Chapter 15

15

" W ake up, wake up, wake up!" Rory jumps on my bed, startling me out of a heavy, intense, dreamless sleep. My eyes snap open, my heart rate through the roof, and I do a quick scan of everything all at once.

Vibrator put away from last night's use? Check.

Wearing more than just underwear? Check.

Time? Because why on earth is she up at—oh hell, it's after seven. Shit. My alarm didn't go off. I was up late in the basement with my pottery wheel. Painting, shockingly, since I started listening to music per Billy's suggestion, has gone swimmingly. I go to the studio most days and am already one and a half paintings deep. And for the first time in forever—not to sound like Frozen's Anna—I'm anxious to do it. Excited even.

"I'm awake," I tell her as I sit up and rub at the sleep crusting my eyes. And when I've removed it, I get a good look at her.

"What on earth are you wearing, Gingerbread?" Gingerbread is my new name for her. Simply because she loves it. Like it's her favorite cookie, and who has gingerbread as their favorite cookie?

She's wearing a bikini top with mermaid scale detail, a rainbow tutu, and mermaid fins that match her top. Her hair has about a thousand clips and elastics in it and is up in about ten different ponytails. Oh, and she has red lipstick and blue eyeshadow on.

Huh. That's a bit sus since in the six weeks I've been working here, I haven't seen any play makeup in her stuff. "And where did you get the makeup?"

"I found it in your bathroom."

My eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, did you? Well then." I reach forward and grab her, stopping her from jumping and bringing her down onto the bed with me. "Listen, babe, makeup is one of those holy things we women and a few awesome men get to wear in this world. But here's the deal. You can't go into other people's things and take them without asking. Especially their private things in their bathroom. Okay?"

She pouts, her little body sagging. "Okay."

"Next time you want to wear some of my stuff, ask, and we can see if it's okay to do that, and then I can help you do it because you have lipstick on more than just your lips."

"Sorry," she murmurs contritely. Her contrition lasts about another two point five seconds, and then she's up, jumping on my bed once again. "You need to get dressed. Into an outfit like mine. Then we can go to Dunky Donuts and get breakfast."

"Whoa. Slow down there. Dunky Donuts?"

"Yes! I want an egg and cheese, and on Saturdays, if I've been good all week at school, Daddy lets me get one from there along with a Munchkin."

"That's a very precise explanation, but I'll still have to fact-check. He hasn't done that since I've been working here."

"He does. I swear. He did it last year. "

"And you want me to dress like you? I don't have a top like that." Nor would I wear it out in public if I did.

"Oh." She jumps off the bed, landing with a dull thud on the floor, and then starts racing off, yelling back, "Katy has a tutu she wears when we dress up."

That's all I get, but I'm assuming now is the time to get out of bed and get myself together. I shoot Owen a quick text, asking him about this Dunkin' Donuts thing, and head into my bathroom to do my morning stuff.

Today is Saturday, and Owen is working a shift so that means it's just Rory and me all day. I'm close to finishing my full second piece, but other than that, this week shouldn't be too bad, so I'd like to venture out a bit with Rory if she's game.

Things between Owen and me have returned to hot and cold. It's as if he doesn't know how to interact with me, and I know the panty-thieving incident yesterday morning hasn't helped. I blush when I think about how I found him in the shower, grunting and groaning with his big, thick cock in his hand, and then how I threw my freshly worn panties—panties that were a little wet after discovering him like that—in his face.

There has been no middle ground for us in the weeks I've worked for him. We're either boiling hot—all teasing and barely hidden innuendo and touching—or freezing cold, needing distance and space to maintain professional boundaries.

Still, he's trying to be nicer, more friendly and open.

Owen and Rory leave for their sailing trip in three weeks, and both have been talking about it nonstop. They're excited, and I'm excited for them. If not a little jealous. I could go, but I don't think it's smart. It'd just be the three of us. And after Rory goes to bed, it'd just be the two of us alone on a ship at night under the stars. It's terribly romantic, and the thought of him in a bathing suit, his incredible body on display with the sun on his skin…

Yeah, no. I'm not going. I'd end up climbing and wrapping myself around him like a monkey.

Exiting the bathroom, I find Rory dancing around my room, using the matching rainbow tutu as a partner. "Here. You can wear this. Do you have a shirt with rainbows on it? I want rainbows to be our theme of the day."

Did I have this much energy at seven in the morning when I was six?

"Rainbow, huh? Oh!" I snap my fingers in an ah-ha way. "I've got just the shirt." I dig through my drawer until I find the one I'm thinking of, and then I snatch the tutu out of her hand and head back into the bathroom to get changed. A few minutes later, I am so rainbow I could dance in a parade.

I'm wearing red yoga pants, my "pretty sketchy" shirt that has rainbow-colored pencils on it, and Katy's tutu. My long hair is up on top of my head in pigtails to show off the colorful strands underneath, and I'm wearing makeup that matches Rory's.

"What do you think?" I ask as I come out in a twirl to give her the full effect.

"Yay! You're perfect. Can we go, can we go?"

"You need a shirt over the bathing suit top."

"But I don't wanna."

"I know, and at home, that's fine. Out and about, you need something over it. At the very least a jacket because it's cool out today."

She makes a noise like I'm killing her vibe, and I get it. Thankfully she runs off to find something, and I check my phone to see if Owen has replied.

Owen: Yes, that's fine. Bring an extra couple of singles from the cash envelope on the kitchen counter, because she likes to give them to the homeless man who hangs out outside. No hot chocolate. I don't care how much she begs and promises. The last two times I fell for it, she threw up all over the back seat.

Me: Excellent. Thank you. And I appreciate the pro tip on the hot chocolate. I don't want a repeat of what happened after your grandparents' party.

Me: I mean with her throwing up. Not the stuff that came before it.

I pinch my eyes shut. Why the hell did I just text him that?

Owen: I knew what you meant. *Winking emoji*

Owen: I enjoyed what came before it too.

My eyes pop wide and I blink at my screen. Is he flirtexting—is that even a word—with me? No. He's just being polite. Owen wouldn't flirtext me. Except the stupid butterflies in my stomach and the tingle in my chest don't seem to agree. Or at the very least, they're hoping I'm wrong.

Shaking that off, I slip my phone into the pocket on the side of my leggings and then go down the hall to find Rory, who has put on a long-sleeves, bright pink Princess Peach shirt.

"Perfect. You're stunning. You ready to go?"

Twenty minutes later, we're sitting at a small, two-person table, getting all the looks from every patron who walks in and out. And since this is a Dunkin' in Brookline, that's a lot of people. Rory doesn't seem to care in the slightest. For every strange or squinted or even derisive look we get, she responds with a smile and a wave, and I think it's safe to say, I want to be her when I grow up.

Little kids have no problems being themselves. It's not until later that we become self-conscious and self-doubting. Think of how much better the world would be if being yourself came with no judgment.

I snap a picture of her about to eat her glazed Munchkin and send it to Owen. He doesn't reply, but I don't expect him to since he's working. I sip my iced coffee and think about what we could do today.

"Do you want to go to the playground?"

"Um. Does a bear poop in the woods?"

"What?" My eyebrows shoot up as an incredulous laugh hits the air. "Where did you hear that expression?"

"My uncle Mason." She shrugs like it's no big thing.

Shocking. And yes, that's sarcasm. I met Mason at the Fritz barbecue, but after watching him play in the pool with Rory, it's not tough to imagine he'd teach her that. My family wasn't as close with the Central Square crew as the Fritz family is.

"Ignoring the bear pooping thing, do you have a preference for playgrounds?"

"I like the one in the Common. We can go on the merry-go-round too."

"All right. Let's do it."

Forty minutes later, we're making our way through Boston Common. It's a gorgeous early fall day, and thankfully not too cold with the sun shining high overhead. Rory and I are walking hand in hand, talking about a million things all at once. I negotiated the removal of my pigtails because they were killing my scalp, but the rest of our outfits remain .

I'm trying to manifest my inner fuck 'em if they can't take a joke, and so far, it's going pretty well.

"Why do you want to be an artist?" Rory questions. She's been asking a lot of questions only children can get away with asking for how personal and frank they are. She started with boys and friends, and now she's moved on to asking me about my art.

"I love working with my hands and seeing where my imagination can take them. With art, we get to express our thoughts and feelings without having to say them. For me, it's magic. Being an artist is just who I am."

She thinks about this very seriously for a long minute as we pass the merry-go-round and head toward the playground. "Daddy says it's okay for me to talk about my mom."

I pause because that's some serious stuff right there and crouch so we're at eye level. "And how do you feel about that?"

"I don't want to talk about her."

I give her hand a little squeeze. "I can understand how that might be difficult."

"I don't remember her, and I don't want to. She left us and was mean."

"Does that bother you? That she left and was mean?"

She shrugs and stares down at the ground between us.

"It's okay if it does."

She doesn't say anything, and I can feel her shutting down in front of me.

"Would you want to make some art with me while you're thinking about her? You wouldn't have to talk unless you want to." I tuck some of my hair back behind my shoulders so she can fully see my face.

"I don't like to think about her either."

"I get that. I do." Except she brought her up for a reason. Hmm. "All right. What if we didn't think about her? What if we just made some cool stuff together and see where it takes us? "

Her chin lifts, her pretty blue eyes flickering with interest. "Like what?"

I shrug. "Anything. We can make anything you want. Do you like painting, drawing, clay, putty?—"

"What's clay?"

"It's what I use to make pottery. Like bowls, sculptures, and stuff. You don't have to do it on the wheel like I do, but if you want to, I can teach you. If not, you can sculpt it into anything you want, and then we can paint it. Then I'll bring our masterpieces to a place where they put them in a special oven called a kiln to bake, and they come back hard and shiny. What do you think?"

Her eyes brighten. "Can we do that?"

"Sure!" I exclaim. "I'd love that. On the way home, I'll stop at the art supply store to get a special kind of clay for us. It's more of a sculpting clay than what I use and easier to work with."

Rory likes this idea a lot, and as we continue into the gated playground area, she tells me all the things she wants to construct out of clay. After that, she takes off, running around and sliding down everything. I stand off to the side, mostly watching her instead of joining her since she's made a little friend.

A man—maybe in his early thirties—comes over and stands beside me. "Is she yours?" he asks, indicating Rory, who is having a pretend tea party with the other girl.

"No. I'm her nanny. Is that your daughter she's playing with?"

"My niece. I have her for the day."

I nod and smile, watching the girls. "They seem to be hitting it off."

"They do." He turns to me and extends his hand. "I'm Andy. "

"Estlin." I shake his hand. His eyes do an amused sweep of me.

"I like the outfit."

I snicker. "We're twins today."

"Takes a special kind of nanny to do that."

I shrug. "She's the best and makes it easy."

We both go back to watching them play for a moment before he asks, "How long have you worked for Owen Fritz?"

That pulls me up short. "I'm sorry?"

"Don't look alarmed," he intones in a smooth voice. "I work for Boston's Landing . I know all the Fritz people. I was one of the reporters who covered Owen and Rory during his divorce. It's nice to see they're doing well and have moved on to be happy and hire a nanny." He gives my body another sweep. "A beautiful, young nanny at that."

The fuck? Boston's Landing is a social magazine that encompasses more than just Boston. It's for anything happening in New England, but it's not simply farmers' markets and the best local ice cream. They have a society section that is barely one step above a tabloid.

I blink at him, appalled by every word and insinuation coming from him. I turn back to Rory and take a protective step toward her. "Hey, Gingerbread. We need to get going."

"But I want to stay. I'm having fun with my friend."

"I know, kiddo, but it's starting to get late. Especially if we want to hit up the art store on our way home."

She looks like she's about to have a total meltdown at this. "No. I want to stay."

"What's the harm in them playing together a little longer?" the guy asks, but I see his phone in his hand. I don't know if he's recording her or if he's taken pictures or what.

I flip back to Rory. "Come on. We can come back another day. Please, Rory." My voice grows insistent on her name, and her eyes flash up to mine. I give her a look I'm praying she gets, but then the tears start, and hell, what do I do?

I rush over to her and gently pull her to the side away from the girl. "Don't cry, Gingerbread. I know you want to stay, but we really need to go. I promise I'll make it up to you."

Something catches her attention over my shoulder, and I turn just in time to catch him snapping a picture of both of us. In our outfits. With tears on her face. Right here in the park. I want to tell him off. I want to scream and shout and break his fucking phone.

But if he's press, I can't touch him. And I won't react in front of Rory like that.

Still, what an absolute motherfucker he is. She's a little girl. What kind of monster exploits that?

He gives me a smug smirk, one that tells me he knows he got me, and I stand, taking Rory's hand. Without another word about it, I give her a firm tug, and thankfully, she relents and follows after me.

"He took my picture," she utters as she wipes her cheeks and nose with the back of her hand.

"I know." We walk briskly toward the garage. "Don't look back, okay?"

"Is he following us? They've followed us before."

Her voice wobbles again, and I hate this for her. I hate it so much.

"It's okay, sweetie. I'm here with you, and I won't let anything bad happen."

The moment we get into the car and I have her buckled up, I call Owen, thankful he picks up on the third ring. "Hey. Is everything okay? I'm in surgery."

"Then why are you picking up?"

"Because you called. But you're on speakerphone, and the entire theater can hear you. "

"Theater?"

"Operating theater or operating room. Whatever. We call it both."

"Ah. This can wait then."

"Hold on." I hear him say something to someone, and then a second later, he's back. "What's wrong?"

Dammit. I hate how obvious my voice is. "Owen, it can?—"

"Just tell me, Estlin. I need to get back. I have an intern and a third-year resident doing an appendectomy. They should be fine, but I don't want to leave them longer than I have to."

I glance in the rearview mirror at Rory, who is staring stoically out the window, and I remember what Owen and Jack said about what the press did to them. That man taking her picture when she was at the park playing must be so traumatic for her.

"Rory can hear you," I warn. "We were at the playground in the Common. Rory was playing with a little girl, and her uncle came over to ask if she was mine. I explained that I'm the nanny, and then he asked me how long I've worked for you. He asked, ‘How long have you worked for Owen Fritz?'"

Owen hisses under his breath. "Jesus."

"He's a reporter for Boston's Landing and covered your… situation a few years back. He took pictures, Owen. I'm so sorry. I tried to get Rory out of there as fast as I could, but I don't know how many he got."

"Is she okay? Are you both okay?"

I check the rearview again. Rory is unmoved, hardly blinking as she stares sightlessly out the window as we drive through Boston. "A little shaken," I answer, hoping he gets my full meaning.

"I'm going to finish this up and come right home." He clears the harshness from his tone. "I'm going to be home soon, Moonshine. "

She doesn't respond.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, feeling miserable.

"I'll see you both soon. I have to get back." He disconnects the call, and all I know is that what started off as a great day, just went to hell.