Читать книгу Professor and The Pregnant Nanny - Emily Dalton - Страница 11

After the tour of the house—which was just as homey and commodious as she’d envisioned it—Melissa was again managing to look Charles directly in the eye for more than thirty seconds at a time. She was going to try to forget she’d told him “the big lie” and enjoy the next week with his three adorable children. His work schedule, as he’d outlined it for her earlier, would keep him shut up in his study for most of the day, anyway, or teaching classes at the college. She’d see very little of him.

While she wasn’t dead yet—just pregnant and divorced and perpetually tired—Melissa was not immune to the charms of a handsome, well-educated, successful family man like Charles Avery. Under other circumstances, she’d like to get to know him better. But she didn’t dare spend any more time with him than necessary, just in case the truth—that Brad wasn’t dead yet, either, just dead to her—exploded out of her mouth in a moment of weakness.

While Melissa got acquainted with the children and the lay of the house that morning, Charles more or less hung around…probably to make sure it was safe to leave his children in her care. By noon, Melissa felt sure she had matters well in hand. She and the children were getting along great. Sarah’s hair was in neat pigtails, tied on the ends with her favorite ribbons, Daniel was dressed and seated in his high chair squashing banana slices with the heel of his chubby little hand, and Christopher’s questions were being answered as quickly as Melissa could manage.

As well, she was having no trouble finding everything in the kitchen necessary to make tuna-salad sandwiches for lunch. Mrs. Butters was evidently very organized and put things in places that made sense.

As Melissa scooped mayonnaise into a bowl, Sarah stood on a stool next to her and “helped” by sampling the pickle relish straight out of the jar with her fingers. Christopher still talked nonstop as he got the milk out of the refrigerator and promptly spilled some on the floor. Now Daniel was throwing his flattened banana slices—those that were still intact—against the wall, seeing which ones would stick.

Melissa was unperturbed. This was typical toddler behavior. Her back was to the door, but Melissa could feel Charles hovering and watching from the hall. She grabbed two paper towels, handed one to Christopher to clean up the small puddle of spilled milk, and dampened the other to use in wiping Sarah’s sticky fingers. She finished this task just in time to catch a banana slice while it was airborne, then turned to confront her employer.

He seemed chagrined to be caught watching, but she just smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Charles. I can manage. The kids will be fine. I’ll be fine. But you won’t be fine if you’re not prepared for that lecture Saturday. Isn’t that why you hired me? So you could get some work done?”

“Well…yes.”

“So go and do your work.”

He hesitated, then said, “You’re right. I’ll go do my work. But first I should warn you, Daniel is a very picky eater. What he doesn’t like he either hurls across the room or dumps down his pants.”

Melissa laughed. “I see. So, does Mrs. Butters keep a list of his likes and dislikes?”

“No, because what he likes and doesn’t like changes day by day. Each meal is an experiment, so to speak.” Charles looked apologetic, waiting for her response.

Melissa merely shrugged. “As I said, we’ll manage.”

Charles nodded uncertainly, turned to go, then turned back.

“Oh, and they don’t take naps, as a rule. Mrs. Butters thinks napping interferes with nighttime sleeping.”

Melissa smiled. “In other words, she likes to maintain an early bedtime.”

“Yes, I guess so.” Charles just stood there. He seemed to be stalling, trying to think of something else to talk about. Then he finally turned to go.

Melissa couldn’t resist. “Charles?”

He turned quickly back. “Yes?”

“By any chance are you a picky eater? Do you have a list of likes and dislikes, and do you hurl food or stuff it down your pants?”

He chuckled. “No to all three questions.”

She grinned. “In that case, why don’t I bring a sandwich to your study when I’ve got lunch ready?”

He grinned back. “That would be nice.” After another pause, he turned abruptly and strode away, presumably to his study.

Melissa breathed a sigh of relief. She knew he was just being protective of the children—and of her, which was a wholly new experience for her, since Brad never worried about anyone but himself. But it was better that Charles kept his distance, for more reasons than one.

“What do you want to do after lunch?” she asked the children.

Sarah shrugged, licking a last, stray piece of pickle off her pinky finger. “We don’t know.”

“I know how to make play dough,” Melissa offered.

The children’s eyes widened.

“All dif’rent colors?” Sarah asked.

Melissa nodded, then motioned with her head in the direction of her nanny bag, sitting on the floor by the refrigerator. “Of course. I brought along some food coloring in my nanny bag. We can make the dough any color you want.”

Christopher eyed the small canvas suitcase with interest.

“What else have you got in there?”

“Oh, lots of things. You’ll find out, little by little as the week goes by. But there’s something in there I want to get out right now.” She retrieved the bag and set it on the counter, high above the children’s eye level. She wanted the insides of her nanny bag to retain a certain mystery for them. She reached in and took out two jars of toddler food.

“What’s that?” Sarah asked.

“It’s food for Daniel,” Melissa answered. “I made it myself.”

“He probably won’t eat it,” Christopher warned her.

“We’ll see.”

Christopher’s brows furrowed, his concerned expression reminding Melissa of Charles. “But will it hurt your feelings if he throws it on the wall or stuffs it down his pants?”

Melissa shook her head. “Not at all. Daniel can be my guinea pig. I’ll try different foods on him every day, and if he likes something more than once, I’ll know it’s really good.”

Sarah laughed. “M’lissa called Daniel a pig.”

“No she didn’t,” Christopher scoffed. “She called him a guinea pig. It’s not the same as a pig pig. It’s like a lab rat or somethin’.”

Melissa scrunched her nose. “I’m not sure that’s much better.”

Christopher stood on tiptoe and tried to see inside the bag.

“Do you have your toothbrush and pajamas in there, too?”

“Oh, no,” Melissa quickly answered. “I’m not an overnight nanny like Mrs. Butters. I go home after dinner.”

“Too bad,” Christopher said with a doleful shake of his head, a gesture that looked too grownup and theatrical on a four-year-old. But, in just the short time she’d spent with Christopher, Melissa had decided he was intelligent and perceptive and curious beyond his years. Probably like his father had been as a child.

“I’ll bet Dad would like it if you stayed and kept him company after we go to bed,” Christopher suggested.

Melissa was surprised by the alarming mental image that instantly sprang to mind, an image brought on by the innocent words of a child. She could see it all too clearly…her and Charles sitting by the fire, eating, drinking, talking, laughing, whispering, cuddling, kissing.

Yep, it was a darn good thing she wasn’t spending the night under Charles’s roof. She barely knew him, really, and she was already fantasizing about him. And knowing he was sleeping right down the hall would only make the fantasies more vivid and more disruptive to her peace of mind.

Melissa supposed that most people considered fantasizing a harmless pastime. But she was opposed to fantasizing, to daydreaming. After all, living in a dream world was what got her married to the wrong man in the first place, and then kept her married to him for far too long.

Yes, fantasizing could be dangerous.

CHARLES WAS HAVING a hard time keeping his mind on his work. He found himself recalling those three weeks thirteen years ago, when he’d tutored Melissa. The way her long blond hair fell over her paper as she did her sums, the way she bit her bottom lip when she was concentrating, the smell of her perfume, the way her face lit up when she finally fathomed that advanced math.

He was daydreaming. He was recalling old fantasies he thought he’d forgotten more than a decade ago.

Sitting at his desk, with the door to his study firmly shut, he was getting absolutely nothing done. But at least he was keeping the promise he’d made to himself to remain in the study till six o’clock, the hour Melissa intended to have dinner ready…unless the house was burning down or some other disaster occurred!

Charles shook his head and smiled wryly. What kind of a schmuck still remembered a high-school crush with such vividness? After high school he’d gone to Stanford on a scholarship. He’d gotten rid of his glasses, gained weight on dorm food that he turned into muscle when he joined a gym, took up tennis and marathon running, and, finally, gradually got over his adolescent shyness.

In other words, Charles had enjoyed a full social life at Stanford and had dated numerous women before meeting and marrying Annette. He’d loved her more than he thought possible and was devastated when she was killed in that accident. Yet, even after many relationships and one wonderful marriage, why did he still remember his crush on Melissa with such clarity, the feelings he’d had back then so easily recalled and relived when she unexpectedly showed up on his doorstep?

Well, for whatever reason, it was inappropriate and silly. The woman was still grieving her dead husband! He turned his attention back to the computer screen and forced himself to concentrate. Five minutes later he looked at the clock. It was only two-thirty.

He kept wondering how Melissa was doing with the kids. He hadn’t heard any alarming sounds to indicate that either she or the children were in distress. And he didn’t doubt that Melissa was capable of performing her nanny duties. In high school she’d been the model of efficiency and enthusiasm in everything she undertook.

It’s just that she looked so tired…. And he suspected she’d get the job done, and done well, even if it totally exhausted her. This suspicion of Melissa’s dedication at the risk of her own health made it very difficult for Charles to know she was out there taking care of his kids, fixing meals and doing chores that on some days tired out even Mrs. Butters, who was the most robust, energetic, unpregnant fifty-five-year-old he’d ever met.

But he’d hired Melissa to do exactly what she was doing.

And she obviously was very sure it wasn’t beyond her capabilities.

In fact, she would probably be extremely offended if he suggested she perhaps wasn’t up to the job.

And she probably needed the money.

Hell!

Charles glared at his computer screen. Science had always fascinated him, seduced him, kept him occupied for blissful hours. Why was it failing him now?

BY THE TIME Melissa sent Christopher to fetch his father for dinner at five minutes to six, she was exhausted. They’d had a full day, she and the children. And she needn’t have worried about any awkwardness with Charles, because true to his word he’d stayed in his study all day. She’d only seen him once, when she’d taken him a sandwich at lunchtime.

Now he entered the kitchen on the heels of his son, carrying the empty sandwich plate, glass and soda can. She sat up straighter in her chair and smiled, trying not to look as tired as she felt.

“Get lots of work done?” she asked brightly.

Charles first rested his eyes on her, then the table, which was neatly set and covered with dishes of food, and then the gleaming countertops, which she’d already cleared of the dirty pots and utensils she’d used in preparing dinner.

“Not as much as you got done, evidently,” he murmured.

Melissa waved her hand dismissively. “Hey, it’s my job.”

Charles said nothing and moved to the sink to wash his hands. While his back was turned, Melissa allowed the perky smile to slip away. She didn’t remember getting this tired even as recently as last week, when she’d had her last nanny assignment. She could have really used a nap that afternoon.

Charles sat down at the end of the table and smiled around at his three small children. “Whose turn to say the prayer?”

All three kids raised their hands.

“Me!” Sarah shouted.

“No, it’s my turn,” Christopher argued.

Daniel garbled something around the cracker Melissa had given him to nibble on.

Charles settled it, saying, “I seem to remember it being Sarah’s turn. Christopher, you said the blessing at breakfast.”

“But Daniel was screaming and throwing oatmeal the whole time,” he objected. As if on cue, Daniel threw his cracker and let out a yelp.

“I think God heard you anyway,” Charles observed with a chuckle. “If God only heard us when Daniel wasn’t screaming or throwing food, He wouldn’t hear half our prayers.”

Christopher giggled, and the argument was over. Daniel, pleased with himself for making them laugh, grinned and remained quiet while Sarah recited the simple, memorized prayer that Melissa remembered saying when she was a child.

Along with Charles, Melissa helped the children spoon out their portions, but put only a dab of food on her own plate. She was too tired to eat. She pushed the food around, sampled a bite or two, and hoped no one noticed how little she ate. But Charles was eyeing her from his end of the table, his brow furrowed. Apparently he’d noticed.

CHARLES WAS ALARMED at how tired and flushed Melissa looked when he’d entered the room, and now she wasn’t eating enough to keep a bird alive! He couldn’t admonish her to eat as if she was one of the children, but there was nothing stopping him from making her go home directly after the meal and cleaning up the kitchen himself.

Above the clamor and conversation of the children, who were excited to have access to Daddy again after he’d been shut away all day, an adult conversation would have been difficult, and Melissa looked too tired to keep up her end of it, anyway. So Charles ate and enjoyed the food Melissa had prepared while listening to the children’s detailed description of all they’d done that day.

No wonder she was tired! They’d done a lot. They’d made play dough, then shaped it into animals, made a zoo fence out of popsicle sticks and glue, colored and sprinkled glitter on cards for Mrs. Butters’s eventual return, practiced writing their names on the little chalk board in Christopher’s room, and gone swimming in the blow-up pool on the shaded patio.

Charles gazed at Melissa with wonder as he listened to this amazing chronology. On top of all that, she’d cooked and cleaned and done some laundry, too…he could hear the dryer going.

As soon as the children were done, Charles gave them permission to watch a video and put Christopher in charge of inserting the tape and turning on the television. He left the kitchen with his chest puffed out importantly, his little brother and sister in tow. Daniel was sucking his thumb, a sure sign he was already getting sleepy.

“The meal was delicious,” Charles said, as soon as he and Melissa were alone in the kitchen. “Just thought I’d tell you, since you couldn’t possibly know from your own sampling of the food.”

Melissa blushed and looked disconcerted. “Oh no. You’re wrong. I eat while I cook. I was full before I even sat down.”

Charles propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “I don’t believe you. Annette ate as much as I did while she was pregnant…sometimes more. She was always hungry. She said food just tasted better and it was obvious she enjoyed every bite. I loved watching her eat.”

Melissa stared at Charles. Now it was her turn not to believe him. Brad would never have encouraged her to eat or have enjoyed watching her. He was too paranoid about her getting fat.

“I’m just not hungry tonight,” she said finally.

“Why don’t you just admit you’re too tired to eat?” Charles suggested.

Melissa stared at her plate, anxiety welling up in her. He was right, but if she admitted he was right, would he think she was too pregnant for this job? She needed the money, but more than that, despite the physical work involved, she loved taking care of Charles’s children.

“I’m not going to fire you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Charles continued. “Or maybe I should say, I won’t fire you under one condition.”

Melissa’s gaze flew to his face. “What condition?”

“I want you to take a nap every afternoon.”

Melissa was speechless for a moment, then asked the obvious question. “What about the children? You said they normally don’t nap. What will they be doing while I’m sleeping?”

“I’ll watch them for an hour every afternoon.”

“But your—”

“I’ll get my paper done. Don’t worry. You kept them so busy today, they’ll probably fall asleep before the sun goes down and I’ll have all this evening to work on the paper.”

Melissa shook her head. “You’re being very considerate,” she said quietly. She wasn’t used to that.

“Annette was pregnant three times. I know how tired women can get at this stage of a pregnancy. I really don’t mind helping out.” He slapped his hands on the table and stood up. “Which is also why I’m going to do these dishes and you’re going to go straight home.”

Melissa sprang to her feet. Or at least she was in the process of springing to her feet, but found herself still sitting in the chair by the time Charles had risen and walked around to her end of the table. “I can’t let you do that!” she objected, peering up at him and marveling that he appeared even taller from this vantage point, which was on a level with his belt buckle. “Come on, Charles! I’m perfectly capable of washing a few dishes!”

“Tomorrow you can wash dishes because you will have had your nap and have a little energy left by this time of the day. Tonight, Melissa, just go home.”

Charles’s hands rested lightly on his hips, drawing Melissa’s gaze most reluctantly to the slim perfection of those hips. She also couldn’t help but notice his stomach, flat as a pancake even after a meal. Brad had been a physical marvel in high school and maintained his fitness as long as he played football in college, but after he was dropped from the team at the University of Utah for not keeping up his grades, he quickly developed a gut. Too much armchair football and beer.

Melissa dropped her gaze to her hands, the fingers puffy and pink from dishwater and pregnancy-related water retention. She was indeed tired and there was no reason not to take Charles up on his offer. She was touched by his consideration, but also conflicted. She wanted to prove she could do the job, eight-and-a-half months pregnant or not!

She had a stubborn streak that was sometimes a good thing, and sometimes not such a good thing. It was probably stubborn pride, along with a hefty portion of denial, that had kept her in her marriage for so long. She just didn’t like giving up.

“Charles, it will only take a few minutes for me to do these dishes, so—”

Melissa stood up, took a step, promptly tripped on something and fell into Charles’s arms. It was the only physical contact Melissa had had with a man in several months…except for hugs from her dad and her two brothers. But this was different. Very different.

Charles grabbed her shoulders and gently returned her to her seat. “Whoa! You’re not fainting on me, are you?”

“Of course not,” she said, embarrassed and angry at herself. Her heart was fluttering and racing like some lovesick teenager’s!

“Then why—?” His face was very close to hers and his gaze—searching her eyes and face for pinpoint pupils and a waxy complexion, she supposed—suddenly dropped to her feet. “Oh! Your shoelaces are untied. You must have tripped on them.”

Melissa could have explained why she had been unaware of her untied shoelaces, but it was just too mortifying to admit that she couldn’t see her feet unless she deliberately stuck them out in front of her. Simply looking down and seeing them where they usually were just wasn’t an option anymore.

“Those darn things are always coming untied,” she mumbled, wrapping her arms awkwardly around her stomach to tie her shoes.

“Let me do that,” Charles offered, getting down on one knee. He smiled up at her as he quickly and easily accomplished what took her plenty of heavy breathing to do. “Annette had trouble tying her shoes, too. And don’t get me started on pantyhose. It took her and me and a small crane to get her into those.”

Melissa laughed. “Hey, I quit trying to get into pantyhose four months ago. It was when I went to—”

Melissa stopped herself just in time. She was about to reveal that she’d last worn pantyhose when she met her lawyer at the Grand America Hotel for a fancy lunch to celebrate the signing of her divorce papers. It had been a great day and a great meal, even though the pantyhose had started cutting into her waist by the time the white chocolate cheesecake showed up for dessert. She’d only managed two bites of the luscious stuff because the pantyhose just wouldn’t budge.

Charles didn’t ask her to complete what she’d been saying, but he sobered and quickly stood up. She realized then that he probably thought she’d been about to refer to Brad’s funeral, that she’d last worn pantyhose at her dead husband’s funeral! Oh, that damn lie was going to torture her all week long!

“I’ll go home, Charles,” she said meekly, leaving him to draw whatever conclusions he wanted to from her sudden capitulation. She was just too tired to care right now. And another slip of the tongue could be disastrous.

“Good,” he said, then picked up her nanny bag. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

Melissa couldn’t believe his kindness. She wanted to repay him somehow, and the first thing that came to mind was to bake for him. “Charles, thank you for being so kind!” she blurted out impetuously. “To show my appreciation, I’ll make you some cookies tomorrow. I have a wonderful chocolate-chip recipe that was handed down from my grandmother.”

Melissa was surprised when her spontaneously offered gesture of gratitude was received by Charles with a look of surprise, then a frown, then a fleeting expression of…scorn? “That won’t be necessary, Melissa.”

“But I want to. I really—”

“Have you got everything? Let’s go.”

Melissa felt hurried as Charles escorted her to the front door and outside to her car. She snatched quick glances at him, puzzled by his closed expression. Since mentioning the cookies, his mood had definitely changed!

It was still sweltering outside and it was quite a shock to go from Charles’s cool house into one hundred degrees of dry, suffocating Utah heat. Melissa could hardly bear the thought of driving home in her little hot car with only the windows and vents as cooling devices, as all the while she’d be trying to figure out what she’d said or done to make Charles suddenly so distant.

Melissa pried herself in behind the steering wheel as Charles waited and watched. He didn’t look angry or scornful anymore, just rather stern. Maybe, like her, he was simply tired, she reasoned.

Melissa turned on the ignition, smiled tentatively and waved through the open window.

“Better get those windows up and the air conditioning on, or you’re going to have a hot drive home,” Charles advised, not bothering to wave back or smile.

Melissa rolled up the window. No point going into an explanation about the car’s air conditioning being broken and her frugal decision not to fix it. He didn’t look receptive to any conversation, much less something so mundane and pathetic, anyway. Once she turned the corner at the end of the street and was out of sight, she rolled down all four windows.

HOW IRONIC, Charles thought, as he watched Melissa’s car turn the corner. Cookies.

He shook his head and chuckled, glad he was finally seeing the humor in the situation. It was history repeating itself.

He was smitten and couldn’t help being nice to her, so much so that he neglected his own concerns.

She was promising cookies as a thank you.

Well, it would be interesting to see if she actually came through this time. But if she didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Not like it had mattered thirteen years ago.