My Son's Sitter

“Anyway, Winston, you want to show Stevie the basement?”

Turning my back on them, I dismiss her without another word. That already got way too close and casual for comfort. Business, that’s what this is.

I take refuge upstairs in my office. There, in the reassuringly wood-panelled and floored man cave, I get to work. This consists of what my free moments in the afternoons have lately consisted of: research — painstakingly pouring over my competitors’ products and my own ideas. Obviously, the world doesn’t need any more tickling giggling animals, as our waning sales have proven.

Absently, my fingers click over to the tab that is still up of Stevie’s profile. I stare at the blurred picture trying to figure out how those hazy lines could conceal such perfect proportions. I close my eyes and lean back groaning.

I need to calm the fuck down.

So what if Stevie Pierce turned out to be the hottest little thing I’ve seen in months? She’s my son’s nanny or will be if things work out. No way am I going to go down that road. Not like my dad did.

Besides, I have enough things to worry about. I click back to Walmart’s landing page, but that doesn’t help get my mind on track with what it should be thinking about.

No, all I can reflect on is how, as I stared at Stevie too long, thinking thoughts I shouldn’t have, she appeared to be doing the same thing…

After about fifteen totally useless minutes, I finally slink down the stairs, around the corner, and down the other stairs. I’m quiet.

“Little Green Panther,” that’s what my dad used to call me. Because, in my green Hulk pajamas, I could creep around our old mansion so quietly that no one could hear me until I was right behind them. I still couldn’t tell you what the reason was for my adept creeping about — if it was just an uncanny talent or if maybe it was due to an uncertainty that I was truly worthy of whatever ground I stepped on, but there it was. When I walked about, if I wanted to be, I could be as quiet as a mouse. It was how I caught dad and Miss Beach.

I shake my head. No way am I thinking about that now.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure neither Stevie nor Winston heard me as I silently padded down the steps. Now, unseen, I can see whether this new nanny is actually working out after all.

I huddle close to the wall to peer around the corner. My son and his nanny are seated cross-legged over by the big red toy box. They’ve got a big block set up going in front of them. Bright red, green, blue, and yellow blocks set up in some kind of… I inch closer… impressive palace / building.

Winston scoots what looks to be a little toy elephant around the premises, and they giggle.

I stare for a good long minute. Winston isn’t the most open of kids and certainly not one who’s quick to bond with strangers. And yet, there they are; my son and my new nanny. His head is tucked into the crook of her arm. The pair are giggling as if they’ve known each other for years.

The girl is good; I’ll give her that.

“Do you want to play?”

At Stevie’s impertinent voice, I step out of my hiding spot.

“Excuse me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” She says, smiling, “I’d be doing the same thing if it was my son. No need to apologize.”

Right now, she is leaning over their block creation, fastening a red roof block in place.

“I wasn’t going to,” I replied smoothly.

She pauses, peering her head up at me as if she’s unsure whether she should smile.

“Although I am impressed that you heard me,” I admit, sitting down in front of the Lego building.

Winston scrambles over to fling himself in my lap. We all laugh, and Stevie says, “Yeah, it’s a skill I picked up. Came in handy when I was little and my sister…”

Suddenly, all the laughter has died off her face. It takes me a few seconds to notice, since I’m busy wondering what other “skills” she possesses.

As Stevie shifts uncomfortably, I rip my gaze off her generous cleavage. Suddenly, Winston leaps up and races for the bathroom.

“Pee-pee time!”

Stevie and I exchange a smile as we watch him go.

“It’s going good so far?” I confirm.

The abruptness of my question seems to startle her. Smiling shyly, she still manages a nod.

“I love kids,” she confesses, “they really just say the stuff the rest of us are too afraid to.”

“Like pee-pee time,” I say, cracking a grin.

She grins herself, running the pink tip of her tongue over her upper lip. Her gaze lowers.

Is it just me or are we both wishing that we too were kids so we could say what we really felt right now?