Page 7 of The Perfect Snipe

We continue upstairs, the wooden steps creaking slightly under our weight. “To the right is Mason’s room and to the left is Stella’s room. My room’s at the end. Basement is finished with a game room. Mason’s usually down there. Stella stays upstairs unless you want the TV to yourself, then she can watch her shows downstairs.”

Cat and I walk back down to the first floor and into the kitchen. She leans against the granite island, her lean frame and perky breasts stupidly stealing my attention. Again. “Stance on cooking?”

I clear my throat, forcing my gaze and concentration onto those large, round eyes of hers. “What do you mean?”

“Am I expected to cook all meals all the time?”

I shrug, the movement causing my shirt to stretch across my shoulders. “Don’t want the kids eating out all the time. But you work, so I don’t expect you to do it all.”

“Where have the kids been staying since Bella left?”

I rub the back of my neck. “With my parents in Greenwich.”

She tilts her head to the side, a wavy strand of brown hair falling over her eyes, which she brushes aside with lithe fingers. “Your parents live close by? Why not have them help out?”

My back straightens as my muscles tense. It’s the question everyone asks and I never know how to answer. Sure, everyone has family drama. But I don’t like people to know my business.

Less is more. “Too far to travel back and forth constantly and I want them here. And as Wyatt already said . . . my mother can be a bit much.”

Cat opens her mouth as if to say something when the front door bursts open. Stella stampedes in, her brother following behind. The sound of their excited chatter and footsteps fills the house. “We’re home.”

“In the kitchen.” I haven’t had time to talk to my kids about Cat moving in. But they know her and I’m sure Stella will be excited. And Mason just goes with the flow. He makes my life easier.

Except my son has an air of maturity about him that unsettles me. Some days I wonder if I'm the reason, or if Wendy's death caused it.

Probably me, since his mom died when he was too young to remember her. At least Stella has little moments. They're fuzzy and sometimes she has no clue if she's imagining a specific moment or actually remembering something.

The kids come into the kitchen and Cat waves. “Hey guys.”

My daughter’s hazel eyes flicker between me and Cat, a sly smirk on her face. Fuck, no. Not sure where my daughter gets her meddling nature from, but Cat is strictly here for them.

Not me.

“Cat’s going to be helping us out. Couldn’t find a nanny yet.”

Mason smiles wide. “You think Jake will want to come over here sometimes then?”

Cat nods. “I’m sure he will.”

“And Nora, too.” My daughter bounces up and down, her excitement palpable.

Somewhere in the past few months, Nora Thoma has become my daughter’s superhero. Not that I mind. Wyatt’s fiancée is a great role model, a fuckin’ powerhouse athlete, and an overall amazing person. Stella even goes to a youth CrossFit class on occasion at Nora’s gym.

A moment later, my mother clicks into the kitchen on her heels, the sharp sound cutting through the air. She immediately zones in on Cat with a critical eye. “And who might this be?”

My jaw tightens, teeth grinding together as I exhale slowly through my nose. “A friend. She's going to help out with the kids for a while as a nanny until I can find someone more permanent.”

Mom's lips pinch together in clear disapproval. “A nanny? Don't be absurd, Leo. The children belong with me. It’s what's best for them.” She turns her nose up at Cat dismissively. “I'm not sure this . . . girl . . . is qualified to care for my grandchildren.”

Cat gives a firm shake of her head, nose scrunched and eyes narrowed. “My name is Catharina Rafealla Alonso, and I assure you my qualifications are much better than yours being I’m a certified teacher. You know, cleared by the state to be around children, teaching the future generation. May I ask what your master’s degree is in?”

The corner of my mouth twitches as I try to fight the smile forming. No one has ever talked back to my mother. Beverly Hartman is a force of nature and not in the best way. She gets things done, sure. But piss her off and there will be hell to pay.

But Catharina has her. My mom doesn’t have a degree, not even a bachelors. She’s old-school money and married young, then raised my brother and me. She was more about PTA meetings and being on fundraising boards to exert her financial dominance.

My mother’s nostrils flare as she exhales and turns her attention back to me. “Be that as it may, I still think—”

“Enough.” My voice comes out sharper than intended, but I don't back down. “This is my decision. The kids will be fine with her. This arrangement is temporary until I hire a nanny.”

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