Each morning he awoke thinking,
I have to put a stop to this.
Obviously a man of his innate circumspection couldn’t
really
hire a complete stranger with no experience to do the most important job he had to offer — taking care of his only child.
But then he’d dress and go downstairs and discover Meg had made the most delicious French toast he’d ever eaten. That she had the sense to slice a bowl of fruit for Phillipa, even though the girl ate little of it. She even possessed the foresight to brew a pot of English Breakfast tea to the perfect strength. And she did it all with good humour, despite Phillipa’s persistent attitude of defiance and his own efforts to disregard Meg’s presence.
This was not something he’d been able to achieve, thus far, but it something he was determined to succeed at.
Yet that task became increasingly difficult with each passing day. On the fourth day of her employment — Friday — Meg was doing her usual clearing of the breakfast dishes when Bryce walked in. Of their own volition, his eyes swept over her. The jeans she wore moulded to her slim hips like Lycra, although the soft denim was infinitely more alluring. Her rear end was shapely and her pert breasts were fetchingly outlined by fitted, well-worn cotton — a silly Daffy Duck T-shirt, the words ‘You’re deth-pic-able’ arcing across her chest.
For an insane moment Bryce envied Daffy Duck.
Cranky at his adolescent response, Bryce strode past her to the fridge. ‘Is it casual Friday?’
He sensed her discomfort and felt like a bastard. ‘Ah…my skirts need washing, and since the job rarely requires me to leave the house, I thought this would be okay for now. I’m going to buy some more appropriate clothes with my first…I mean, soon.’
By the way she stumbled over the last, Bryce guessed she had been about to say
with my first paycheque
, but had stopped herself out of politeness. His remorse increased. He should have realised her financial situation was such that she was anxiously awaiting her wages. His brow furrowed. ‘If you needed an advance Meg, why didn’t you let me know?’
‘Oh, sure. That’s the first thing a new employee asks for,’ she said dryly. ‘We agreed on fortnightly payment of wages and that’s fine.’ She turned suddenly from where she had been wiping down the kitchen bench and placed a hand on a trim hip. ‘Unless you think I shouldn’t be seen driving Phillipa to school like this?’
‘I don’t care what you wear to Phillipa’s school.’
‘
I
do,’ came the remark from the kitchen doorway as Phillipa walked in carrying her empty plate. His daughter was looking at Meg’s shirt with an expression of patent distaste. ‘Daffy Duck is from
ages
ago.’
Phillipa’s tactlessness didn’t intimidate Meg. ‘The classics never go out of style Phillipa. Some things get better as they get older, like a good wine or Louis Armstrong. Just ask your father, he knows about that sort of thing.’
What was that about things getting better as they got older? Bryce wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted. ‘Are you putting me in that category?’
‘Huh? Oh, no!’ Meg said, her cheeks growing pink. ‘I was referring to your appreciation of wine and jazz. I wasn’t snooping, but your music collection is programmed right into the stereo. I mean, you can’t be much older than thirty-five, right?’
Bryce’s lips twisted derisively. ‘I’m thirty-four, actually.’
‘If there’s any justice in the world,’ Meg muttered, ‘the floor would open up right now and swallow me. I didn’t mean to suggest…’
‘Never mind, Meg,’ Bryce interrupted her. He didn’t need to hear her mad attempts to back pedal the unintentional jibe. He’d already estimated he was a good ten years older than her, at least. He’d glimpsed her last night wearing the threadbare T-shirt she apparently slept in. It had a high school slogan emblazoned across the back.
High School.
He had no business ogling someone who still owned a high school T-shirt, even had she not been his employee.
The thought turned his expression to a scowl. Her previous employer had ignored those boundaries. There was no way he would do the same.
‘Come on Phillipa, it’s time we got you ready for school.’ Meg turned and led his daughter in the direction of the door.
‘I told you before, I can do it by myself. I don’t need
your
help.’
‘And be late, like we almost were yesterday? Huh-uh. Upstairs, now.’
‘Do you hear the way she talks to me Daddy?’ Phillipa asked, even as she sauntered off to do Meg’s bidding, Meg following smoothly behind her.
‘I hear it.’ He heard it, and he couldn’t help but approve.
Phillipa left the room with a pained sound at his lack of support for her grievance, and Meg sent him a grateful smile over her shoulder that caught him somewhere in the chest. His lungs contracted.
He approved of too darn much about the woman. Her no-nonsense handling of his daughter’s prickliness. Her tendency to say whatever she was thinking, regardless of the consequences. Her slender, enticing curves and big, sparkling eyes…
Making a sound of disgust, Bryce tossed the remainder of his tea down the sink. As he did so he noticed the plate and cutlery sitting on the side, the plate his daughter had brought back from the dining room on her own steam, without having to be ordered to do so for once. Next to it sat a spiral bound sketchpad.
It was obviously Meg’s. He had seen her scribbling in it once or twice, but she’d always stashed it away hastily whenever he came into the room. Now his fingers strayed to the book’s frayed edges, curiosity warring with his sense of decency. He shouldn’t look at it. Whatever was inside was Meg’s personal business.
Yet, she’d clearly been conducting that business while on the clock as his paid employee. Didn’t he have a right to know how his time was being used?
The argument was thin to say the least, but Bryce found himself turning the pages anyway. Inside, he found several rough sketches of the interior of a house with notes scrawled over them.
Not just any house, Bryce realised.
His
house. She’d drawn his dining room, his living area, but had changed the furniture and décor. Notes were written in the margin. Bryce read a couple of phrases.
Curtains too dark — makes the room sombre. Furniture too heavy — oppressive atmosphere.
Re do in warmer tones — peach? Ecru? Crimson?
Bryce closed the book with a huff. So she thought his house was stuffy and old fashioned, like his music collection. Did she think
he
was stuffy?
Bryce headed for the front door. He was getting worked up over nothing. So what if Meg thought everything in his life needed changing? She wouldn’t be around long enough to do anything about it.
***
The following day dawned bright and warm. Outside Meg’s window a bird tweeted in the branches of a eucalypt, its brown feathers ruffled slightly by a gentle breeze. Although she had never considered herself a morning person, there was something to be said for waking up each day in such peaceful and scenic surrounds. Tossing back the covers, Meg walked to the bedroom window and slid the glass open further, breathing in the scent of fresh spring air perfumed by the saltiness of the harbour water below and the well-cultivated roses of the vast garden. She smiled, feeling glad to be alive.
She dressed quickly in blue jeans and a powder blue V-necked jumper, running a brush through her tangle of pale hair before jogging upstairs to start breakfast.
Bryce had told her that Phillipa was allowed to sleep in until eight o’clock on weekends, but when Meg passed through the living room the little girl was already curled up on the black leather couch, clutching the remote control as she flicked from cartoon to cartoon on the wide-screen television.
Meg halted on her way to the kitchen. ‘You’re up early.’
Not turning to acknowledge her, Phillipa merely lifted her tiny shoulder in negligent reply and Meg had to swallow the unladylike cuss that threatened to burst forth. If only the girl would at least engage in polite conversation of some sort. But every time she walked into a room Meg could still feel how palpably Phillipa resented her presence.
Was she jealous of having another female in her father’s life? It was an understandable, though unnecessary, response. It was clear to anyone within two miles that, despite the long hours he worked that took him away from her, Bryce Carlton loved his daughter. And Meg wasn’t
in
Bryce’s life, she was merely a peripheral character.
‘Would you like some breakfast?’ Meg injected a brightness she suddenly didn’t feel into her voice.
‘I don’t want French toast again.’
‘Me neither.’ Meg refused to let that sting show. She’d thought her French toast was pretty good. ‘I’ll rustle up something for myself and you let me know when you’ve decided what you want.’
Moments later she came back into the living room with an open box of Fruit Rings, the name giving a false impression of the product’s ingredients, which did not include any fruit. The multicoloured loops were full to the outer rims with processed sugar, and were one of Meg’s favourite indulgences.
Taking a seat on the couch, she said nothing as she dove into the open box and withdrew a handful of cereal, popping the loops into her mouth one by one and crunching loudly.
She was on her second handful when she noticed Phillipa’s attention was no longer on the cartoons. ‘Where did you get
those?’
‘The cupboard.’
‘Mrs Dunkirk doesn’t buy Fruit Rings.’
‘I noticed. I had to buy these myself.’ She withdrew another handful from the box, turning to Phillipa as though the idea had just occurred to her. ‘Do you want some?’
Despite being in a state of near salivation, Phillipa replied. ‘I’m not supposed to eat that sort of stuff.’
‘Me neither. But I eat what I want on Saturdays. Don’t you have that rule here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Phillipa said blankly. ‘I never asked.’
Meg could see the possibilities swirling around in Phillipa’s big brown eyes and had to fight not to smile. The notion of a no-holds-barred eat-what-you-like Saturday had obviously intrigued the girl, as it probably would any eight-year-old.
One point for you, Meg.
She held out the box to the little girl. ‘I’m sure a little wouldn’t hurt.’
Before long — having jointly decided Fruit Rings went better with milk — the two of them sat cross-legged on the floor, eating their bowls of cereal at the antique hardwood coffee table while Phillipa filled Meg in on who was who in the world of the cartoon she was watching
.
And that was how Bryce found them.
‘Phillipa, what on earth are you eating?’
They both turned at the sound of his voice, Meg’s glance catching on the sight of him dressed in blue running shorts and a white T-shirt. It was the first time she had seen him wearing anything other than a business suit, the first time she had seen his hair out of its usual neat style. A thick strand of damp hair fell forward across his forehead, half concealing the light beading of sweat on his brow. The T-shirt he wore outlined an impressive breadth of muscle his work attire strongly hinted at but stopped short of revealing. The shorts displayed long, powerful legs lightly dusted with dark brown hair.
The effect of his presence was distinctly unbalancing.
‘Cereal.’ Phillipa answered her father’s question, saving Meg the difficulty of speech for a few moments. ‘Meg bought it. It’s yummy. Do you want some?’
Bryce leaned over the coffee table and peered sceptically into the bowls. ‘I don’t think so.’ He speared Meg with a glance that stilled her breath. ‘It doesn’t look like something on Mrs Dunkirk’s shopping list.’
‘Huh-uh,’ Phillipa admitted with no shortage of glee, before slurping milk from her spoon. ‘Do you know Meg eats whatever she wants on Saturdays? Her whole family does it. And maybe other families, too. But we don’t. Can we do it today, Daddy?’
It was the most animated and cheerful Meg had seen the little girl, and she sent Bryce a look, hoping he would understand the plea in her eyes.
Please don’t ruin this for me. It’s the first glimmer of approval I’ve gotten from her.
Their eyes connected, held, for a long moment. Meg’s breath caught again. She wished he would sit down so he was on her level, not towering with such majesty above her. It made him seem so imposing, larger than life.
At last he turned his attention back to Phillipa. ‘Why not? You two seem to have gotten such a good start.’
Some of the tension seeped out of Meg at Bryce’s words. It seemed he had received her message loud and clear, and was willing to break the usual rules to make his little girl happy. Even though the long list of treats Phillipa immediately started to rattle off as her intended menu for the day would doubtless give her a tummy ache.
‘Hold on peanut.’ Bryce laughed. ‘You might want to save some of those items for next Saturday.’
‘Really Daddy? Can we do it
every
week?’
Bryce sat on the floor near Meg, reaching for the box of cereal. He took out a handful of the sugary loops, popping them into his mouth. He tilted his head at Meg, a half smile on his lips. ‘These aren’t half bad,’ he told her, his eyes remaining on her face while he replied to Phillipa’s question. ‘As long as you don’t make yourself sick, I don’t see why not, honey.’
Meg’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth, milk dripping from its sides into the bowl. Her mouth hung open and if she hadn’t been rendered mute from the moment she had laid eyes on Bryce she might have whimpered.
The
honey
hadn’t been meant for her, she knew that. But the way he had kept his eyes on her as he’d murmured it made her heart twist as though it had been. Adding to the impact of the endearment was the slight brush of Bryce’s knee against hers beneath the low table where he had tried his best to fit his long legs. His eyes were like pools of warm tiramisu she would love to dive right into, and Meg had a frightening realisation.
Her boss was hot. Not merely handsome, but supernova
hot,
and much too distracting for her peace of mind.
‘I bet Mummy won’t let me do it.’