Page 78 of The Nanny and the Hothead
Oscar’s expression darkened, and he pulled the covers over his face. “I got in trouble for fighting at my last school,” he admitted, his words muted by the blanket.
She pulled the covers down a couple of inches, revealing his eyes. “What happened? You don’t seem like the kind of kid who goes around getting into fights.”
Oscar twisted the edge of the blanket. “A bigger kid called meorphan boyafter my mom died.”
There was nothing worse than a bully!
“That wasn’t nice of that boy at all. In fact, it was an awful and cruel thing to say. Fighting is never a good thing, Oscar. But in this case, I can understand why that made you so mad,” she answered, then smoothed the boy’s hair again.
“My mom used to do that to my hair, too,” he said, closing his eyes. “She said it had a mind of its own.”
“Do you want me to stop?” she asked, her heart breaking for the child.
He shook his head, and they remained quiet as she gently brushed his chestnut locks behind his ear. She thought he’d fallen asleep when he tilted his head and met her gaze.
“Do you think my fighting at school made my mom upset in heaven?” Oscar whispered.
How was she supposed to answer in a way that would give him some peace? She glanced around the room and spied a Polaroid photo on a bookshelf next to the bed. She hadn’t remembered seeing it when they’d explored their rooms a few hours ago. Oscar must have had it in his backpack. She reverently picked it up, then showed it to the boy. “Your mom doesn’t look like the kind of mom who could stay mad—especially at you. I don’t think she’d want you to get into fights. I think she wants you to be happy.”
“I miss her a lot,” he replied, gazing at the image.
Charlotte swallowed past the lump in her throat, then rested her hand on the covers above his heart. “You’ll always have her here.”
Oscar rested his little hand on top of her hand. “Have you ever gotten so, so mad that you pushed somebody down?”
She blinked back tears, then exaggerated her features, wanting to shift the mood. She pressed her lips into a tight line, pretending to think hard, then gasped. She’d never gotten into a fight. That was more Harper’s department. But she had acted out of anger.
“What is it, Charlotte? What did you do?” Oscar asked, wide-eyed.
She suppressed a laugh. “I once threw a salad at someone.”
“You did!” he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with delight.
Oh no! It was one thing to sympathize with the boy. But the last thing she needed was for him to go to school and start a food fight.
She schooled her features. “Yes, but I shouldn’t have done that. The salad looked delicious. Those vegetables didn’t deserve to get tossed to the ground.”
Oscar giggled. “Who was it? Who did you throw the salad at?”
Her cheeks heated. “Let’s just say we both know the person.”
“My dad?” Oscar bellowed.
She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe.”
“Wow! I’ve thrown stuff at him before. But never a salad.” Oscar’s look of wonder transformed into one of curiosity. “Do you have a mom and a dad, Charlotte?”
A heaviness set in as she pasted on a plastic smile. “I do.”
“Do they live close by?”
Just breathe and answer the question.
“No, they don’t,” she answered, hating how it hurt to talk about her parents.
“Do you get to see them a lot?” Oscar continued.
“Not very often,” she answered, omitting that it was her parents who showed no interest in spending time with her—the two people who should have loved her but had never made her a priority.
