She’s. Jackson’s. Nanny.
“What do you want for breakfast?” I ask Jackson, plugging in the coffee pot.
“Can you make bacon and eggs like Scarlet does?”
“Sure,” I say, internalizing my grimace. I’m no master chef, but I do try to eat healthy and I want Jackson to grow up with good eating habits like I did. And it makes working out worthless when I eat like shit anyway, so the Pop-Tarts and cereal mornings should be over.
Jackson watches cartoons while I cook, and I’m putting his plate on the table when Scarlet comes downstairs. Her hair is messy, and she has pillow creases on her face. My mind immediately jumps to her waking up in my bed, rolling over with that bed-head in my face. I’d slip my arm around her and bring her close, not ready to get up.
“Morning,” she says with a small smile and crosses the kitchen, going right for the coffee.
“Morning.” I pull the creamer out of the fridge. Her fingers brush over mine as she takes it from me, and the small touch is enough to send a jolt through me, going right to my cock. I need to get it the fuck together.
“How’d you sleep?” she asks Jackson, looking over her shoulder as she prepares her coffee.
“I stayed with Daddy. He kept me safe,” Jackson replies between bites of bacon. “The Tall Man didn’t come back, but I did see him standing outside your door.”
Scarlet’s face blanks. “Well, I’m going to be sleeping well tonight.”
I laugh, wishing I could give her a similar offer. My bed is open to anyone scared of the dark tonight.
“Are you still coming with us to Grammy’s tonight?” Jackson asks Scarlet.
She flicks her eyes to mine and in that half-second, the room fills with tension so thick it’s hard to breathe.
“Yeah,” she tells him with a smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.” Taking a sip of her coffee, she keeps her eyes focused on the floor in front of her. I pile bacon, eggs, and toast onto my own plate, and take another down from the cabinet for Scarlet.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“I’m always hungry in the morning.” With a smile, she sets her coffee down and starts to walk over to the stove. Her perky tits bounce slightly under her T-shirt and I need to turn around and stop looking for my own good.
“Want to play zombies after breakfast?” Jackson asks Scarlet.
“Today’s Scarlet’s day off,” I remind him gently. “She’s here but not really here.”
Jackson tips his head. “Huh?”
Scarlet laughs. “It’s okay. I don’t really have any plans other than showering and reading a chapter or two from my book.”
“Are there zombies in your book?” Jackson’s eyes widen.
“Actually, yes.” Scarlet fills her plate and joins us at the table. “It’s a romance set in the zombie apocalypse. It’s really good.”
“Can you read it to me?”
“When you’re older.” She smiles and then digs into her food. We eat in silence, and I’m a little jealous of the innocent way Jackson is completely oblivious to how fucking awkward things are right now.
“After breakfast, let’s go grocery shopping,” I tell Jackson, who groans in response. I’m sure Scarlet would appreciate a little time to herself, and Lord knows I need some time away. Or a cold shower.
Probably both.
Once everyone is done eating, Jackson goes back to his cartoons and Scarlet clears the table. She’s at the sink, washing dishes and I’m a few feet away from her cleaning the grease off the stovetop that splattered when I made bacon.
I need to say something. I pull the burner apart and wipe it down. I really need to say something. I put the clean burner back on and move onto the one behind it. Once that’s cleaned, I put the grates back on and start on the other side, even though it’s clean. I’m being fucking ridiculous. Has it been that long since I’ve had any sort of a connection to a woman? I can’t remember how these things go.
And I’ve also never almost slept with someone and then had to see them like this in the morning. It’s like some sort of tight-rope version of the Walk of Shame. I need to suck it up and tell her I enjoyed last night, I like her, but we have to keep things professional for Jackson’s sake.
“So, last night,” I start and at the exact same time she asks,
“Should I bring something to—sorry, what?”
I shake my head. “Go ahead.”
“Should I bring something to your parents’ tonight?”
“Nah, you don’t have to. I never do.”
She smiles and scrubs at the pan, trying to get the baked-on eggs off. “I’ve never done a family dinner like this before. I don’t know the etiquette.”
I know our family isn’t the norm. There’s seven of us, plus a few spouses and children now, and the fact that we get together once a week goes above and beyond what a lot of people do. But hearing her say she’s never done a family dinner takes me by surprise, and I know she’s not exaggerating the use of ‘never’ like so many people do.