Page 120 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“Are you and my dad gonna go to bed now?” the boy asked as he blinked slowly, slumber clearly on the kid’s horizon.
At the mention of Charlotte and a bed, his mind began cataloging the deliciously dirty things he could do to her in one of those. But he could not think like that. As much as his body ached for this woman, they had to at least try to keep itofficially professional—or whatever the hell stupid moniker they’d come up with to attempt to label what was going on between them.
Charlotte twisted a lock of her hair as her sly look dissolved into one of panic. “Well, Oscar, your father and I will be going to bed—eventually—in our own beds. That’s going to happen for the purpose of sleep. It’s science and health, I believe. But I still have some work to do that involves your dad, so we will not be in our own beds alone for a little while.” She turned to him. “That is if you have time, Mitch. I have something I’d like to share with you at a table—a table not near a bed.”
Christ! Did the nanny need a reboot?
And he thought he was bumbling his way around this whole mind-mushing-tornado-of-emotions business! But after that word salad Charlotte served up, he could see that they were in it together when it came to trying to get a hold on the intense pull between them.
She cleared her throat. “I put together a compilation of images that I wanted to run by you to get your feedback,” she said, then sighed as if she were relieved she’d said something that didn’t sound batshit crazy.
He nodded. He could soundnotbatshit crazy, too. “Yeah, that would be…yeah. Compilation, okay,” he replied. And winner, winner! He’d taken over as the most batshit-sounding awkward adult in the room.
“Mitch,” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“He’s asleep,” she said softly.
“What?” he asked as the light from Oscar’s lamp lit Charlotte in a warm glow. With her hair up, he studied the curve of her neck, taking in her ivory skin.
“Oscar has fallen asleep,” she said, slowly—clearly for his benefit. And he appreciated it. His mind might as well be made of the awfulparmesaned-to-the-maxrisotto his sous chef had thrown together.
“He does that…at night…as children do…sleep,” he replied, immediately wanting to purchase a roll of duct tape and apply the whole damned thing to his mouth.
Why was he acting like a gawky, tongue-tied teenager?
Of course, he knew the answer! She was seated mere inches away from him.
Charlotte patted Oscar’s leg one last time, then stood. “My computer and camera are still in the kitchen.”
He rose from the chair and walked with her to the door. “Then that’s where we can work. The kitchen—where people work on tables.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Okay,” she answered, probably wondering if he’d blown a gasket and was experiencing the early signs of a stroke. He was beginning to wonder the same thing.
He followed her down the hall to the narrow set of steps that led to the kitchen and joined her at the table. He settled himself into a chair, then stared at the grainy wood.
Pull yourself together!
He looked up as she scooted her chair toward his, then gathered her laptop, camera, and notebook, then slid into the seat. Her knee bumped his, and they both inhaled a tight breath.
They seemed to have two settings when they were alone.
Let’s get it on ASAP mode and middle school dance mode.
“It’s easier if we look at the images together,” she said, angling the screen between them, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
Work was good. Work would center him.
She leaned forward and gestured to the screen. “The pictures need to tell a story while also allowing the observer to feel like they’re a part of the narrative. Does that make sense?”
He caught her eye. “It does.”
She released a slow exhale as if she were coming back to herself. “I pulled what I thought were the shots that did that. We want your readers to be on this journey with you,” she finished, then tapped the mouse and opened a file. “Go ahead. Scroll through the images.”
He nodded, then hit the arrow key. She’d started with the Helping Hands neighborhood. He’d gone through a few shots before stopping on one of a small kitchen—the Helping Hands kitchen. He stared at the photo as the memories flooded back.
“Ralph showed me around the facility. I can take them out if you don’t want them.”
