Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
But for now, I’m good and Austin has no power over me anymore, despite thinking he does.
Plus, it doesn’t seem that Cole shared any of my history with Cameron, which I appreciate, except his frown is growing deeper as his concern becomes apparent, and I realize I’ve said too much and raised too many questions with my own big mouth, which is not all that unusual of an occurrence. “I’m good. Grace is good with me. Promise.”
Cameron narrows his eyes at my words, and I expect him to poke and prod, demanding more, but instead, after a moment, he holds out his left pinky finger. “Pinky promises are a big deal around here. We take them seriously, especially Grace. You swear that you’re good and Grace is safe with you?”
That he doesn’t only ask about his daughter, but also about me, is unexpected. I’m nothing to him, just a temporary nanny until he finds his Mary Poppins, and by all accounts, Grace is everything to him.
I stare at his finger. It’s long, tanned, and his nail is clean and the cuticle trimmed. They look like fingers that could play the piano. But what strikes me the most is that the one next to it, his ring finger, is equally tan with no pale circle where a wedding ring would be. Cameron said it’s been him and Grace since she was three, so for nine years, and the lack of any mark on his finger tells me that it’s been that way in his heart too. Or at least that he wants people to think that.
I wrap my finger around his. “Pinky promise,” I tell him solemnly.
CAMERON
The next morning, after my workout, I find Riley already in the kitchen, staring out the window at the back yard.
“You good?” I ask, and she jumps a foot, whirling around while mid-air.
When she sees it’s only me, she puts a hand to her chest, though her eyes are still wide in fear. “You scared the shit out of me,” she says, laughing at herself. “How are you so quiet?”
I glance down at my tennis shoes and shrug. “Wasn’t trying to be.” When I look back up, Riley is now staring at me. Or more precisely, at the beads of sweat running down my chest.
My bare chest.
She mouths something that looks vaguely like ‘whoa’.
“Shit. Sorry.” I don’t normally walk around the house without a shirt on when someone’s here, even if the someone is hired staff. It’s not appropriate for either of us. But it’s so early that I didn’t imagine she’d be downstairs already, much less dressed for the day, because in contrast with my athletic shorts and tennis shoes, Riley has on black jeans that show considerable peeks of her thighs through the distressing, a white sweatshirt cropped to just below her ribs, and thick-soled combat boots. And of course, her jewelry. I suddenly feel very underdressed, bordering on naked. “I’ll go get dressed.”
“It’s fine. It’s your house, and I’ve seen more at the pool,” she says, waving a hand, which makes her bracelets jangle but also exposes a little more of her midriff. Not that I notice, much. “I just wanted to be ready to step in where I can and learn what your routines usually are. Can I get breakfast started for you or do anything to help? That’s what I’m here for… help, help, help.” That last bit is a bit sing-song for my taste, like she’s Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.
I drag my eyes from her waist, where they shouldn’t be anyway, to meet hers. The only person in my life who is that prepared is Jeannie, my assistant at the office, who’s been with me for over ten years and knows me better than I know myself. There’s no way Riley is this on top of things, especially on day two. Well, more accurately, day one point five.
When I don’t answer her and the silence grows uncomfortably long, she hesitantly asks, “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks. That’d be great,” I rush to say. “Uhm, Grace will want frozen pancakes. I usually do a protein shake. I can show you how to make that if you want?”
She nods, so I move toward the fridge, but she’s done the same thing and we meet in front of it, both of us reaching for the handle at the same time. When our hands bump into each other, we both jerk back reflexively. “Please, go ahead,” she says, backing up abruptly.
I grunt, feeling out of place in my own damn kitchen, and when I yank on the handle, the door flies open too hard, making the condiments rattle. “Almond milk, Greek yogurt, spinach.” I pull each item out, slamming them on the counter. From the freezer, I grab a frozen banana and add it to the lineup.