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On top of everything else Luke and I discussed this morning, his lawyers would also like me to sign an NDA.
“Surely you don’t expect me to read this whole thing,” I tease.
The stony-faced lawyers blink back at me as if they can’t compute my question.
“Because I definitely did read every word. Even the hard ones. Okay, some of the hard ones.”
“Ms. Ricci, if you would like us to review the document with you, please state that plainly.”
Extend this hell? “No. It’s all good. I got the gist of it. I shouldn’t blab about anything I see while working for Mr. Allen. No talking to the media, tabloids, press. I got it, loud and clear. Now where do I leave my electronic signature?”
After the call ends and my room is squared away, everything nice and neat, I change into a sundress and slip on some sandals. I’m going grocery shopping!
My goal for now is to make myself absolutely irreplaceable to Luke. I’m aware that he’s not wholly convinced I should be here, so I’ll tidy up around the house, throw in a few loads of laundry here and there, and make Luke and Harper the kinds of meals that will make their palates sing!
Before I sneak out of the house, I head to the backyard where Harper and Luke are still hanging out. Harper has a row of mermaid Barbies lined up on the top stair in the shallow end of the pool. She’s acting out a little play scene, giving them each a different voice, when she spots me and waves eagerly.
“Are you going to swim with us!?”
“Not today.” I frown as if I’m as sad about it as she is. And I am. I would love to jump in this pool, but duty calls. “I’m going to the grocery store. I just wanted to come and ask you and your dad about what kind of foods you prefer, your likes and dislikes. Also, do you have any food allergies?”
Harper, overwhelmed, looks to her dad, which means I have to look at her dad. It’s something I’ve tried not to do since coming outside.
He’s on a lounge chair sans shirt, tan and muscular. His hunter green swim trunks aren’t sitting obscenely low or anything, but it doesn’t matter. That smattering of hair under his navel that leads down, accompanied by his deep V, proves he is all man.
“Ms. Ricci?” he asks.
Ah, so I’m Ms. Ricci now. Interesting.
“I prefer Chloe,” I say, smiling. “If that’s okay.”
He sits up and waves me over, turning his baseball hat around backward so he’ll be able to see me better without the brim in the way. My ovaries take note.
I want to stay where I am, safely by Harper, but that means I’d have to all but shout for him to hear me, so I brace myself and walk toward him.
He’s just a normal person. His abs are just abs. His chest is just a chest. His shoulders are just so lovely and wide and bronzed.
“You needed to know about allergies?” he asks, prodding me to get on with it.
I blush and look away from his chest, shifting to his face instead.
His eyes are such a light shade of brown, especially in the sun.
“Yes. Allergies, preferences, that sort of thing.”
I have a little notebook ready and everything, but it’ll be easier if I can sit and rest it on my lap while I write. I gesture to the lounge chair beside his.
“May I?”
He frowns. The idea clearly troubles him.
Oh how mortifying.
“Never mind, let me just—”
With a heavy sigh, he tells me to sit.
I do, quickly.
I go through all the major allergies with him as quickly as possible, relieved that their family doesn’t have any concerns.
“Harper’s pretty picky though,” he warns.
“I don’t know any kid who isn’t,” I reassure him.
He narrows his eyes, taking me in. “You know a lot of kids? What about that whole speech earlier in the kitchen with Harper?”
“Oh.” I laugh and lower my voice. “Yeah, I mean, she was clearly upset about the nanny thing and I wanted to reassure her. I probably wasn’t too far off, though. I’m not like a secret baby whisperer or anything, but I have a lot of cousins. I’ve changed a lot of diapers and wrangled a lot of toddlers in my time.”
“Which is what exactly?”
“Huh?”
“How old are you?”
“Oh. Twenty-seven.”
He lifts his brows as if this surprises him.
“You look younger,” he supplies when he reads my confusion.
I let his comment marinate for a second before giving in to my curiosity. “Is that…bad?”
He studies me, his gaze roving over my face, then he looks away. “She’s good about trying new food, she just might not finish all of it or anything. So you can make whatever you’d like.”
Ah, understood. Business only—got it.
I focus back on my task, going through preferences. People are usually most particular about seafood: oysters, no oysters, that kind of thing.
