Page 115 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“You can take as many pictures as you want,” Oscar replied, his proud grin widening. She only got one shot in before Mitch joined them, and the boy pivoted toward his father.
“I painted my heart orange, Dad, like the truck. Now we both have a heart. Mine doesn’t have a lock, but it’s still pretty awesome because I picked the color by myself,” Oscar exclaimed. He shot his arms out, balancing the heart in the palms of his hands as the art project wobbled precariously.
Quickly, Mitch rested his palms beneath his son’s hands, steadying them so the ceramic heart wouldn’t crash to the ground. Without thinking, she lifted her camera and framed the shot of their hands.
Click! Click!
She checked the screen, assessing the composition.
“Do you want me to take a picture of the three of you?” the teacher offered.
“Sure,” Oscar answered for her. “Put your hands in with ours, Charlotte! Right, Dad? We should take a picture with Charlotte’s hands, too!”
The man nodded. “Yeah, we should.”
“I’m no photographer, but I’m happy to take the picture,” the teacher added.
“Okay, thank you,” she said, handing the camera over.
“Little, medium, big,” Oscar announced, observing their hands. “Charlotte, you’re in the middle because you’re the medium hand. You can be the glue between Dad and me.”
“That works for me,” she answered, slipping her hands on top of Mitch’s as Oscar rested his hands on hers.
“That looks great!” Mrs. Bergen remarked as the click of the shutter dotted the air.
The three of them stayed like that, hands atop one another, staring at the tiny heart. She knew it would be a good shot. She’d always been drawn to close-ups. Faces, eyes, hands, objects. For her, zooming in on the details always left her wanting more. She framed this shot in her mind, memorizing the shape of their hands, the color of Oscar’s pink palms, the glint of the shiny ceramic heart.
Mitch brushed his index finger against the back of her hand. Usually, his touch sent a dizzying current through her body. But this caress was different. Instead of leaving her scatter-brained and breathless, this touch sent a wave of calm through her—a soothing sense of being under this man’s protection. And then it hit her. She’d never felt protected by anyone before. Of course, her friends cared for her. Harper would gladly throw down for her at the drop of a hat. But this was different. She looked up to find Mitch staring at her. His gaze brimmed with tenderness.
They were bound together, connected by fate.
“And here’s your camera back,” the teacher said, her words popping their little hand-tower bubble.
Mitch dropped his hands to his sides, then cleared his throat. “Did you have a good day, Oscar?”
The boy’s expression darkened as he glanced at his teacher. “I had a little tummy ache after lunch.”
Mrs. Bergen patted Oscar’s shoulder. “It seems that Phoebe Gale brought quite a few chocolate chip cookies to school to share at lunchtime.”
Oscar nodded emphatically. “Phoebe had to go home early because she puked cookies all over the playground. I only ate four. But she ate eleven of them in under one minute. We timed her with the clock in the cafeteria. But I feel better now. And I’m hungry! Mrs. Bergen says that you’re making us a snack,” Oscar added, his cheerful countenance returning.
At the boy’s mention of snacks, the children went into a six-year-old frenzy, hooting and whooping and launching questions at Mitch, left and right.
Can I drive your truck to the zoo?
Have you ever tried to fill up the truck with caterpillars?
Do caterpillars eat grilled cheese sandwiches?
Do grilled cheese-eating caterpillars turn into grilled cheese-eating butterflies?
Charlotte pressed her hand to her lips, holding back her laughter, as Mitch’s eyes grew wide. The children surrounded him, firing off their questions—that seemed to get crazier and more farfetched by the second.
“One, two, three! Eyes on me!” the teacher called as the chatter ceased, and the boys and girls turned to face her like pint-sized soldiers. “I’ll get them settled, so you can set up,” the woman said, herding the group back toward the oak tree.
“Are you ready for this, Chef?” Charlotte asked as Mitch blew out an audible breath. But the man’s look of terror smoothed into one of excitement.
“I think so. I’m actually pumped and a little proud.”
