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At least that’s the story I tell myself. Because the reality—that I enjoy sitting next to him like this—is not good. So, I lie to myself, tell myself I’m doing this for him. He’s had a long week. I’m only letting him rest.
We don’t say anything until the movie’s over. In fact, we sit and listen to the music over the end credits. When they’re finished, I click it off, and we remain in awkward silence.
“So,” I say as he opens his mouth to speak. “Oh, go ahead.” We laugh, and he waves me to go ahead instead. “I was just going to say thank you.” I grin at him. “This was a lot of fun.”
He returns my smile. “My pleasure.” He points at his daughter. “I should probably get her upstairs.” Tabby’s hair is a fuzzy mess, and her mouth is lulling open. “When she sleeps, she looks so much like the toddler I remember.”
His face is soft in memory. “You raised her on your own, right?” He tilts his head, and I go on. “I read your wife passed when Tabby was a baby.”
He nods. “She did. A brain tumor. She died a couple of months after Tabby was born.” He glances away, but not before I see the pain in his features. “I’m sad Tabby didn’t get to know her. Sonya would have been a great mom.”
“I’m so sorry.” I reach over and squeeze his hand. It’s not until our skin touches that I realize it might be a mistake.
His hand is warm in mine, and he curls his fingers around my much smaller ones. He glances at our joined hands, and his eyes meet mine. Goose bumps rise on my arms. He swallows, and his gaze falls to my mouth. We’re sitting inches apart, and there’s an undeniable heat in the air.
I want to kiss him. Or I want him to kiss me. Over the past few days, I’ve felt the connection between us, and I’m sure he feels it as well. But I can’t acknowledge it. Sure, he’s my employer, Tabby’s father. But more important, he’s a serious person, someone who doesn’t let people in easily. I want to be part of that inner circle, more than is appropriate, and it scares me. Because at the end of this year, when my contract is over, I’ll move on, and so will they.
I can’t help how much I admire him, though. He’s been through so much. I can’t imagine how hard it has been for him. I think about Tabby and the way he loves her. He’s an amazing father. But the two of them live here, in this enormous house, alone. My guess is that he and his wife—Sonya—wanted to fill it with children. Life has taken so much away from him.
I let go of his hand, and he looks away. The moment breaks.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Neither of us moves, sitting side by side with his sleeping daughter next to us. I’m sure I should get up and go to bed, but can’t force myself to leave him. “You’re welcome.”
The only sound is Tabby’s soft breathing as Duke and I sit in companionable silence. It’s strange how it feels to be with him. One moment, I want to throw myself into his arms to see what it feels like to kiss him, to touch him. But times like this? I’m happy to just sit here with him.
I gesture to the movie. “Should we watch it again?”
“I’ve seen it a million times. I’m sure you know it by heart as well.”
“I’ve seen it a million and one.”
He shrugs. “I don’t mind watching it again. Or we could watch something else?”
I lift my hands. “It’s your movie night, so if you want to watch Frozen, that’s cool.”
He chuckles, and I am sure neither of us wants to watch Frozen. But I do want to spend more time with him. I shouldn’t, but I do. Does he feel the same?
But then he stands, breaking the moment, and stretches his back. I hear his knee pop. He sighs, and it’s a weary sound. “I should get Tabby to bed.”
I nod, standing as well. “Of course. It’s getting late.” I tilt my head and glance toward the kitchen. “Before you do, though, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
I set aside the blanket I had been using and head for the kitchen, retrieving the envelope from Tabby’s teacher from the top of the refrigerator. “I didn’t want to talk about this with Tabby in hearing distance, but”—I motion to his daughter, who promptly sleep snorts like a piglet—“I don’t think she’s listening.”
He grins and takes the envelope from me. “No, I don’t think so.”
I fold my arms over my chest, chewing on my lower lip. His brow furrows as he opens the envelope and reads Miss Shepherd’s note.
He holds up the Vanderbilt scale. “What is this?”
“When I picked up Tabby at school yesterday, I spoke with her teacher. She showed me some of the work that Tab has been doing, particularly a writing sample.”
“There are writing samples in second grade? Isn’t that what they write for college acceptance or something?”
His face has clouded over, and I can tell he’s upset, but I keep my voice light. “Anything you write is a writing sample, Duke.”
He glances at the note again, still scowling. “Right.”
