My Son's Sitter

Every time we go to a new room, it’s absolutely adorable. Winston gets a look on his face as if he’s seen God. Then, he proceeds to declare with a firm head nod:

“This is the best one!”

Wearing his little green dino boots, russet cords, and a stretchy green and black striped sweatshirt, I want nothing more to do than to sweep him up in my arms and give him a big hug. So, finally, I do.

Turning to Clayton, I ask “This outfit is the cutest! You dress him?”

“Of course I do,” He scoffs. One deep red brow quirks up.

“Why? You don’t think I dress myself as well as I do my own son?”

I let my gaze rest admiringly on him for a moment, before saying “no comment” with a wink.

Clayton steps forward so that our gazes are locked.

“Careful.”

There’s no joking tone in his words, although there is a taunting fire in his eyes.

Something between a gulp and a shiver passes through me. I’m definitely not imagining that I’m the only one aware of this attraction. But still, I haven’t forgotten how cold he went in the car there, similar to Wednesday. Whenever the conversation or anything took a turn that he didn’t like, he’d check out completely. Goodbye boyfriend. Hello iceman.

Not to mention that this whole dynamic is inappropriate anyway.

“Look,” I say, ripping my gaze off him as I place Winston back on the floor, turning to where Winston’s enthusiastic eyes are locked, “there’s a section where you can build your own Lego stuff.”

No sooner are the words out of my mouth than is Winston sprinting there. I follow him without looking at Clayton, although I can feel his eyes raking over me from behind.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him, beelining for the bathroom instead.

Tucked in the mint green colored stall, there, I try to get myself together. Nothing is happening, I remind myself. Not only would it be completely unprofessional, it would be completely stupid too.

This is my sister’s ex we’re talking about. And anyone who would date Helena clearly has some serious issues. Granted, they split up pretty fast, but still.

Not to mention that I need this job. How likely am I to land another one when one of my reviews says “Pretty good with the kid; even better in bed.”

Despite the circumstances, I chuckle darkly to myself. Soon, however, my mirthful smirk droops into a scowl. Anyway, it’s not like I have any idea what I’m doing. Good old virgin me.

Clayton would probably laugh outright if he found out the truth. So far, I’ve experienced the whole range of unfortunate male reactions, from outright disbelief, random chuckling, to sleazy offers.

I want no part of it. No part of hooking up with my boss and no part of having to deal with another awkward situation. I’ve had enough by this point to last me a lifetime, thank you very much.

Back outside, Winston and Clayton aren’t at the block-building station. A quick walk a bit further on, finds them at the food stand. They’re sitting in a nearby booth with a couple of extra-large Slurpees. When I sit down beside Winston, Clayton gestures to the Slurpee on the table beside his.

“Got this for you.”

He pauses, his uncertain gaze snaking to me as if he’s considering teasing that I can only have it if I sit beside him. His gaze stops on Winston, his frown deepens, and then he slides the Styrofoam cup over.

“Look dad,” Winston crows.

His blowing into the Slurpee produces several bubbles, which sends him into merry giggles.

“You think that’s something?” Clayton says, a grin wide on his face, “check this out.”

He lifts off the lid of his cup then dips his straw into the ice cubes on top of the Slurpee. Sucking one up, he lifts it out of the cup with his straw and then shoots it at me. I duck too late. It strikes me in the cheek while Winston claps his hands together, laughing.

Despite myself, I find myself laughing too.

“You think that’s something?” I say, reaching for Clayton’s Slurpee. Dipping my straw into it, my eyes never leaving his, I suck the straw up and down slowly until all his Slurpee is down my throat.

“She got you, dad,” Winston informs him, smiling out of his blue Slurpee-colored lips.

Clayton’s gaze still hasn’t left my lips.

“Yes,” he says in a low voice, “I guess she has.”

I rip my gaze away from him and focus it on my own Slurpee.

Nice work, Stevie, you jerk. With my straw, I nervously bash at the little purple crystals in the bottom of my cup. What did I just do, and what will be the consequences?

After we’ve exited Legoland, Clayton has some errands he wants to run at the grocery store and a nearby Staples.

“You don’t mind, right?” He asks me.