Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
“Ah,” he says. “Why romance?”
How the fuck is this relevant? I almost snap. But that would be a mistake.
“They’re a break from everyday life,” I say, shrugging, hoping he doesn’t make the obvious point that all fiction fits that description. “I guess they give me a perfect version of reality, too. But I like classics, too. And crime. I’ll read anything.”
“Emery reads a lot,” he says with evident fatherly pride. “She devours books. That’s why I asked. Maybe keep her away from romances, though,” he chuckles.
Okay, he’s laughing. Any awkwardness I imagined was probably in my head. I have to remember that this is one-sided. I’m the one looking at his corded arms, and my mind is trying to tug me to silly places. He’s not thinking about me that way or losing his head.
“I’ll encourage her,” I tell him. “I’ll take her to the library or the bookstore and help her discover her own relationship to books rather than forcing one on her. I believe all kids should have that, Mr., er Gray.”
Before he can reply, footsteps pitter-patter around the corner. I turn to see a girl with boundless energy, her eyes wide and bright, her hair black and slightly messy in an adorable way. “Oh, hello!” she says socially, sounding very precocious for a seven-year-old.
“Hello,” I say, smiling.
Gray says nothing. I’m not looking at him, but I can imagine him sitting back, taking in this moment. Is this the real interview?
“What’s your name?” the girl asks.
“Callie,” I tell her. “And yours?”
“Emery.”
“Can you spell it?”
She grins, seeming delighted. “Uh, yeah. It’s E-M-E-R-Y. Can you spell your name?”
I laugh. “Yes, it’s S-I-L-L-Y.”
She narrows her eyes, then giggles in the most adorable way. “No, that’s wrong! That’s ‘silly’!”
“Oh, silly me,” I say, and she laughs again. “Why don’t you spell it for me?”
“I can try.”
“I bet you’ll do great.”
She walks closer, full of that wonderful enthusiasm. There’s something so beautiful about seeing the world through the innocence and eagerness of a child. “C-A-L-L…Y?”
“Close,” I tell her. “Very close.”
“Wait.” She shifts from foot to foot. “C-A-L-L-I-E.”
“Yes! Well done.”
“Yippee.” She throws her hands up. “That’s really cool. Spelling is fun.”
My heart fills with warmth. The fact she can say something like spelling is fun without self-consciousness or cynicism means her upbringing has been very different from mine. If I’d said something like that, the kids at my school would’ve bullied me relentlessly for it.
“Why are you talking to my daddy?” she asks.
I glance at Gray, unsure how much he wants me to tell her. He’s got his chin resting on his closed fist like the famous statue, The Thinker. His dark eyes appraise me this time. He seems to be looking deeply inside of me—no, that’s romance-book stuff. That’s stuff I need to get out of my head. He gives a slight nod.
Turning back to Emery, I say, “I’m interviewing with your daddy to be your new nanny, Emery.”
“My old nanny was a witch,” she says, some of the brightness draining from her eyes. I wish I could find the woman capable of dimming this girl’s light and make her pay. “I said I was going to write a story about a walrus who could fly, and she said walruses can’t fly, and I had to write a boring story about a girl working at a bakery instead.”
“Why?” I ask.
“She said a girl should live in the real world. But I already do live in the real world. She thought I didn’t know that books and all this are different.” When she gestures at the garden, at reality, I get an image of her in a college lecture hall one day, leading a class. “Isn’t that funny?”
No. It’s sad. But I won’t tell her that. I won’t tell her that one of the reasons I became a nanny is because I’m all too familiar with grownups wanting to constrain kids, thinking they have the right to dictate to them, lock them in metaphorical cages, and control everything they do. “Did you write the walrus story?”
“Yeah!” She beams. “Do you want to read it, C-A-L-L-I-E?”
I glance at Gray again. This time, he’s not trying to hide his smile. His dark eyes glint, brightening up. Something other than this inappropriate-as-hell desire spikes in me. It’s a warm swelling, almost like I’m experiencing what I warned against—caring too much. As he looks at me, for a surreal moment, it’s like we’re a family. But it’s just because Emery is such a lovely little girl. She’s what makes the moment unique. He nods again.
“Sure,” I say. “That would be great.”
“Yippee!” She leans forward and grabs my hand, leading me into their house. Their home is huge, all gray brick, almost like a castle. I walk through wide, tall hallways covered in modern art, then turn a corner into a grand, two-story library. I pause, looking around in awe at all the books and the light coming in through the large windows.