Page 117 of The Overtime Kiss

“You’re a turkey,” he retorts, then gobbles, and Parker cracks up.

As he laughs, Tyler swings his gaze my way, his eyes hopeful. And the twinge in me vanishes. “Thank you,” I say.

It’s the nicest surprise, his risotto plans. What’s nicer is that those twisting, corkscrew feelings from last year never surface.

Later in the day, as Trevyn and I build a Lego tuxedo cat with Parker, a warm nutmeg scent drifts through the living room. Trevyn nudges me and says, “Issomeonebaking a pumpkin pie?”

Parker’s eyes light up. “Does it have gummy bears in it?”

Trevyn shudders Parker’s way. “That sounds nasty.”

“Have you ever tried pumpkin pie with gummy bears in it?” Parker counters, never one to back down from the scientific method.

Trevyn pauses, as if he’s giving that some thought. “Actually, no. Have you?”

“Nope. But I’m willing to take my chances.”

Trevyn shakes his head but laughs. “Then I will too.”

Soon, other family members arrive. Tyler’s mom and Harvey, then Leighton with her camera, then Tyler and Miles’s grandmother Birdie, with a tray of toffee caramel bars.

Charlie’s here too, checking on everything in the kitchen and I instantly develop a friend crush on their little sister. Tyler’s moving around in a focused flurry, getting advice from Miles every step of the way. The man of the house looks both overwhelmed and focused, like he’s got this even as information comes at him from all angles and he opens ovens, stirs pots, and chops vegetables.

The kitchen is buzzing, but I can’t simply sit on the couch. My job is to be a helper. To help with kids and the house, and the kids are occupied with Lauren right now, working on a puzzle of the solar system since the Lego cat is done. So I slip into the kitchen. It’s more natural for me to offer a hand anyway, so I tell Tyler to let me work on the Brussels sprouts.

“Thanks,” he says with a big sigh. “I’d appreciate it.”

I had a feeling he needed that. And I like being there for him. Especially when he sets a hand on my back as he moves past me, sliding his fingers across the fabric of my shirt.

It’s out of sight from anyone else. But still, I keep thinking of our rule:No little sneaky displays of affection.

It feels like he broke it.

And I like it.

But Tyler refuses to let me touch the pumpkin pie. As it’s baking (without gummy bears), I peer across the open kitchen to the dining room. “I’ll finish setting the table,” I say.

He grabs my arm. It’s not overly romantic, but I do scan around to see if anyone’s looking. No one is. “You don’t have to do…that stuff,” he says, with a hint of…worry perhaps in his voice?

“I don’t mind,” I say, and really, this is so much more fun than last year when hired help scurried around my parents’ home, setting everything up. I sat awkwardly in the pristinely appointed living room, entertaining my mother’s rich friends from the country club, asking about their grandchildren and bridge clubs and book clubs where no one read anything by an author who didn’t look like them.

Tyler pulls me deeper into the kitchen, closer to the hallway, out of earshot of everyone. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. To set the table. And stuff.”

I think I know what he means byand stuff. He doesn’t want me to feel any expectations—that sex means we’re a couple.

But my desire to help isn’t coming from there. It’s coming from me wanting to do a great job. “I’m the nanny. It’s okay. My job is to make everything easier for you.”

“Sabrina.” He whispers my name with a plea. “You’ve made my life easier. It’s okay. I want you to sit down and enjoy yourself.”

“I will. I promise. I want to help.” Maybe there’s a bit of a plea in my voice. But it’s hard for me to abandon this intense desire to do a good job.

“You can hang with Trevyn. You are doing a great job. You don’t have to be…perfect,” he whispers, seeing straight through me and serving up a shot of truth right to my heart. A truth I didn’t expect, but maybe one I need.

I think of Elena. The things we’ve worked on over theyears. The letting go of my perfectionist tendencies. True, I haven’t told her about Tyler, but at least I can honorthis—the things she’s helped me with.

“Thank you,” I say.

But before I go, he asks with anticipation and nerves, “Have you heard anything?”

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