“That’s pretty cool,” I answer, earning a wide smile from him as he nods.
We take the elevator all the way up to the top floor and then Ryan gives me the key from his backpack to unlock the door. Together, we step inside, but as he traipses off toward the biggest television that I’ve ever seen, my jaw drops to the floor in surprise.
“What the hell?” I whisper, my words getting away from me.
At least they make the little boy giggle. His hands fly to his round cheeks. “Miss Davis, you said a bad word!”
I ignore Ryan’s taunt. “Is this place always like this?” I ask, taking in the mess before me.
Piles of dirty clothes cover the floor, dishes and old takeout boxes litter the countertops, toys and football gear are strewn about. You can barely take two steps anywhere without kicking over an empty box or a pile of toys. It’s like a tornado whirled through here or a burglar ransacked the place.
“Yup,” Ryan says with another laugh. “Uncle Jake says this is what a man cave looks like.”
He puffs out his little chest and it’s my turn to laugh. Things are about to change around here.
“Seems like this man cave needs a womanly touch,” I shoot back, grinning when Ryan tilts his curious head.
Chapter 11
Jake
I run up the stairs to the apartment faster than I ran any drills during training today, practically throwing my body against the door to push it open. Stacy is inside waiting for me, and after everything that I’ve dealt with recently, all I really want is to see her face.
For a split second when I step that first foot through the door, I'm almost convinced I’ve barged into the wrong apartment.
The fragrance of roasted tomatoes and garlic and something earthy—basil?—wafts through the air. Still frozen in shock, I breathe in deeply, my stomach rumbling, as my eyes take in the spotless floors and clean walls. Someone has deep cleaned the apartment. I haven’t seen my floors in such a long time I don’t remember what they look like.
“You alright?” Stacy’s familiar voice calls.
Dazed, I follow the sound of clinking dishes and running water to the kitchen. She stands at the sink, her brown curls piled atop her head as she dries a dish.
“Yeah, I just . . . wow,” I murmur, sinking onto a barstool.
I look around, rubbing my eyes still unable to believe how amazing my place looks. It hasn’t looked like this since I bought the flat. I lean against the counter, marveling at the polished granite surface. The framed picture of Jenny and Ryan that sits nearby has been dusted and Jenny looks even more beautiful than ever without that thin layer of grime covering her olive-toned skin.
Stacy doesn’t look at me, focusing back on cleaning the dishes. Her movements are a bit sharp with justifiable irritation.
I clear my throat, smiling. “This place looks brand new. You did all this?”
“I had a lot of time,” Stacy shoots back.
I don’t miss the jab. It’s deserved. It took me forever to get away from the reporters. But the last thing I wanted was for them to follow me here. I had to wait them out.
At least it gave me time to shower and shave.
“Where’s Ryan?” I ask as Stacy slides open the oven and pulls a warm plate piled high with marinara, noodles and meatballs out and lays it in front of me. “Getting in one last round of Xbox or something?”
Stacy stares at me from over the plate, her brows pinching together.
“He’s in bed, Jake. It’s already after nine.”
“This early?” I laugh. “Wow, I'm surprised you convinced him to go to bed.”
She continues to stare at me, her brow furrowing as the clock on the wall ticks on. I clear my throat again, a nervous habit. I'm just making her more irritated now.
“He’s six. This is not early,” says the brunette beauty in a clearly displeased tone.
“Oh,” I answer blankly.
“You really have no idea how much sleep a kid his age should get, do you?” she asks.
My shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “When I was his age, Jenny and I used to stay up practically all night.”
“No wonder he’s exhausted half the time he comes to class,” she mutters. “How late do you normally put him to bed?”
“He goes to sleep whenever,” I answer while shoveling a meatball between my lips. It’s delicious, rich and tender, practically melting on my tongue.
I can’t remember the last time I had a meal like this. Neither Jenny nor I cooked much growing up. We didn’t have the funds for much more than Ramen noodles. And when I made it big, I didn’t have any reason to cook. I lived on takeout.
I bite back a moan and take another big bite, not even caring that marina drips onto my shirt. Stacy shakes her head, but I see she’s fighting a smirk. At least the tension has started easing some.
“You act like you haven’t eaten in years,” she says.
“I haven’t, not something like this anyway. It’s amazing. You’re amazing,” I add before I can help it, gesturing at the clean apartment and the homecooked meal.
I can’t tell if it’s the dim light, the heat of the stove, or a blush that reddens the beautiful teacher’s face. I could stare at that face all night, all day—forever.
The thought passes through my mind so abruptly that I clamp my teeth painfully down on the silver fork between my lips.
“It’s just spaghetti and meatballs,” Stacy says dismissively. “It was all I could whip up with things I found in your pantry and freezer.”
“If this is something you just whipped up then I'm dying to see what you can do with a full fridge.” Half my plate is gone already and I'm still craving more. “You want a beer or something?” I ask as I walk to the fridge.
“I don’t normally drink on weeknights, but . . . sure. We need to talk.”
I can’t help but wince. That’s never good. Losing my appetite, I grab us two beers from the fridge. I pop them both open and pass her one. We both take the time for a hearty glug before staring at one another from the barstools where we’re perched.
“I really appreciate you taking care of Ryan today,” I say quietly while Stacy visibly ponders her words.
If she’s taking this much time figuring out what she needs to say, then I'm in deep trouble. Maybe Ryan was rude to her like he’s been to the other nannies and she’s decided to call it quits already without even taking him to his Thursday practice. If that’s the case, he and I really are up the creek without a paddle.
She sighs, takes another gulp of beer, and sets down the nearly empty bottle. I'm impressed by how fast the girl can chug. I probably wouldn’t even be able to match her in my college days.
“Things need to change, Jake,” she says in a rush of words that jumble together. She stares imploringly into my eyes. “This isn’t good for Ryan. None of this. Skipping out on things that are important to him, being tailed by paparazzi, surviving on takeout, living in filth despite your beautiful apartment . . . this isn’t how you raise a kid. Ryan needs better. He needs you to be better.”
I swallow hard, knowing she’s right even though every word is like a dagger to the heart. I stare down into my lap. While she’s done with her beer, mine’s hardly touched.