Page 16 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
Mr. Emory’s hair is damp, the longish part sticking out in all directions, and he is not wearing a mask. Although from the waist up he looks professional, he also looks flustered and a bit harried.
He holds a pair of slacks away from him in one hand and carries a notebook that has what looked suspiciously like tooth marks in the corner. The incongruity has me speechless for a moment.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“That depends on how you define ‘all right’,” he replies. “Cece is still asleep, the cat anointed my favorite slacks, and the dog ate the phone book.”
I take in this lump of information with as much equanimity as I could manage. But three things come to mind. “You have a cat and a dog? And no other slacks? You are telling me this, why?”
Mr. Emory closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, “I’ve started this off badly. Manuela has called in. There is a novel coronavirus case in her apartment building, and it is on lockdown. Sherry called almost immediately after that and said that her mother has forbade her to leave the house for fear of illness. The front desk called up and let me know that a woman in the hotel portion of this building was taken to the emergency room this morning, so we could be next.” He pauses, then confesses, “I don’t know how to get the stain and odor out of my slacks, or even if they can be washed. I suppose they could be sent downstairs to the laundry, but there’s no one there right now, and I don’t know if they will show up for work.”
My mind blanks for a moment, unable to get past the realization that I am standing in the doorway of my room wearing threadbare pajamas and that my employer is wearing way too form fitting pajama bottoms. More than that, he emits an aroma of Irish Spring and Old Spice, anoddly heady combination that indicates a recent shower. He is what my friend Grace would call “sex on a stick” although I wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
But then his comment about the slacks lands, and I nearly giggle. That is the Charles Emory I remember: demanding and clueless. He is the head honcho of a billion dollar business but can’t figure out what to do about the cat pee on his pants.
Suppressing giggles gets me past the observation that he has broad shoulders, muscular arms, and narrow hips. Those red plaid pajamas do little to disguise the powerful muscles in his legs or the hint of growing tumescence behind the flapping tails of his shirt, or the red flush that is creeping up his neck. It seems that he is embarrassed, too.
I get myself together and go into emergency management mode. “Give me five minutes to get dressed. Do you know how to make coffee?” I use the voice that got part-time daycare workers moving in the right direction.
Mr. Emory blushes even brighter, like a kid caught unprepared for an exam. “No,” he admits. “At least not in a kitchen. I can make camp coffee.”
“I’ll make it,” I say. “Go find the coffee beans, grind, or instant — whatever you have. I’ll be right there.”
I close the door, not quite in his face. I grab my suitcase and pull out campus casual dress — a pair of khaki-colored Bermuda shorts, a T-shirt stenciled with ‘I love trees,’ and sandals. I run a brush through my hair and leave it loose. I could braid it up later.
Just as I am nearly ready to step out the door, my phone buzzed. It is a text from Grace.
Grace: Where are you? James says you won’t be home for a while.
Me: I’m in the penthouse at Agri-Oil.
Grace: The Penthouse? Really? Why?
Me: Live-in nanny for Cece. Remember Cece? I told you about her.
Grace: The Emory kid? Live-in? Isn’t Mr. Emory recently a widower?
Me: Yeah, but I’m here for the girl. Gotta go. The housekeeper called, and Mr. Clueless doesn’t know how to make coffee.
Grace: Goggly eyed emoji. Ok. Laters
Me: Laters.
Grace always did have the best timing…not.
As an afterthought, I pull my favorite pen out of my book bag and my steno book for taking notes. This sounds like it might be a note-taking session, especially if the housekeeper isn’t going to be available.
I find Mr. Emory bemusedly looking into cabinets. “I can’t find the coffee,” he says. “I know there should be some. It was on the list Manuela ordered.”
I think about the midnight snack he had given me. All easy stuff, mostly from the refrigerator or from a cabinet set up to provide nibbles for a four-year-old. That meant there had to be storage for staples either in or near the kitchen. I look around the layout of the ultra-modern cooking area.
Yes, there. A narrow door beside the refrigerator. I open it and discover a compartment well filled with dry goods. It is spotlessly clean. Each container is labeled and stowed in an order that would group like staples together.
I find sugar, creamer, an electric coffee grinder, three different kinds of gourmet coffee beans, and a can of ground coffee. There is a neat card detailing how to use the grinder, the espresso machine, the drip coffee maker, the cold press, and four more devices that do not sound familiar to me.
“Do you know what kind of coffee you want?” I ask, noticing that there was hazelnut, raspberry, Arabic, and Folger pre-grind.
“Folger,” he says. “That would be easiest, wouldn’t it?” His voice has an apologetic little boy quality to it that touches my heart even though I was prepared to dislike him greatly.
