Page 14 of Jane Deyre
And hold my breath.
“Not unless you want me to.”
I take that as a no, and inwardly sigh with relief. I might be keeping my job after all.
He keeps his eyes on the road. “Does that goon know where you’re residing?”
“He has no clue. I didn’t tell him a thing.”
“Good.” He makes a sharp left turn. I again notice his formed biceps. His contoured forearms. “Are all your friends like him?”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“Then we have something in common.”
So, I’ve learned something about him. He’s a loner.
I also know he’s strong and protective. And can kick ass.
Just before we turn onto the freeway, he pulls over and lowers the convertible top. And puts his sunglasses back on. We whip onto the on-ramp, and not slowing down, zip into the carpool lane.
As we pick up speed, my hair whips around my face, the long curls Medusa-like. I wish I had an elastic or scrunchie to tie it back. Without taking his eyes off the road, my companion tells me there’s a baseball cap in the glove compartment. I fling the box open and put on the hat.The Oregon Ducks. Weird for someone who lives in LA. Maybe he went to college there.
Keeping his right hand on the steering wheel, he rakes his left one through his wind-blown hair, pushing back the strands that keep falling onto his face. His fingers are long and elegant. Maybe he’s a musician. For the first time, I notice he’s not wearing a gold band on his ring finger. And there’s no tan line. If his wife died only a few months ago, wouldn’t there still be one? They take a while to disappear. And then there’s this... maybe he’s been divorced for a while. Or has never married. After all that’s happened, this is not the time to ask him about his marital status. And he’s certainly not opened the door for casual conversation. Plus, it’s probably none of my business.
The fog lifting, we spend the rest of the ride steeped in silence. A trend that continues until we get back to Thornhill forty-five minutes later. While I clutch my vision board, my backpack with my laptop slung on my shoulders, he carries my duffle bag and guitar inside the house. He drops them by my feet in the middle of the entryway.
We share another awkward stretch of silence. That seems to be all we share. I try to quell the unnerving effect he has on me. It’s like a swarm of butterflies has migrated inside my body.
I finally manage some words. “Is there anything you want me to know about Adele? Any allergies? Food preferences? Favorite books? Games? TV shows?”
I must say I sound like a professional nanny. A solicitous one looking out for his young daughter’s best interests.
“Anything?” I repeat.
He looks at me coldly with his midnight-blue eyes. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Jane, I’ll level with you. I don’t know much about my daughter. In fact, you probably know more about her than I do. Please let me know if you need anything.”
With that, he heads to the staircase, leaving me alone with my few possessions. And a lot of questions.
He’s her father. How can he not know his own daughter? He doesn’t even seem to care about her. Or want to spend time with her.
I watch as he mounts the stairs and disappears. Out of sight; out of mind. My heartbeat returns to normal. I suppose I should settle into my new living quarters and then spend some time with Adele. Play with her. Read her a book. Watch TV with her. That’s what nannies do, right?
A familiar voice cuts into my thoughts.
“Is that you, dear?”
I turn my head. It’s Edwina and she’s sauntering my way. Pilote is meowing beside her.
She’s now clad in a chartreuse turban and a flowy chiffon print gown with batwing sleeves. It reveals her cleavage. She glances down at my duffle. Pilote circles around the bag, brushing his furry white body against it.
Her pencil-thin brows knit together. “Where are the rest of your bags? Has my godson brought them to the guesthouse?”
“This is all I have.” And silently add,And your cold, arrogant godson abandoned me.