Page 114 of The Nanny and the Hothead
Her gaze bounced from the gaggle of children bouncing in the distance to Mitch. “You’re cooking for Oscar’s class?”
He tapped his hands on the steering wheel as that endearing hint of a blush colored his cheeks. “Before I threatened Sutton and Cliff with bodily harm, I called the school. I spoke with Oscar’s teacher to ask if it would be okay if we stopped by and made them a snack. She thought it was a great idea. None of the children have any allergies. And she said the parents signed some permission form at the beginning of the year saying their kid could participate in snack time. We have enough food in my secret stash for each kid to get half a sandwich.”
“You came up with this idea on your own?” She hated that her question came out with such surprise. But she was absolutely blown away.
“I thought Oscar might get a kick out of it. Being the new kid is hard. I’m not so great at the parenting part, but the chef part of me knows what people like.”
She stared in awe of this man. “This is really sweet of you, Mitch. He’s going to remember you did this for him.”
His blush deepened. “I wasn’t always a giant, roaring hothead.”
A warmth filled her chest. “I’m starting to see that.”
She could barely see anything else. Mitch and his world were quickly becoming her world.
She’d learned more about him in the last couple of days than she had in the last two and a half years she’d worked for him at the restaurant. But so much of his anger and awful behavior made sense now.
Of course, he’d demanded perfection in everyone who worked for him. He didn’t know any different because he demanded even more from himself.
He’d become a machine. A hotheaded, perfection-driven machine that, day in and day out, had to prove his worth.
Looking back, it was so clear. The rage and the need to be the best was a shield. But it had disintegrated as if it were made of papier-mâché when he’d learned he was Oscar’s father. That had to have been the trigger that caused him to blow his top and lose his status as one of America’s favorite prime time chefs. The pain, frustration, and utter agony of being deceived by the people he loved and then learning that he was a father had to have tipped the scales. He couldn’t balance the heartache any longer. He couldn’t keep it inside. He simply couldn’t control the fury. It had taken control.
“I got the idea today when people started showing up with their kids,” Mitch continued. “I remembered the cookie cutters. Louise had given them to us along with…”
“That old spatula,” she supplied.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
It was as if the Mitch Elliott pendulum had swung from hotheaded asshat to compassionate chef and caregiver.
“You’re a good dad, Mitch,” she said, and she meant it.
He sighed. “I don’t know about that. But it’s easier to try to be a good parent when you’re with me.”
His words went right to her heart. But there was no time to swoon or sit there like a glazed doughnut. The cheering children grew louder as Mitch slowed the vehicle and parked. She looped her camera’s strap around her neck. It was time to work. She was there to chronicle Mitch’s return to his roots. She hadn’t even closed the passenger side door before Oscar was at her side.
“Look, Charlotte! Look what I painted at school today,” the boy cried, pulling an object from his backpack. She couldn’t even see what Oscar was holding in the bustle and bump of children gathering to check out the truck.
“Slow down, Oscar. And take it easy, boys and girls,” the teacher said, tapping her clipboard as she addressed the class, oohing and aahing over the giant vehicle.
Charlotte smiled as a little boy high-fived Oscar. “They sure seem excited.”
Mrs. Bergen nodded. “They sure are! I had the kids bring their backpacks out with them. I’m dismissing them from here when the bell rings. This should give you a little extra time. I know my husband will be disappointed he missed this. You’ll need to be sure to remind Mitch to have plenty of food for the Whitmore Carnival. I’m sure my husband and his brothers will be the first in line. And let me give you this,” she added, taking a sheet from her clipboard. “It’s the permission slip for the class camping trip. We’ll be heading to a spot called the Outdoor Laboratory in Telluride for the last week of school.”
Charlotte accepted the paper and scanned the dates. Her gut twisted. Oscar’s last day of camp was the first day of the photography workshop. She pushed the thought aside.
“Thank you,” she answered, folding the paper and slipping it into her pocket.
“No, thank you! This is such a treat!” the teacher replied, gesturing toward the truck.
“It was Mitch’s idea,” she answered as Oscar tapped her arm.
“Mrs. Bergen said I could show you my heart,” the child chimed, holding out his palm with a shiny, orange ceramic heart glinting in the midday sun. “I painted it the same color as Say Cheese, Louise.”
The twist in her gut loosened as she observed Oscar’s palm-sized painted heart.
“It’s beautiful! Do you mind if I take a picture?” she asked.
