And so the four of us spend a good thirty minutes running around the house trying to catch this cat. Alfonso has his squirt gun, Annabella has a hairbrush, and I wave spatulas around like some crazy cook who wants to make cat for dinner. Eventually we’re able to drive the finicky feline out the open doors. It’s only as the cat runs off into the gardens that Annabella says, “Oh, that is Nero.”
“Nero?” Derio repeats.
“Yes, Felisa would give him milk sometimes.”
Derio and I exchange a look. These kids were a few saucers away from having a pet cat?
After all the excitement dies down it takes a while to get the kids back into bed and asleep. I can’t blame them. Even though I have to be up early to make breakfast and take them to school, it’s two a.m. and I’m not tired at all.
“Would you like a, how do you say, nightcap?” Derio asks me as I’m about to walk up the stairs and back to my room after putting a few glasses away in the dishwasher; taking a cue from the cat, I gave warm milk to the twins in hopes it would make them sleepy. It worked.
I raise my brow. “You’re still in your underwear.”
“Does that bother you?”
I try not to smile. “Not at all.” Nope, definitely not at all.
“Bene,” he says and he gestures for me to follow him. He goes into his office and I feel a little bit of a thrill. For once I’m actually being invited in here.
He tugs on the pull-chain of the green lamp on his desk and then pulls a chair toward the desk. “Sit, please,” he says, as if this is some formal business meeting in our sleeping attire.
I do so and then look around the room while he takes a bottle of scotch out from underneath his desk and pours some into two glasses. He hands me one with a wink and then sits down in his chair.
“You like this room,” he notes.
I nod, taking it all in now that I can. It’s so dark but even then it’s not spooky. It’s just perfect, all the dark wood and the books and the possibilities. “I’ve always loved libraries,” I admit. I take a sip of my drink. “This one kind of reminds me of Beauty and the Beast. Especially because you have that ladder over there. I’ve always wanted to swing on one like Belle did.”
“You are definitely the beauty,” he says. I can feel his eyes burning on my skin and I feel too shy to meet them. “And I am definitely the beast.”
His voice sounds so despondent over the last word that I can’t help looking at him. He’s staring at me but remorsefully now.
“You aren’t a beast,” I reassure him. “Now, the cat that attacked you, he was a beast.”
He gives me a quick, small smile. “Yes, he certainly was.” He licks his lips and leans in against the desk, his gaze more intense. “How are you, Amber?”
“Right now?”
He nods.
“I’m okay. Worried that I won’t get enough sleep but I’ll manage.”
“And how have you been these past two weeks? As nanny.”
I lean back in the chair and swirl the golden liquid around my glass, watching it as it goes. “It’s not been easy but I think I’m doing okay. I feel bad for the kids for having to put up with me.”
“I think you’re doing wonderful,” he says, voice soft.
I give him a half smile. “That’s because you’re never around, which means you’re never around to see me screw up.”
“I’m around,” he says. “More than you think.”
I exhale and adjust myself in the chair. “Yes, well it will be a lot better once we get the new nanny.” I pause. “You are still looking, right?”
He nods. “Of course. There just haven’t been any applications.”
“Really?”
He takes a long gulp of his drink and I’m amazed he doesn’t choke on it. He seems to absorb the burn. “Yes. No one has applied. I will keep my hopes up.”
I stew on that for moment and make a note to stop by the bar tomorrow and check in with Shay to see if she’s found anyone. We posted an advertisement there similar to the one I had found at the café in Positano.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask after I finish my drink and am feeling more confident.
“Yes,” he says somewhat warily.
“What do you do in here all day long?”
He looks stunned that I asked that point-blank. But since we’re in the office in question and he’s in his underwear and we’re drinking scotch, I figure why not.
“I’d rather not say,” he says.
“Why not?”
His brows furrow in annoyance. “It is personal.”
Damn. It’s really hard to make something your business when someone tells you it’s “personal.”