I am such a weirdo.
Flipping my long hair over a shoulder, I head downstairs and pause on the landing, the faint sound of music coming from the kitchen. I find an iPod that's distinctly not mine sitting on the table, pop music trickling softly from the speakers.
When I pick it up, I find a god-awful playlist with Britney Spears on it. Who listens to Britney Spears anymore anyway? My mouth twitches as I flick my thumb down the playlist and find several other atrocities against mankind: Beyonce, Bruno Mars, Miley Cyrus. Ewww.
“Aw, cool beans! You got my iPod.”
A tattooed hand shoots over my shoulder and snatches the MP3 player from my hand as I whirl and find myself chest to chest with Zayden.
“What the … you can't just come in like that!” I say, my heart beating in my throat as I realize I can feel the warmth of his body from here. He even smells good, like blackberries and cinnamon. I swallow hard as he looks down at me with a confused pucker to his mouth.
“Huh?”
“You … left, and then you came back. That means you have to knock.” I ease myself along the length of the table and slip away from him. Being that close to him makes me remember yesterday, and I think that's a memory best left forgotten. “Seriously.”
“Ooookay,” he says as he taps his iPod against the shaved side of his head, green eyes focused on my face with a perplexed expression. “Will do, Mistress.”
“Mistress?”
“Isn't that what nannies call the lady of the house? Close enough, right?”
He pokes me in the forehead with a tattooed finger.
“Got the kids in the car. Gotta run, Smarty-Pants.” Zayden gives me a stupid boy scout salute and turns on his heel, lifting his iPod up over his shoulder in a wave.
I wait until he leaves out the front door for the second time before I reach up and touch a hand to my cheek. Holy crap. I really am blushing.
Better be careful with this guy. He doesn't just smell like fruit and home … he smells like trouble.
And I am so allergic to that.
The next morning goes a lot smoother. I get the girls to school on time and manage to make it to class with minutes to spare, sliding into a seat before the professor even gets to the room. Of course, week two and I'm pretty sure this course is going to kick my ass, but it feels good to be here. I'm twenty-two; this is where I'm supposed to be.
I work really hard not to think about tonight.
Or about Zayden Roth.
For some reason, my mind is desperate to conjure up images of his rock-hard body, his colorful kaleidoscope of tattoos, all those weird goofy mannerisms of his.
After class, I head home with metal music thrashing around my shitty old car, tapping my hands on the steering wheel in time to the drums, wishing I was back in Berkeley on my way to a party or a club or something.
Well, I will be on my way to a club tonight. Only this time, it's gonna be me who's the entertainment.
My mouth purses tight and I swallow hard, pulling into my driveway to find … Zayden waiting for me. What the hell is it with this guy?
I climb out of the car and find him dancing to Lady Gaga with the baby giggling on his shoulder. The minivan door is wide open and the music is blasting into the yard as he swings his hips to “Bad Romance” and sings the lyrics. I expect him to stop when he sees me, but he doesn't. In fact, it doesn't even look like he's embarrassed.
If I were him, I sure as hell would be.
I cross my arms over my chest as he bounces the baby in a gentle rhythm and turns in a circle, foot tapping to the music as I glance over my shoulder. But nope. There are no neighbors around right now; they're probably all at work or something.
One eyebrow raises up as I study Zayden in his red Dr. Martens and his black skinny jeans, his hands this vibrant splash of color against the baby's peach onesie. Fuck, I hate this song, but … the whole scene is kind of … cute?
“What are you doing here?” I ask when the song ends and Zayden smiles over at me, oozing confidence and don't-give-a-shit swagger. He literally looks like he could not care one crap less about what anyone thinks of him. How did this guy ever get hired as a nanny? But then I see the gentle but firm way he cradles the little girl against his chest, the kindness of his eyes buried behind all those piercings and tattoos.
I guess it's not such a far stretch. I mean, I hired him. Only … I'm not paying him any money.
“I don't need you until nine or so,” I say, but he gestures with his chin at the car and the duffel bags in the back. I hear a hiss from somewhere inside and assume he's got his cat with him again.
“Cops busted a neighbor at one of the other duplexes for drugs. There are police everywhere; it's fucking chaos over there. Figured I'd stop by early if you don't mind? If it's too much trouble, we can camp out here.”