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“Pizza makes the best leftovers. Cold pizza for breakfast?” I give a chef kiss. “Perfection.”
“It’s great, Daddy.” Tabby pipes in. “You know I like mine with ranch dressing.”
“Wait.” I glance wide-eyed between them. “On cold pizza? In the morning? That’s… nasty.”
“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Duke says with a shrug, setting his daughter on her feet.
“Pass, guys. Sorry.”
“Daddy, it’s my turn for the movie this week, right?” Tabby jumps up and down. “You picked last.”
“It’s your turn. So, what will it be, kid?”
“Frozen.”
“The first one?” Duke asks, with a lifted brow.
“The second one isn’t good, Dad.”
“Fair point,” Duke allows, and Tabby bolts off toward the living room. He meets my eyes and rubs the back of his neck. “Is Frozen good for you?”
He holds my gaze, and I almost feel like he’s asking me out. Which is ridiculous. But there’s a flash of vulnerability on his face, and this version of him—the one that I see sometimes under the gruffness—is kryptonite to me.
It’s not only that, though. It’s the cozy picture it paints in my head. Curled up on the couch, munching snacks, watching a movie. It’s so homey, it makes my heart ache in ways I don’t want to poke too hard at. Add the residual heat from yesterday’s garage encounter, and I’m off balance.
I clear my throat. “I love Frozen. That Olaf is so handsome.”
“The snowman?”
“Obviously.” He laughs, and the sound vibrates through me. “Why don’t you guys get it set up? We can assemble our pizzas and watch while they’re baking.”
He nods, heading into the living room after his daughter.
The kitchen looks fine, actually. But I need a moment to gather my professionalism before I join them. Because when I walk into the living room, I need to remember that they’re the family here. They hired me to help them. They aren’t my family.
Tabby’s backpack lies on the floor, and I snag it, just to keep my hands busy. I pull out her lunch box and her water bottle. There’s an envelope clipped to the top of her homework folder. It’s addressed to the parents and/or guardians of Tabatha York, and I already know what it is.
Since I’m listed as one of her guardians, I open the envelope. Inside, the letter from Miss Shepherd is straightforward. Tabby is a quiet and kind child, but she appears to be struggling. She would like us to fill out the attached form. She says she will follow up with an email and a call if we don’t respond.
There are two copies of the Vanderbilt diagnostic scale included behind the letter.
I knew it was coming, but I haven’t yet prepared Duke for it. I planned to talk with him about it yesterday in the garage. But when I stopped, it must have caught him off guard because he was too close. Or maybe he wasn’t close enough. I looked up in his eyes, and his breath fanned my face, and all I could think about was how his mouth would feel on mine.
His eyes had darkened, and I’m sure he felt something too. But neither of us moved, and the longer the moment dragged out, the more I worried it wasn’t desire on his face. I’m his nanny, for heaven’s sake, and I was just standing there, gawking at him. By the time I got my wits about me, it didn’t seem the right time to bring up my conversation with Miss Shepherd. Neither did the time seem right later in the evening because Duke was exhausted from training camp.
But I don’t want to talk about it in front of Tabby. It’s hard to say how she would react, and I wasn’t sure how he would take the news either. He already knows that something is going on with her, that she’s struggling.
I glance toward the living room. We’ll talk about it later, when Tabby isn’t around to overhear us. Besides, I don’t want to interrupt their Friday fun. I can explain everything to him. He loves Tabby, and it’s up to him to decide what’s best for her. I tuck the Vanderbilt scale on top of the refrigerator.
“Who’s ready to put their pizza together?” I call out. There’s a cheer from Tabby, and she comes bounding back, her ponytail swaying. My heart twists again.
We’ll get her the help she needs. I’m sure of it.
Tabby passes out before Elsa even sings “Let It Go.” Duke chuckles and says that’s pretty standard for a Friday night. “I can probably count on one hand how many movies Tabby has watched to the end on our movie nights.”
He gets up, though, and wraps a blanket around her when she snorts. She’s curled in the corner of the sectional.
As the movie hits its climax, I could suggest we turn it off. It’s doubtful either of us wants to watch this again. I’ve seen this movie so many times I can practically recite the lines. But I’ve got my legs tucked under me next to Tabby, and I’m so comfortable I don’t want to move.
