Page 32 of Marrying the Nanny

“Four years.”

“Did you get married at eighteen? I thought you were maybe twenty-two or three.”

“Twenty-five. But yes, definitely too young to get married.”

The kettle popped and the hiss dwindled into silence. She filled her mug, then bobbed the bag on its string, focusing on it as she continued.

“Kevin is my brother’s best friend. He works for my father, and I worked for his. Our mothers run all the fundraisers at the yacht club. Everyone seemed to think our marrying would keep things nice and tidy, including me.” She smiled through the anguish as she admitted, “I had a terrible crush on him as a teenager. I’d grown out of it, but—It doesn’t matter. It’s all very boring.”

“No, it’s not.” He frowned.

She was trying not to be dismissive of herself and her feelings the way everyone else had always been. Even so, she said very honestly, “I’m bored with it. I spent several months feeling sorry for myself, blaming everyone for pushing us together, but it didn’t change the fact that I did it, it happened, and it’s done. When Christmas arrangements started turning into a nightmare of whether or not I’d be invited to my brother’s annual swim party and barbecue, I punched out. I emailed an overseas placement agency and asked what they could find for me on short notice. I sold as much furniture as I could and gave the rest away, spent New Year’s Eve closing my flat, and caught a flight a week later.”

“I tried a clean start when I left here. Sometimes it sticks, sometimes it doesn’t,” he said, peering wryly down at Storm.

Her head rested heavily on his chest, mouth giving intermittent chews between going lax while her eyes slowly blinked.

He cheated, Emma wanted to tell him. He cheated and gave me an infection that left me unable to conceive or carry a baby. That’s why I want Storm.

It was a misguided aspiration. She hadn’t told the agency she was trying to fill the cavernous space her husband had carved out of her. She shouldn’t have let herself become this attached to her job. She already knew her heart would break afresh before the next New Year’s Eve party invitations went out.

She only touched her lips to indicate they should be quiet and watched the baby she loved drift to sleep, trustingly cradled in Reid’s arms.

*

Reid kept hearing Emma say, She lost both her parents. It had rung in his ears as he went to Storm twice more in the night, not too bothered by getting up because he wasn’t sleeping anyway. His brain was wired, running through plans for the service, especially now he’d realized they’d overlooked a huge part of it.

“Emma?” He heard her talking in the kitchen as he hit the bottom stair.

“She should be okay now. Yes?” Emma looked over her shoulder as he entered, but she stayed close to Logan, one hand on the bottle Storm was drinking. She was showered, hair dry and loose, but wore only a robe.

He was pretty sure there was nothing underneath that blue velour except flushed pink skin. His mouth went dry, and a strange, reflexive hostility had him sending a look of warning at Logan. Logan’s expression changed, going from mild disgust that he’d been caught with a baby in his arms to an annoyed Hey.

I’m tired, Reid thought, shaking off the strange reaction with a hard squeeze of the back of his neck.

“We need someone to say a few words about Tiffany. Can you do it?”

“Me?” Emma drew the lapels of her robe closer together.

“Can you think of anyone else?” In the few days he’d been in the office, talking to people he knew and others he didn’t, he had heard a lot of Tiffany said and Tiffany wanted. He didn’t think anyone had actively disliked her, but he didn’t get an impression of great affection, either. She had been the boss’s wife with an agenda of big changes. She had been tolerated more than welcomed.

“Do you not like talking in public?” Logan asked. “If you write something, I’ll read it with Dad’s.”

“It’s not that. I just hadn’t realized.” Melancholy settled over her expression. She leaned to set her lips on Storm’s fine hair. “How sad is that? The only person here who knows her mother remotely well enough to give her eulogy is the nanny? I don’t even know what to say.”

Reid jerked his head. “It might be quicker if I ask you questions and we make notes.”

“How far are you going?” Logan straightened from leaning by the sink.

“The dining room table,” Reid said with a scoffing look. “You’re not the one who’s supposed to have separation anxiety, FYI.”

“You’re talking to the guy who’s calling people to check his boat.” Trystan strode in with a bucket of paint, a tray, and a roller.

“There was a storm. And this Storm just tried to dry-land drown herself,” Logan grumbled. “I’m entitled to a lifeguard.”

“Go with them,” Trystan ordered Logan. “Babies aren’t supposed to huff paint fumes.”

“I don’t think anyone is,” Emma said, moving past Reid.

---