Page 46 of Peaches & Pistols

How did she become more than “just the nanny”? And when?

“Uh, yea. We should. Let me heat some water.” I busy myself with the world’s easiest lunch and slide it in front of her.

As I round the island to check on the kids, Mia’s delicate fingers wrap around my forearm, stopping me dead in my tracks.

“Thank you, Greyson.”

“No big deal, you need to eat.”

“No. Thank you. For everything. For giving me and my daughter a second chance, a home, financial stability, safety, friendships, and inviting us into your family. Just…thank you.” She tapers off, drops her hand from my arm and studies me closely waiting for a reply.

How do I tell her that in giving her a second chance, she opened the window for a second chance of my own? How do I explain that she and Everly are ingrained in my life, and my heart demands that I protect her? How do I tell her I’m the one who’s thankful?

I manage a single, resolute nod.

Instead of heading into the living room to check in on the girls, I turn down the hall to my bedroom and lock myself inside.

What the hell am I going to do? Because courting the nanny isn’t an option. I’m too old and jaded, and she’s too young and vulnerable.

A man like me with dirty hands and a filthy conscience doesn’t deserve anything from a woman as incredible as her.

Olivia: Happy 37th birthday to the best big brother and greatest dad on the planet! Love you!

James: Don’t forget your birthday dinner’s tomorrow at the main house.

Isabelle: HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRUMPASAURUS!

Connor: Happy birthday, old man! I owe you a beer next time we go out.

Reid: Mom wants to make sure you’re coming to dinner tomorrow.

Delilah: ♫ Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Greyson, happy birthday to you. ♫

My phone’s getting its workout today. Two days a year, I get messages from my closest friends and family. My birthday, and Harper’s birthday.

I give my number out to very few people. I conduct most of my under the table business face to face, or a blocked phone call if necessary. These yahoos are the only people who text me, and depending on what group chats I end up roped into, I exit them regularly.

There’s one text message I’m hoping to get, though I know I won’t.

The one person I want to get nonsensical texts from throughout the day, about anything and everything. The one person I want to talk to, that I avoid for self-preservation.

The woman I leave a note for every morning, and no matter how many days pass, my heart pounds out of my ribcage every day I walk into the apartment for lunch hoping to find one from her.

I doubt she even knows it’s my birthday, I don’t exactly advertise my personal business and don’t think it’s come up in our limited conversations.

It’s Friday, and I’m slowly ascending the staircase to the apartment, preventing myself from racing in to find a possible note from her wishing me a happy birthday.

It’s a school day, so Mia’s likely running errands or helping out at the ranch, and I won’t see her or the girls until closer to dinnertime.

The white paper catches my eye immediately, and with no one home, I’m not fooling anyone by playing it cool. I hustle my ass over to the kitchen counter, desperate for her words.

Thank you for the new snow tires. They make a huge difference!

It’s this type of note that twists me up inside, which pisses me off. I dislike complex emotions. Anger? I can handle. Sadness? I morph it into anger. Happiness? I welcome.

But confusion? Immediate frustration.

I berated myself for not getting snow tires on her car weeks ago. It wasn’t until she mentioned a slide out leaving the ranch that I lent her my truck the next morning and brought it to the shop demanding a same-day appointment.