The Billionaire's Nanny: A BWWM Romantic Comedy (8 page)

“Will do, good advice. Thanks for your help, Corbin. Both with unloading the car and, um, financially. This helps a lot.”

“My pleasure.” And it is.

As I head to the stairs, I hear her say, “Let’s go see Maeve, anyway. We can unpack later.” She seems to genuinely care for her.

Back in my office, I see them on the rug with her, pushing buttons on a plastic box. Each time a door flips open to reveal a farm animal, Maeve squeals in delight. It’s pretty cute. For a moment, I think I should go up there, join in the fun, but no. Better to do the job, sort the giraffes from the grafts. I click back to the spreadsheet.

Just as my eyes are about to glaze over, my phone buzzes with a message from Vanessa.

V: Going to take Asia back to town so she can go home. Should I pick up take out? I know a place…

Great
, I text back,
that’s a good idea. see you soon.

I stare at my stilted message. She must think I’m such a stick in the mud.

Man, if my college self could see me now. He’d definitely pass me a joint and tell me to chill out. And I’d tell him to get a haircut and a job. How quickly we become our parents, right? I could do worse, certainly, my dad is a pretty great guy. College Corbin didn’t think so, of course. He thought Edward Pierce was a serious buzz kill, all up in my grill about grades ‘n’ shit.

It’s easy, when you’re the youngest sibling, to feel like no one cares what you’re doing because all the cool stuff has already been done–and probably better–by another kid. So I’d let my sisters be the Smart One and the Driven One and the Artist, and I was left with the Fuckup. I was really good at it. At boarding school, I got into trouble for smoking weed and got kicked off the lacrosse team–which I hated–freeing up yet more time for smoking weed.

In what I told myself was an act of rebellion, I didn’t even apply to my father’s alma mater, Harvard. In truth, he had to pull strings to get me into Dartmouth. It would have taken a serious donation to get me into Harvard. Dartmouth was willing to lower its standards in exchange for a new locker room in the gym. I did not take them by storm.

When Dad had a pretty serious heart attack my junior year of college, I realized I was being an idiot. I’d met enough people from seriously messed up families–my then-girlfriend Elise, for example–to know I had it much better than most. So I decided to make him proud of me if I possibly could. I actually did my work and went to class and got good grades. Of course, that’s the bare minimum a kid should do, so I joined the college newspaper–just like my dad had done.

Still, I felt like they had trouble seeing that I had changed. I’d been the Fuckup for so long that I’d kind of worn a groove into my place in the family. So, as Senior year started to wind down, I decided to marry Elise Hamilton and take my place in the family business–what could be more grown-up than that? My folks had gotten married right after they graduated from Harvard and Radcliffe, my dad going right to work managing the family textile mill in Maine.

Of course those mills had moved to India, but the offices were in Boston, and my parents agreed to let me learn the ropes there. So I started right after graduation, taking off a month for our honeymoon after the ridiculous wedding Elise’s parents threw for us. I told my mother, once, about a month before the wedding, that Elise and I were fighting constantly. She said, “It’s probably just the stress of the wedding, but if you think it’s more than that, it’s never too late to call it off.”

But of course I didn’t listen. I was afraid I’d look like the Fuckup.

My phone buzzes.

V: Food’s here! I’m in the kitchen.

I respond that I’m on my way and head to the basement. The Domaine is built in the old European style, with the kitchen and laundry in the basement, as if one wouldn’t want the actual work of the house to be seen by anyone. When I arrive, Vanessa and Connie are at the rough butcher block table, a spread of take-out around them.

“I think I got too much!” says Vanessa, “but it all looked so good. I should never order when I’m hungry.”

"I can’t imagine why you order when you
aren’t
hungry," I say, sitting down across from her.

“Fair point. So, how much do you know about Latin American food?”

“Enough to know not to go to Taco Bell. But that’s about it. I know the standard Mexican restaurant dishes, and whatever Marta cooks, does that count?”

“Marta is from Mexico, so those probably overlap a little. You’re from Honduras, right Connie?”

“My parents are. I moved to the US when I was a baby, though.” I feel a little bad for not ever asking them where their families were from. Or maybe I shouldn’t ask? Anyway, I had no idea.

"So you’ll know
baleadas
, here." She points to what looks like a soft taco made with a thick tortilla. “These are refried beans and Honduran creme which is soooo good.”

It’s funny to see her go into teacher mode. Her voice is even slightly different as she points out each container and what it holds. "These are
pupusas
, Salvadoran,
tamales
–these are Mexican style, I like that best…"

I cut her off as she points to corn on the cob. “I know that one!” I say, like an eager schoolboy.

She laughs, “Okay smart guy, what is it?”

“Corn.”

"Yes, but street food style, with lime, chili, and queso fresco. One of my students last year was in a restaurant family. They make street foods from around Central and South America and drive a food truck around. Taste the
baleadas
, Connie, tell me what you think."

“Mmm, it’s good!” She nods as she chews. “Like Mama made!” I wonder, for a moment, where Maeve is, and realize it has already gotten dark. Maeve must be asleep. Guess I got wrapped up in work.

“Dig in!” says Vanessa, heaping food onto her own plate. I know it’s a cliche by this point, but I like to see a woman enjoy her food. It’s such a refreshing change from the country club “I couldn’t possibly!”s.

The food is terrific, but even better than the meal is when Vanessa says, “You can go on to bed, Connie, we’ll clean up.” Connie looks at me uncertainly–lord knows Mr. Pierce has never offered to clean up before–but I nod in agreement.

“It’s mostly disposable,” I say. She hands Vanessa the baby monitor and heads to her room.

“Thanks for bringing in dinner,” I say, piling the waste into the plastic bags the food came in. Vanessa was wrong about getting too much. I was
hungry
.

“I’m glad to do it,” she says, smiling into my eyes. “I wanted a chance to just hang out and talk with you. And Connie, of course.”

Of course.

“Do you need to rush off? We could sit out by the pool for a bit. The breeze is almost pleasant tonight.”

Vanessa chuckles. “Well, since I just sleep upstairs now, I don’t think I have to go far. But as long as Maeve is snoozing, I’m free to hang out. Say, isn’t this place a winery? What’s a gal gotta do to get a glass of wine, take the tour?”

I could think of several things she could do, none involving tourism, but kept them to myself. “Red or white?”

“My winemaker buddies in town say you’re growing Cabernet Franc, do you have any of that?”

“No, that’s years out, I’m afraid. I do have Cabernet or Merlot, though those are our only reds.”

She chuckled again, that sexy sound. “Guess I’ll come clean, I don’t know anything about wine. I worked in a cocktail bar and I tend to drink beer myself. So just get me something that’s not too complicated. Something witty, yet approachable.”

I waggle my eyebrows at her. “That’s my favorite combination,” I say, and am rewarded by seeing the color darken on her cheeks. The dimple flashes into view for just a moment as she smiles at the floor.

When I hand her the glass, half full of a dark red Zinfandel I’ve been told is delicious, she says, “Won’t you join me?”

“I’ll join you in conversation, but I don’t drink anymore.” That “anymore” usually shuts down any pressure to drink.

But Vanessa just laughs. “Well, you’re in a funny job then, aren’t you?”

“Indeed I am,” I say and lead her out the back door to the gazebo near the pool.

It’s a perfect mid-summer night. The breeze is soft, like it had come in off the water. The nearly full moon reflects off the water of the pool.

“I’d never been in a salt water pool before,” says Vanessa, as she settles onto the lounge. I had hoped she sit on the wicker couch, so that I could sit beside her. Instead I sit in a chair that lets me see her face, lit by the moonlight–and all those lights around the pool.

“That was my sister’s idea. When she heard I’d be coming out here with Maeve, she insisted that we get it refitted for salt so that I wasn’t, as she put it, ‘dipping the baby in bleach every day.’”

“Hadn’t thought of it that way, but she has a point. I do like it better, it doesn’t dry my skin out the way the city pool did when I was a kid. So, do you just have the one sister?”

Ah yes, the “how many siblings” conversation.

“I have three older sisters. I’m the baby and the only boy.”

She smiles at me. “I bet you were spoiled rotten.”

“Probably. I imagine my sisters would tell you so. How about you? Siblings?”

“Nope, I’m an only child. My parents died in a car accident when I was eight. My grandma raised me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss. But I’ll have to compliment your grandma some day.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I see it might have been too much. There’s a flicker in her eyes. I remember that she’s not in my head, where I’ve already been taking her to India, showing her Cape Cod…as far as she knows, I’m just Maeve’s dad that isn’t around much. I add, quickly, "She clearly raised you with care since you became a good teacher
and
a good nanny."

Vanessa’s smile is warm, if I freaked her out, I think it passed. I hope. She says, “She did. It’s hard to be so far away from her, but we talk a lot. She used to babysit, run a daycare, kind of, when my mom was a baby.” She has chosen her words carefully. I wonder what she almost said.

I’d asked her about her accent when she first started caring for Maeve, so I knew the grandmother is in Atlanta. “What does she think of you taking this job, then?” I ask.

Vanessa shrugs. “She’s okay with it, I think. Now.” She gives me a mischievous smile. “She doesn’t really trust you, though.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Because you hired a girl to take care of your baby after only seeing her wait tables. Badly.” She takes a big sip of the wine. "Why
did
you hire me? Just because you thought I was good with Maeve? Or is there something else?"

She’s looking at me so directly. I feel like I have to tell her
some
of the truth at least. I smile. "It
might
have been an impulse decision partly spurred by attraction. BUT," I add, cutting her off, "I maintain that it was a
good
impulse because you have been very good at your job. How’s the wine?" I throw that last bit in there to steer the conversation another way. I’m pretty smooth.

“It’s fine. Good, in fact, probably goes down too easily for my own good. So, you really never even taste it?”

My smooth steering just yanking the conversation in another direction I don’t really want to go.

“No, I don’t. I have a guy for that. Let’s just say that I liked booze a little too much for a little too long and I felt it was best to make a clean break. It hasn’t been very long, so it’s best if I stay cold turkey for now.”

The usual awkward silence follows that pronouncement. Then Vanessa says, “So. How ’bout them…Mets? Is that a team here?”

Silence broken, we laugh pretty hard. “No,” I say finally, “That’s New York. If you want to support Oakland, it’s the Athletics, and god help you. But if you support San Francisco, it’s the Giants.”

“And that would be…baseball, right?”

Surely she’s playing it up for comic effect, but I’ll take it over the alcoholism discussion. “Yes. Football is the Raiders and the 49ers. Basketball, locally, is the Warriors or, if you prefer an underdog, the Kings, And hockey, if you are so inclined, and I cannot imagine that you are, is the San Jose Sharks.”

“Into sports, then are you?”

“Not in the least. But if you’re a man in the business world, you’re expected to have a team and a working knowledge of most sports. When I lived in Boston, I decided to be a Red Sox and Pats fan and I paid an assistant to keep track of them and tell me all the game highlights so that I could say ‘Whoa, what about that 3rd quarter call last night?’ I’m like a parrot, though, only the barest idea what I’m actually saying.”

This strikes Vanessa as hilarious and she has to set down her wine glass to keep from spilling it as she laughs. I feel like I just made a huge sale, or–I guess–scored the winning run.

“So,” she says, wiping her eyes and picking up her glass again, “if you got to pick the topic, what would you talk about?”

“Travel. Kayaking.”

“Hey, I like to kayak! I’d love to travel some day, too. This wine has made me a little lightheaded, can we walk?”

“Sure,” I say, rising and then offering her a hand. Her skin is so soft in mine and I realize I’ve never touched her. I let it go reluctantly. “Where would you like to travel?”

“I’d love to go to Vietnam and Cambodia,” she says, as we stroll. “India sounds exciting.”

“It is, I’ve spent quite a bit of time there. I really love it.”

Vanessa’s hand brushes mine, probably by accident, but I take it. She doesn’t pull away.

“You were in India for the textile mills?” she asks.

"Yes. I went over expecting to move our operation back to the US. A lot of companies were riding the Made in America wave, moving their factories to South Carolina. But after working with the people a while, I realized that to move the mill would devastate their village. So I stayed and tried to improve conditions there. I figured we’d be better off trying to educate consumers on our end, explain
why
we were staying in India."

We’ve stopped walking, and I’m still holding her hand.