell me about the guy.”

“There is no guy. Are you referring to my boss?” I say, hedging.

“The guy you said was as hot as the Rock. And you know how I feel about the Rock. That was a serious comparison.”

“I work for him. I wish he was old or ugly or, you know, married, which would be easier. I’m there to do a job.”

“Are you okay there?” she says. She puts her hand on mine, and I know she’s concerned for me. I nod.

“I’m good. I’ve got a really nice room and my own bathroom. I have all the access codes. I have a panic app on my phone in case shit goes south. I’ve been all over the house and there’s no Bluebeard’s chamber, no west wing from Beauty and the Beast. Nothing but some high-tech security that is in place to keep Lydia safe.”

“It sounds creepy. Are there bars on the window?”

“No! Although there’s probably alarms and bulletproof glass if I think about it. Anyway, how was work for you?”

“Work was boring as usual. I brought home leftover cream horns if you want one.”

“If I want one? When have I ever been awake and not wanted a cream horn? Did the Muffin Hottie not come in again today?”

“It’s been three days. I’m afraid he’s gone low carb. Look, I manage a bakery. The customers are mostly fat women like me. The lone attractive man needs to stick to his schedule. I wasted eyeliner three days running. He didn’t show up. I made Jill promise to call me if he came in on my break. I mean, sure he’s never said more than five words to me, but a woman can dream.” She sighed.

“Maybe he’s working up the courage to ask you out, because you’re beautiful and funny and you save you best friend cream horns. Who wouldn’t want a woman like that?”

“Even though you have a driver and a housekeeper now,” she points out.

“You know I’m gonna miss you. And the first day off I get, I’m taking you out to a fancy brunch. Pick the place and we’ll go. Mimosas, Eggs Benedict, the whole kitchen sink,” I promise.

“I’d love that. Unless Muffin Hottie has an imaginary crush on me, in which case I’ll be too busy banging him, and I won’t be able to make brunch.”

“We’ll reschedule. Once you’ve tired him out, we can go for coffee while he naps,” I giggle.

“Do you think he quit coming in because he knows I long for him? I probably stare,” she says.

“No way. Maybe he’s got a cold or something.”

“I thought he was writing me sonnets and picking out an engagement ring,” she protests with a laugh.

“That too. He’s writing sonnets, but he’s all snotty, which is so not romantic. He has to wait until he’s healthy to win you over like the gentleman he is.”

“I’d go out with him if he was unconscious.” She admitted.

“I think that’s illegal,” I say dubiously.

“I don’t mean I’d drug him! I mean he could be puking in a bucket, and I’d still go out with him.”

“Do you have a lot of bakery customers come in puking in buckets? Because I am NOT coming to see you at work anymore.”

“No, it was just an example. You know, he’s probably married. Anyone who looks like that has to be taken.”

“Oh, I promise that’s not true. I have never seen anyone as gorgeous as Ridge Carter outside of a movie screen, and he’s single! Best I can tell, he doesn’t even date.”

“Men like that don’t have to date. The women from the deli counter and bakery counter throw ourselves at them. They don’t have to even buy us lunch,” she says, joking.

“I don’t think he’d bring a woman home where Lydia would see her. I have no idea what he does. Business trips? A mistress?” I pause and finish my Diet Coke, “I should go. The driver’s waited long enough.”

“I’m glad you came by. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Love you,” I say.

“Don’t stay up too late trying to figure out your boss’s sex life,” she smirks.

Even though she’s joking, I know there’s truth to it. I shouldn’t wonder. I shouldn’t think about it at all. I would never have looked at any of my coworkers at the charter school the way I looked at Ridge today. Okay, so they were all women except for that one old guy who taught music, but I’m an adult and a professional. I should know how to keep my personal feelings, let alone my most intimate feelings separate from my job.

When I go back to the house, he’s not out in the living room so I don’t have to talk to him. I’m happy to avoid him, I tell myself. It’s for the best except I feel disappointed. He’s exciting to be around. Going to unpack my stuff and to take a shower isn’t exciting at all.

The new room is pretty and comfortable. I put my clothes in the dresser and closet, humming the addictive tunes from the Trolls soundtrack that I was forced to listen to today. I put my books and photos on the shelves and stay up way too late, but it looks a lot less like a hotel room when I’m done. I sit in the big comfy chair with a magazine while my hair dries, but I fall to slumber.

A light knock on my door wakes me. I call for them to come in, thinking it will be Lydia making sure I’m still here. It’s Ridge. He eases the door open, waits for me to invite him in. He hands me a glass of wine, says we should make a toast to surviving my first day on the job. He sits on the ottoman at the end of my chair. I curl my legs beneath me, aware of my damp hair, my pink pajamas that are worn and cozy. I’m not wearing a bra, so I cross my arms self-consciously to cover myself, nervous. I set the wine on the table.

“Why are you really here in my room?” I ask him boldly.

“For this,” he says.

Ridge leans toward me, his hand beside my head braced on the chair. His mouth covers mine. Oh! I almost shout at the shock of sensation when he kisses me because it’s so invigorating. Once he’s touched me, I’ve lost all restraint. I run my hands greedily across his muscular chest. He’s the sexiest, most manly man I’ve ever touched. He’s so big and powerful looming over me in the chair with his eyes gone dark and lusty. His thigh nudges my legs open. I’m hot and wet for him already. I feel sweaty and restless, my fingers plucking at his buttons as his tongue works in my mouth. I’m moaning and riding against his thick thigh, rubbing hard, desperate for friction. I’m not embarrassed, not inhibited at all. I’m clutching him, tearing at his clothes, reaching for what I know he can give me.

Ridge kisses my neck, sending shivers of long-awaited delight through me. He strips off my pajamas and his hands are rough and delicious on my hot skin. The scrape of his palm on my nipple makes me bite his lip. He buries his face in my breasts, licking and sucking first one nipple and then the other. I’m tossing my head back and forth on the chair cushion, driven out of my mind with wanting him. When he puts his fingers between my legs, I start to cry out in so much pleasure it’s almost painful.

Ridge covers my mouth with his hand. My eyes fly open in fear. “Hush, no one can hear!” he whispers urgently, the hard ridge of his erection against my leg. I shudder with even more excitement. It’s forbidden. It’s secret. We have to be quiet. I can’t scream no matter what he does to me. Oh, this is going to be even more amazing. I nod, lick his palm to let him know I want him, that I want it this way, hot and silent and furious.

He kisses me again, taking my cries into his mouth as he works his fingers, his wicked, taunting fingers around my wet, aching core. I’m silently begging him with my whimpers. I want him so much. My whole body throbs with need, with the focus of my entire body and consciousness in that one spot where I need him to please.

I hear the rasp of his zipper and I nearly scream for him to fuck me already but I bite down on his shoulder instead, to keep myself quiet. He makes a low growl as he presses the slick, velvet tip of his cock against my cleft. I dig my fingers into his shoulder blades, whimpering a plea for him to hurry. I can’t stand it. I can’t wait another second to have him inside of me. I’m saying his name. Ridge. Ridge!

At last, when I think I will faint if he doesn’t take me soon, he grabs my leg, pushing it out straight, hitching the other knee up to my chest so he can go deeper. He thrusts into me, one full, hard push all the way in to the hilt. The pressure, the fullness of him inside me is a shock. He’s so big and so hard for me. I start grinding against him for even more sensation. I wrap my free leg around his hips to keep him close.

Ridge is looking in my eyes while he’s deep inside me. It’s so intimate, such a flash of almost supernatural closeness that I reach up and kiss him. I can’t stand not kissing him. He’s an incredible kisser. He brings shivers to the very tips of my fingers when he slides his tongue in my mouth. He’s thrusting, ramming his giant member inside me as I pant against his lips. I’m clinging to his shoulders. His arm goes around me, pulling me against his chest, flattening my achy breasts against all that hard muscle. He is masterful, moving, stroking, holding me tight and taking me higher. When I start to groan, start to make needy sounds, he covers my mouth with his to swallow my cries as he pulls me tight against him and thrusts. I feel the clench of my inner muscles, the flash of pleasure through me. My whole body feels like it lights up, awash in fiery bliss under his hands and the onslaught of his thrusts. I’m saying his name again and again like it’s the only word I know.

Ridge.

Ridge.

Ridge.

He’s moving against me, his tongue in my mouth, and I start to come again before the last climax is over. I hear the keening wail come from me. I clap my hand over my mouth.

The sound wakes me up. It was just a dream. I was dreaming about Ridge, my boss, and what a dream it was. I have my hand on my mouth to stop the noise I was making. My other hand is between my legs, rubbing furiously and absentmindedly. I shut my eyes and feel the hot shame redden my face. I stop my actions even though touching myself released so much tension. I just woke up on the edge of orgasm from a dream about my new boss. What if he had walked in? What if Lydia had come looking for me? I’m in their home for fuck’s sake. I am so embarrassed. I jump off the chair, turn off the light and plunge into bed. I pull the covers up to my shoulders, curl stubbornly on my side and ignore the pulsing need of my body. I won’t finish. I won’t do that. Not when thoughts of Ridge litter my mind—what if I said his name aloud? What if he had heard me? I bury my face in my pillow. It’s a long time before I can sleep.

---

I’m exhausted the next morning when my alarm nags at me, but I make sure I’m dressed and ready, two cups of coffee in, when it’s time to wake Lydia. I walk softly into her room. Her hair is messy across her pillow, her mouth open, and arms clutching a plush kitty. She looks so little, even younger than she does when she’s awake and animated and talking nonstop. I sit on the edge of her bed, brush her hair back from her face.

“Hey, little girl. It’s time to wake up,” I say in my softest cheerful voice. “It’s Reva, I’m here to wake you up. Morning time now.”

Lydia doesn’t budge. I put my hand on her shoulder, “Come on, sweetie, it’s time to get up,” I whisper a little louder.

Still no response from the kid. She’s either a deep sleeper or she’s as stubborn as I think she is. I jiggle her shoulder a little. “Wake up,” I say brightly in my normal voice, “Good morning, Lydia!”

She grunts and rolls over, her back to me. It was not an adorable sleepy grunt. It was the kid equivalent of “Bite me, bitch, I’m sleeping,” I’m pretty sure. When I jiggle her shoulder again and say her name, she grunts and makes a whining sound, her hand waving back to swat at me. She does not like mornings, I’m guessing. The more I talk to her, the more I get furious, offended groans and whimpers from her. After about five minutes of no progress apart from Lydia trying to swat my hand away, I get up, scoop her up and stand her on her feet.

“You’re getting up, kid. Sorry, but it’s time,” I say. I still have her under the arms or she’d be in a heap on the floor because she is refusing to stand up. She will not unbend her legs and stand.

“Stand up,” I say decisively.

“Errrnnn!” she gives a whine and shakes her head.

“I’m letting go of you. You can stand up or you can land on your bottom. It’s up to you,” I say. She looks at me, a cartoonish angry frown on her little face. I let go of her. She drops on her bottom and sits there. She gives a frustrated howl, then tries to climb back up into bed. “Nope,” I say, and I pick her up and take her to the bathroom, “Use the bathroom, wash your face and hands and come to breakfast,” I tell her.

I stand in the hall and wait. Eventually the toilet flushes and I hear water running. She grumbles and shuffles her feet to the breakfast table. Mrs. Whitman brings her a plate with waffles and fruit on it. She pokes it with a fork and leans her face on her hand.

“Okay,” I say, accepting my own plate, “eat up. We’ve got to get you ready for school.”

“I don’t wanna.” She mumbles.

“You don’t wanna eat or you don’t wanna go to school?” I ask, impressed that she’s actually talking now.

“Sleep!” she says, bringing her fist down on the table and rattling silverware. I grab my goblet of orange juice to stop it from sloshing.

“Enough,” I tell her, “You’re not three years old, so stop acting like it. You’re a big enough girl to get ready for school without throwing a fit. But you have to act like you’re five—”

“Five and a half,” she says.

“Or you won’t get the privileges of a big girl. That means your screen time. If you’re going to have a fit and act like a preschooler, we can spend your iPad time learning your letters.”

“I know my letters,” she says hotly, obviously insulted, “I have twenty sight words already, more than anybody in my class!”

“Really? That surprises me, Lydia. I would have thought a girl big enough to read was big enough to eat her breakfast. Do I need to feed it to you and make the airplane sounds like I used to when my brother was a toddler?” I say, picking up her fork.

I’m pushing it, but if I don’t want a war of wills every morning, I’ve got to put my foot down now.

“No!” she says, grabbing for the fork.

“Are you going to eat properly or continue to fuss?” I ask mildly, holding the fork out of her reach.

“I’ll eat. But only six bites.”

“That’s up to you. Your body knows if it’s hungry or not. But I’d hate to see you get tired and grouchy at school because you didn’t eat breakfast.”

I hand her the fork and she eats a strawberry, glaring at me.

“I eat faster if I watch TV,” she says.

“We eat at the table in this house,” I state.

She shrugs and eats part of her waffle. When she seems to have quit and is just playing in the syrup, I take her to get dressed. I put her fresh jumper and blouse and knee socks on the bed for her and tell her to put them on.

“I don’t want that one,” she says, “I want the other one.”

“They’re all the same,” I say, staring blankly at the row of uniforms and wondering why the kid needs a personal shopper when she wears the same thing to school as everyone else.

“No, this one has the itchy tag!” she says, pointing at it.

“Fine, I’ll get out one other shirt. You can pick which one and put it on. If you’re not dressed by the time I come back in, I get to pick which one you wear,” I demand.

I go finish my orange juice and take my dishes to the sink. I tell Mrs. Whitman the waffles were wonderful.

“She ate well,” Mrs. Whitman says, surveying Lydia’s plate, “That one eats like a bird most of the time.”

“It was a battle,” I admit.

“It always is. Looks like you’re winning though,” she applauds and I smile at her.

Lydia is dressed when I return. I take a brush and some rubber bands from her dresser drawer and tell her to sit down.

“I can wear a headband,” she says.

“You did that yesterday. Your hair was all over the place when you came home. The rules say your hair has to be pulled back with a simple band or barrette or secured in braids. Today, braids.”

“What? I don’t like braids.”

“You haven’t had my braids,” I tell her, “I used to have really long hair, and I loved to mess with it. Here,” I brush her hair and French braid it in pigtails flat against her head and pin them up in back.

She looks in the mirror and gives a half smile. She likes it. She just won’t let me see.

“That’ll keep your hair out of your face.”

“It didn’t hurt,” is all she says, but I think I’m winning at life.

I get her lunch from Mrs. Whitman and put it in her backpack. She goes off with the driver. I drop onto the couch. Mrs. Whitman brings me a glass of iced tea.

“You earned it,” she says, “That child is a terror in the mornings. Hates to get up, just like her mama.”

“What?” I ask. I’m very curious about Lydia’s mother, but Ridge made it clear she’s not in the picture.

“Before she had the baby, she was a lazybones in the mornings. I was their housekeeper when they got married. Such a pretty girl, she was,” Mrs. Whitman said sadly.

“Was something wrong? Did she not sleep after the baby?” I ask. I’m prying. I’m nosy. I know it, but I don’t stop.

“That was all she did. She had a C-section, lots of pain. She took the medicine, and it would make her sleep. I thought she would stop taking it when she got better. But she didn’t stop. I was trying to run the house and take care of Lydia. Lydia had the colic…” she trailed off.

“I bet that was exhausting.”

“Very. But I didn’t want to upset Ridge. He was so excited to be a father, to have his pretty wife and finally have a family. I didn’t want to spoil his happiness. My mother was ill, and he sent me to be with her. I tried to tell him I needed to be here, but he didn’t realize. He couldn’t have known that she didn’t get out of bed until three or four most days, that she didn’t change the diapers or do the feedings. She said it would be fine, that she was the MOTHER and I was interfering and how dare I suggest she couldn’t take care of her own child…” Mrs. Whitman sniffed and stood up, “I said too much. I’m sorry. I know that he will tell you what he wants you to know. Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I asked you. You were kind enough to tell me what you did. I certainly won’t tell Ridge anything,” I assured her, “If anything, I shouldn’t have asked.”

I then go through the ‘activity closet’ in the hall to see what Lydia and I can use for some more arts and crafts today. I choose clay and raid the drawers for kitchen tools she can use to make impressions and patterns. I have everything set up on the playroom table when the phone rings. I get a call from Angela that the Muffin Hottie made an appearance and said he liked her sweater. “It was the blue cardigan you got me. I can’t believe he even noticed I had a sweater!” she said, completely thrilled.

“I’ve got some time this morning, I may run by and bring you a coffee if you’re free,” I offer.

“Absolutely yes.”

I head to the grocery store where Angela manages the bakery. I stop off on the way and get us some lattes and chocolate eclairs although we could just get free ones in her own bakery. It was the effort that counted. She’s ready to take her fifteen-minute break when I get there. We go outside and stand around with our coffees.

“These are killer good,” she admits.

“I know, right? I already had waffles and fruit for breakfast. I’m going for a run before Lydia gets home. She was a total bear to wake up. Worse than Benny ever was.”

“How’s Benny?”

“He’s good. He’s working part time in fast food. He loves it. He puts together sandwiches. He’s always loved patterns and building and stuff, so it’s perfect. He says he always gets it in the right order. I’m going to Facetime him tonight.”

“Tell him I’ll come visit and he can make me a sandwich,” she says.

“I will. He’ll love that,”

I miss my brother, my whole family really. They’re only a few hours away, but I don’t get to see them very much. I sigh.

“How’s your mom doing?” I ask Angela.

“She’s on a singles cruise. She got burned out on the online dating—too many men her age want someone who’s, like, twenty-five to admire their beer bellies and watch sports with them, apparently,” Angela sighs.

“Sounds about right,” I confirm, “You know I keep getting guys who only want me to watch them watch sports while bringing them snacks quietly—or the ones who want me to listen to them talk about sports. That’s always fun too,” I say sarcastically.

“Yeah, your track record is not the best. Of course, those are the good ones who didn’t steal from you.”

“Yeah, thanks for bringing that up,” I say, “I’m kind of worried about my new job. I mean, I like it. But there’s two problems—”

“One is that the dad is too hot, right?”

“That’s problem one. Problem two is if this guy finds out about my credit card debt he’s not going to think I’m responsible enough to take care of his child. Or to use the credit card for expenses.”

“But you are responsible,” Angela declares.

“I am unless a boyfriend wants to borrow money. Then apparently I’m a complete moron and give him my credit card.”

“Without changing the limit on it. Or asking about the bill.” She adds.

“I did ask,” I say, “He said he paid it off.”

“And you didn’t double check because…” she trails off, eyebrows raised.

“Because I’m an idiot,” I profess, “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by checking up on him. I trusted him. I wanted him to know I trusted him. Then I got screwed over.”

“This means I’m not going to give Muffin Hottie my PIN number,” she says, “But how can I get him to ask me out? He was friendly today, talked about my sweater, said the weather’s getting colder at night…”

I want to hug Angela. She is the sweetest person ever, but she doesn’t have a lot of confidence.

“Easy,” I say, “you ask him. You don’t wait. Life is too short. You say, ‘hey, Muffin Hottie, I get off work at five, want to go for coffee or drinks or something?’ Maybe learn his name first. Muffin Hottie sounds like you objectify him.”

“I do objectify him every chance I get, especially when I’m alone with my detachable shower head.”

“Ugh, Angela, do NOT tell him that. Just ask him out.”

“Two things. One, I am not asking him out. I can’t handle the rejection. And two, who have you been thinking about when you’re alone with the shower head, because you are red as a beet, girl!”

“Shhh!” I hush her, embarrassed, “No one. I’m embarrassed for you because you said something so personal.”

“Excuse me, who am I talking to? I thought you were my friend Reva who bought me three Fast and Furious DVDs and a pack of double-A batteries and called it the vibrator special.”

“Fine, I just—we’re standing outside a grocery store, not at home,” I mumble. I’m kind of irritated that she knows me so well. She knows I’m lying.

“It’s the boss, right,” she insists, finishing her éclair. “Not surprising really, when you consider that he’s gorgeous and grumpy and you love withholding guys who give you a challenge.”

“So I attract assholes is what we’re saying here,” I disclose, slumping against the building.

Angela is right. Apart from the fact that Ridge is handsomer than anyone I ever dated by a factor of one hundred, he’s my type. Condescending, acts like a jerk, which convinces me that he’s been hurt and needs my love and patience…demanding, uncompromising…yeah, he’s my catnip, or my kryptonite. The worst thing for me. The thing I can’t resist. This time not only is it an unsuitable guy I’m crushing on, it’s my boss. My actual Miss-Moneypenny-drooling-over-James-Bond boss. I am such a cliché it’s actually annoying.

“You need to get laid,” she says wisely, “you haven’t slept with anyone since Danny. You’re horny and lonely and this sexy guy lives in the house with you. You’re bound to have thoughts and fantasies. Either you go hook up with someone or you buy a Costco pack of double-A batteries and torture yourself at home thinking about him and how he’s forbidden fruit.”

“You’re so mean.”

“The word you’re looking for is right. As in, Angela, you are so right. How are you still single when you’re beautiful, sexy, smart, and so wise?”

“I ask myself that all the time. Muffin Hottie would be lucky to have a chance with you. I would never have made it through the past year without you. You deserve someone wonderful, sweetie,” I tell her.

“Thanks for the pep talk. Still not asking him out. Is it lame to wear the same sweater tomorrow?” she asks.

“Yes, it is. You don’t want him to think you wear dirty clothes to work.”

“He might think I’m just really good about getting laundry done fast.”

“You weren’t going to wash it. You were gonna hang it on the chair and wear it again,” I say.

“Damn. You lived with me. You know too much,” she laughs, “I gotta get back to work now.”

She goes inside after hugging me goodbye. I throw away the rest of my éclair and coffee, call the driver and go back to the house. I change into workout clothes and go for an extra-long run. I check out the entire posh gated community where I live now, and it is street after street of massive brick homes, some with pools and cabanas, some with tennis courts, some with both. I am amazed at the sheer number of people who can afford to live in a place like this. I run until the timer on my watch goes off. I head home to shower before Lydia arrives from school.

There are shopping bags on my bed, clothes the shopper selected for me. I pull on leggings and a pretty tunic—a heather purple French terry with a drawstring funnel neck, very comfortable and more athletic and casual than I expected. I love it. I braid my hair and put on the supple leather booties the shopper sent over. They look fantastic. I’m like a much fancier version of myself in this outfit, and I can see this as a definite job perk.

She comes in like a tornado, which I’m beginning to think is normal for her. Lydia dumps her boots by the door, her backpack on top of them, and flops on the couch in one noisy movement. I sit down beside her, hands in my lap.

“Shoes,” I say simply.

She raises one eyebrow at me like I have got to be kidding. I just wait for her to do it. Finally, she groans, heaves herself up and takes her boots to her closet. I hear the clatter as she throws them in and bounds back to me.

“Nicely this time. Set them down, side by side,” I say in my best patient teacher voice, “We have time for you to do it right. I’m not in a hurry. We have arts and crafts after lunch, but take your time.”

She narrows her pretty eyes, stalks back and fixes the shoe situation. Then she empties her folder and hangs up the backpack at my prompting. It’s a long process with lots of sighing and mumbling. She sits beside me while we go over the papers in her folder. She reads me the stapled sight word reader, only stumbling over a couple of words.

“I had first graders in class last year who couldn’t read that well!” I tell her truthfully, “We had to work hard to get them to be able to read something with this many words on a page.”

“I can’t read ‘could’.” She grumbles.

“You just can’t read it yet. We’ll practice. I’ll make flashcards while you do your craft stuff,” I say.

I won’t have any trouble making flashcards for her—there are enough supplies in that activity closet to cover two classrooms at the charter school with some to spare. I would’ve been thrilled to have half that stuff last year to use with a bunch of twenty-five kids, much less one.

“There are flashcard apps,” she says, just leaving it there.

“Want to see if you can afford any of them with the three bucks you have left?” I offer.

“Maybe there’s a free one. I don’t want to spend my iTunes money on learning,” she says as if learning is a filthy word. I don’t let myself laugh.

“Okay, I’ll look,” I say. “Go change and wash up for lunch.”

I figured out from Mrs. Whitman that the massive wardrobe of adorable little girl clothes is mostly worn for play at home after school, and for going places with her dad, so when she comes back in leggings, knee high leather riding boots and a cashmere sweater that I bet I can’t afford, I’m not surprised. If I had cashmere, I would never eat in it because of I do not trust myself to not be clumsy and spill something. She’s just wearing this to lunch at home. Rich people are just different.

Lunch is an excellent soup that Lydia eats very little of. When she’s done—quickly because she wants to go do arts and crafts—I get up reluctantly, taking my bowl to the kitchen and making her do the same. I also nudged her until she thanked Mrs. Whitman for lunch. She isn’t exactly a rude child, but the manners could be freshened up.

While she rolled out clay and smashed the potato masher into it to make a grid pattern, I looked up Dolch word lists and made flash cards for her, making a game out of it after. She played on the iPad for a while, giving me time to chop vegetables and chat with Mrs. Whitman. When Ridge got home, we were playing another round of the sight word game I made out of construction paper and index cards. We were using little plastic Disney Princesses as game pieces. He stood in the door of the playroom. I was so aware of him. Goosebumps rose on my arms. I can smell expensive cologne on him, see that he’d had some kind of meeting today since he was wearing a designer suit and a dark blue silk tie. He looks mouth-watering in that suit. My heart thuds. I misread a sight word, causing Lydia to crow victory and jump up and down. I hope he thinks I let her win. I hope he doesn’t realize I was so flustered by him that I screwed up a kindergarten sight word.

“Reva made me this game!” Lydia says, bounding to him.

Ridge scoops her up in his arms and hugs her. When she wiggles away, she runs to grab a card and show him.

“This says ‘him’. I know that word now. Did you know that him starts with the /h/ sound just like ‘he’? Reva said so!”

I laugh because she thinks I invented letter sounds apparently. He looks at me over her head.

“You can buy a game, you know,” he says coolly.

“I know. I liked making it for her. She decided to be Jasmine, and I’m—that one,” I say, pointing to the ugly stepsister she chose for me. Not flattering, I think.

“Lucky you. I always have to be the sea witch from The Little Mermaid. Or whatever the ugliest one is…” he drifts lightly.

“You play princesses?” I nudge.

“Why not? I’m a dad,” he chuckles.

I shouldn’t be surprised, I think, that a tough guy like Ridge is secure enough to play dolls. It’s not like anyone’s going to question his manliness. I mean, he looks like he could be Superman under that suit, or something more wicked and dangerous. Batman, I decide. Rich, troubled, gorgeous—yeah, my type. We pick up the game, discussing what to do later. When Lydia suggests we all watch the Lego Batman movie after supper, I almost laugh. It’s like she can read my mind. I wonder if I’ll be hopelessly, stupidly attracted to the animated Lego dude.

Later, I sit on the couch with them, keeping to my side. Lydia stretches out between us, her head on a throw pillow on my lap. I stroke her damp hair and love the sweet shampoo smell of her. The movie seems to go on forever. I can’t concentrate on it because Ridge is sitting there three feet away from me, his jacket and tie off, his shirt open at the collar. He’s the very picture of a handsome businessman relaxing with his family at home, except he has that dangerous edge to him—the broad shoulders and muscled arms that let you know he’s more than an office drone. That somewhere, sometime, he’s been a total badass.

Instead of watching the cartoon that Lydia’s giggling over, I’m seriously reminding myself every two minutes not to stare at my employer, even though I feel sparks between us. I can’t imagine he doesn’t feel the chemistry crackling. Except—he’s probably a mature adult who doesn’t walk around lusting after his staff the way I ogle him. I mentally groan in frustration.

I try to focus, but it’s not happening. I glance at the clock with relief.

“Bedtime, sweetie. Go brush your teeth and pick out a book,” I tell her.

Lydia jumps up and runs to the bathroom. I reach for the remote to turn off the movie at the same time Ridge does. Our hands touch, and this time it’s me who leaps back like I’ve touched the stove when it’s on.

“Oh! Sorry!” I say, backing away, “I’ll just go get Lydia settled in.”

“Right,” he says, looking totally unfazed by the half of a second of accidental physical contact that has every nerve ending in my body buzzing with awareness.

I wait for Lydia, read her a book, kiss her and leave the room as soon as Ridge steps through the doorway to tuck her in. I retreat to my room and call Benny.

“Hey, buddy,” I say when he appears on the Facetime screen, “How’s it going?”

“I miss you. You look red. Are you sick?”

“No, I’m good,” I say quickly, “How’s work?”

“Fun. I like to put on the olives because you gotta space them out just right. You use eight olives for a foot-long sandwich so you spread them out. That way, the person gets olive all the time and not just on one piece. That would make me mad if I only got olives on part of my sandwich,” he says seriously.

“You don’t even like olives!” I say.

“Yes, I do. I like these ones, they’re salty,” he says, “The black ones. The green ones are not good.”

“You tried black olives! That’s so great. I’m glad you like your job. The little girl I take care of now likes olives too. In fact, I caught her in the pantry trying to eat some yesterday right before dinner.”

“She could ruin her supper! Mom doesn’t like it when I ruin my supper,” Benny says.

I miss him so much my chest hurts. He’s had a haircut so his blond hair is really short on the sides now. He has on his shirt from work even though it’s his day off. He’s so proud to work there, and I’m proud of him. My sweet baby brother Benny. I haven’t seen him in nearly two months. He eats olives now. There’s no telling what else I’ve missed.

“Are you still going to the therapy place and doing art?” I ask, “Did Mom take you today?”

“No,” his brow scrunches up and I know he’s not happy, “They say I can’t go there anymore. I have a job, so I can’t. Mom says it means I am doing too good, and it’s not a bad thing. But I think I’m in trouble there, and she won’t tell me.”

It breaks my heart. He feels like he got in trouble at the therapy facility. They’re just denying him services because of his level of functioning. We’ve fought so hard to get him to this point. I hate that he has to give up the therapy center where he does OT and art and music therapy. It’s where he sees his friends and gets to do things he loves and that help with his fine motor skills. I want to cry. This is something I could change, if I didn’t have that debt hanging over me. I was planning on a couple of years at the charter school to save money, and then I’d get investors on board and open a center like that one, only more inclusive and less expensive. I’d have to get help finding and applying for grants, but there has to be a way to make these services more available for the people who need them. I hate it for him.

“I’m sure you’re just too advanced for them now. You outgrew them. You’re so good at making sandwiches and getting to work on time, that they think someone else needs it more,” I say soothingly.

He nods, but he doesn’t answer. I think maybe he’s trying not to cry. I let him go and then I go cry in the shower because there’s nothing I can do for him right now. Part of what I want with my own special needs center is to have Benny as a worker who helps set up classes and helps decide what activities to feature—to give him a productive role there in an environment where he feels valued and loved. But because I was stupid about Danny, because month after month I let him handle the credit card and the bill and didn’t ask questions, now I’m years away from making my dream a reality. I can save money as a nanny, sure, but I’m not getting the experience in regular and special education that I did at a school. I’m not getting administrative mentorship like I want. I guess I can research nonprofits in my spare time, but it’s not like the on-the-job learning I counted on. It sucks knowing how I screwed up my life, how it’ll be ages before I get back on track.

I go to bed early and depressed. I hear noises from Lydia’s room and wander in there in my nightgown. When I peek in the door to see if she’s having a bad dream, I see Ridge holding her in his lap, reading to her from her fairy tale book. She’s holding her kitty, leaning her head on his shoulder. I duck out of the doorway, heart pounding. I almost walked in there in my nightgown, but what’s got me distressed is the sweetness of the private moment I just witnessed. That she is awake, and her dad comes in to hold her and read to her. The tenderness of their quiet time together melts my heart. I creep back to bed, but I lay awake for a long time after that.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking of Ridge.