Eleven
944 Words
Lisa
Zara's scream jerks me from the edge of sleep. I’m on my feet before I fully register what’s happening. She sits up, crying so hard she’s hiccupping.
"Hey, hey, it’s okay." I cross the room and sit on the edge of her bed, reaching for her carefully. "You’re okay. It was just a dream."
She clings to me, still gasping. I pull her into my lap and wrap my arms around her.
"Breathe with me, okay? In and out. Slow."
It takes a few minutes, but her breathing evens out. Her grip on my shirt is tight enough to whiten her knuckles.
"Do you want to tell me what you were dreaming about?"
She shakes her head.
"Okay. That’s fine."
We sit in silence.
"The monsters were here," she whispers, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes, face blotchy and wet. "They wanted to take me away."
My chest tightens. "There are no monsters here, sweetheart. I promise." I wipe her sweat. "Dreams can feel real, but they’re not."
She isn’t convinced. Something happened to her. Something bad enough to bleed into her sleep. I’m not trained for this. I hold her anyway.
"Can you stay?"
I glance at the clock. Two in the afternoon. "Of course."
She settles back against the pillows. I pull the blanket over her.
"You won’t let the monsters get me, right?"
"Never. I promise."
Her breathing slows. I stay until she drifts off. When I open my eyes, the light has softened. Late afternoon.
I check my phone. Five thirty. Missed calls from Maya.
"Girl, you better not be dead," her text reads.
I roll my eyes and call her back.
"Look who's alive."
"I fell asleep," I admit. "Zara had a nightmare. She kept saying there were monsters in her room."
"Trauma, right?"
"I know. I’m not digging. I’m just doing my job."
We talk for a while. Then:
"So how are you coping with the hot, sexy widowed billionaire?"
I groan. "Maya."
"Come on. Every day you see him. The man looks like a magazine cover. Nothing happening?"
I shove the thought down. "Nothing. He’s my boss. That’s it."
She hums, satisfied. I change the subject. "His family’s kind of awful. Zara’s nanny hates me. Omarion’s mom looks at me like dirt."
"Sounds about right."
I’m about to lie back down when the door opens.
Fuck.
Omarion stands there. Shorts barely covering me, T-shirt too thin. My face heats as his eyes sweep over me, linger, then meet mine. His mouth curves into that devilish smile.
"Don’t stop on my account," he says.
I yank the blanket around me, sitting hard on the bed. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking on my daughter." He steps inside, leaning against the door. I hate how my body responds.
"Every time I see you, I imagine you naked," he admits.
I freeze.
"I haven’t wanted anyone like this since my wife died," he says, voice rough. "You should feel lucky."
"I’m not interested."
"Why not?"
"Because I work for you."
"So?"
"So that’s inappropriate."
"I’m not asking you to marry me," he says. "I like what I see. I want you in my bed. It doesn’t have to be complicated."
"I need this job," I remind him.
He steps closer. "Whether you sleep with me or not has nothing to do with your employment. I’m a widower, Lisa. Can’t you help me have fun again?"
Because my mother sold herself for money, and it ruined her, I shake my head. "I just can’t."
He studies me, then abruptly shifts. "Patricia reported you," he says.
"She said you’re always on your phone and don’t pay attention to Zara."
"That’s not true."
"I know. She doesn’t like you. But my daughter is happy with you. That’s what matters."
Something in my chest loosens.
"Back to our earlier conversation," he says. "Changed your mind yet?"
Heat floods my face. "No."
"Pity." He’s gone.
I sit for a long minute, heart hammering. How many days left on this contract? Too many. Not enough. I need to get through this—and myself—before anything dangerous happens.
---
I need to keep busy. We make cookies.
The kitchen is empty. Zara climbs onto a stool, focused, little tongue out as she drops dough onto the sheet.
When the first batch comes out, she insists: "Papa! And Grandpa Douglas!"
"Okay. We’ll save some for them."
Douglas appears. Tall, thin, tired. He softens when he sees Zara.
"Cookies?" he asks.
"Yes!" she chirps.
He takes one, eyes wide. "Best cookie ever." He glances at me. "Thanks for making her happy."
"It’s my job."
"Still, I appreciate it."
He smiles, kind. "Are you a therapist?"
"No," I laugh. "I’ve never worked in daycare."
"Well, you’re doing a hell of a job."
"Douglas."
We both turn. Omarion’s mother, Vivienne Montgomery, is standing in the doorway, and the temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees.
"Don't talk to the help," she says coldly.
Douglas frowns, but he doesn't argue.
Zara shrinks back against me.
He gives me an apologetic look. Vivienne's voice drifts back in from the hallway. Vivienne looks at her granddaughter.
"Zara, honey, let's go for some ice cream."
Zara presses closer to me. "No. I want to stay with Lisa."
"I see." Vivienne's gaze shifts to me.
She leaves.
I stand there with Zara clinging to my side and remember the conversation I overheard days ago. Two women, I couldn't see who, talking in low voices about someone being a distraction.
We need to get rid of her before Beatrice arrives.
I look down at Zara, at the trust in her eyes.
- Writer
