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“Then I won’t call your father Sammy,” I reply. “Easily fixed.”
Mr. Masters drops his head, resigned, and I turn my attention to Willow. “What would you like me to call you?” I ask sweetly.
She narrows her eyes in contempt. “Stupid.” She sneers.
“Willow,” Mr. Masters growls. “Cut. It. Out. Immediately.”
I smile. “Now, I know for certain your dad wouldn’t like me calling you stupid, but if you insist, I’ll call you Queen B.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fucking unbelievable,” she mutters under her breath,
“When you two are quite finished,” Mr. Masters snaps, interrupting our quarrel. “Willow, mind your language and show Miss Brielle some respect.”
“But I don’t want her to come to football.” She pouts.
“Too bad.” I smile. “I’ll be five minutes. Come on, Sammy, let’s go find me some clothes.”
The walk across the fields to the soccer game is awkward for two reasons. Firstly, Willow hasn’t talked to me at all since we left the house, and I feel I may have made a mistake pushing my way here. Secondly, the mothers that are now staring right at me. Holy hell on a broomstick. Every millionaire mummy in the world must be here, looking like they’ve just stepped out of a photo shoot, yet all eyes are now fixed firmly on me. The women are literally pausing their conversations to stare at me. Mr. Masters must be the topic of a lot of conversation around here. And why wouldn’t he be? They probably all want to bang him.
I really didn't think this through very well, and I most definitely didn't think about my outfit. I'm wearing tight denim jeans, a white T-shirt, with a large army green jacket over the top. My long, dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and I have white runners on, with gold Ray Ban aviator sunglasses framing my face. I must look eighteen at most.
Mr. Masters and Willow are walking in front of Sammy and me, the two of us holding hands. We walk past at least twenty people standing on the sideline, and I can almost hear the whispers of judgement as we pass.
“Did your other nannies ever come to watch, Willow?” I ask Sammy.
“Nope.”
“Has your father ever brought someone else to a soccer game?”
“Like who?” Sam frowns.
“Like, one of his lady friends, perhaps?”
He shrugs. “Dad doesn’t have lady friends, just man friends.”
“He’s never had a lady friend?” I ask, surprised.
Sam shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Oh.”
Willow waves to her friends before she runs off to the dressing shed.
Mr. Masters chooses a spot and puts down three fold-up chairs. “Here, Miss Brielle.” He gestures to my chair.
“Thank you.” I smile before I fall into it awkwardly. I really should have stayed home. I’m feeling very uncomfortable.
“Dad, do you want to kick?” Sam asks as he throws the spare soccer ball to his father.
“Sure thing.” He takes Sam over to the other field, where they begin to kick the ball to each other. I watch on, and if I was a nice person I would tell you I
am watching Samuel playing happily with his father. But, because I’m a dirty pervert, I can openly admit that I’m watching Mr. Masters, and nobody else.
He’s wearing a cream cable knit jumper with light, tight jeans that fit snug in all the right places. His dark hair has a bit of a curl to it from the moisture in the early morning air.
Sam kicks a high ball, and Mr. Masters laughs as he tries to reach it.
He has a beautiful laugh and such straight teeth.
