Operation Cinderella (4 page)

“Your practicum was in Early Childhood Education and yet in your e-mail you said the family you just got through working for has teenagers.”

She snapped up her gaze. “Yes, that’s right, although Chloe was in middle school when I started.” Chloe was the name she’d picked for her future daughter back when she’d still believed in real-life Happily Ever Afters. “I’ve found that teens are the age group I enjoy working with the most.”

He regarded her beneath a slightly raised brow. “Why is that?”

Damn, why couldn’t she have kept K.I.S.S. sacred? Stalling, she sipped more water. “Well, I suppose because it’s…it’s such a confusing time for kids and yet a magical one, too. Or at least it should be. Watching them transform into young adults and helping them make that transition successfully is something I find really challenging but really rewarding, too.” She thought about tossing in a butterfly analogy but then reminded herself that when it came to lying, less really was more. “And I suppose I have a personal stake, too.”

“How’s that?” His voice hadn’t raised so much as a decibel and yet she sensed the shift in him, the wariness.

She answered honestly. “My sister, Pam, is a sophomore in high school. If nothing else, I suppose that brings home to me just how hard it is to be a kid these days.”

She hadn’t seen Pam since her last disastrous trip home for the holidays nearly two years ago. The fireworks she and her folks had raised had made it feel more like the Fourth of July than Christmas. Her dad had accused her of ruining the holiday for everyone by leaving early, but cutting out before the situation got any worse had seemed like the best present she could give all of them, herself included.

The lump lodging at the back of her throat warned it was time to get a lot less real. “But look at me going on and on when you’re the one who’s literally written the book on the subject.” She reached into her leather bag and pulled out the hardback she’d brought along.

Raising Sane Kids in an Insane World
wasn’t going to put Nora Roberts out of business, but the prose was livelier and better crafted than she’d expected. For an academic, Mannon wasn’t a half bad writer, assuming he hadn’t hired someone to ghost. Regardless, his thinking was all wrong.

“I finished it on the trip down. I was hoping you might autograph it for me—if it’s not too much trouble.”

Silent until now, the kid rolled her eyes and hissed, “Suck up,” beneath her breath.

Ignoring her, Macie slid the book across the table toward Mannon.

She’d expected him to preen but if anything he looked almost…embarrassed. “Sure, I’d be happy to.”

He pulled an expensive looking fountain pen from his jacket pocket, along with an eyeglass case, and opened the book to the title page. When he slid on the wire frames, Macie found herself forgetting to breathe. She’d never before thought of glasses as sexy, but on Ross Mannon, they definitely were. The scratching of the pen across the page filled the silence, and Macie was grateful for the time to gather herself. She took another long drink of water, feeling as though she’d just logged in too many minutes in a sauna—dry-mouthed and lightheaded enough to make her glad she was sitting down. When she looked up, she caught the kid smirking. If a fifteen-year-old could see through her it was obvious she was blowing this interview big time.

“Here you go.” He pocketed the pen and handed her the closed book.

“Thank you.” She tucked the signed book back into her bag just as their waitress returned with their drinks and appetizer.

Samantha took one look at the plate of stuffed skins and shoved it away. “They have bacon on them. I hate bacon. Chopped up chunks of some poor innocent pig—gross!”

“Suit yourself.” Mannon offered the plate to Macie. “Samantha sees herself as a vegetarian, except she eats raw fish. Go figure.”

The girl glared at him. “I
am
a vegetarian and the sushi I eat is the veggie kind.”

Why she felt the need to intervene Macie couldn’t say, but staring back into Samantha’s face, the angry eyes suspiciously bright, something touched her. The tough act was just that, an act, and having once been in a similar place, she couldn’t stop wondering what exactly Samantha Mannon was working so hard to wall herself off from.

In a show of solidarity, she admitted, “I don’t eat much pork myself, but look, it’s just sprinkled on the top. You can pick it off. I’m going to.” To demonstrate, she served herself a potato wedge and brushed off the crumbled bacon with the tines of her fork.

Samantha watched with narrowed eyes, and then with the suddenness of a rainbow appearing, she snapped upright. “That’s a great idea.” Beaming, she reached for the plate and served herself not one but two skins. Dodging her father’s scowl, she ignored her cutlery and brushed off the bacon with her fingers. “Miss Gray, would you please pass me that ketchup over there?”

“Certainly.” Macie handed her the bottle, wondering if the kid might be bipolar and her meds had just now kicked in.

Samantha twisted off the cap and upended the bottle over her plate. “Sure is slow.” She slapped at the glass bottom.

Mannon reached for the condiment. “Here, honey, let me help you.”

Holding the uncapped bottle at an angle, Samantha shook her head. “No thanks, Daddy, I’ve got it.”

Macie looked up just as the ketchup missile struck, a sloppy wet scarlet slap on her left breast.

“I am
so
sorry, Miss Gray.” Gaze glittering, Samantha plunged a napkin into her water glass and popped up from her seat toward Macie.

“Oh, no you don’t…I mean, no thanks. I can take it from here.” Macie snatched the dripping napkin out of the kid’s hand.

“Samantha, sit down.” Mannon’s command, edged with real anger, had his daughter dropping back into the booth.

“Gosh, I hope that isn’t real silk.” The kid could barely stifle her smile.

The tailored blouse was not only 100 percent silk but also one of Macie’s recent purchases from Ann Taylor—and not from the sale rack. Using what was left of the water in her glass to dampen a corner of her napkin, she caught the glob before it could drop into her lap and take out her skirt, too.

Blotting the stain and gritting her teeth, she forced herself to say, “Don’t worry about it, Samantha.
Accidents
happen.”

Accident, my ass.
The little monster had meant to slime her, taking aim with the precision of a paintball enthusiast. Macie met Mannon’s gaze. Beneath the obvious parental mortification laid a fleeting look of fear.
He knows she did it on purpose, too, and he’s asking himself what that means.

He shook his head, looking so stressed she almost felt sorry for him—almost. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Gray. Send me the dry cleaning bill and I’ll take care of it. Better yet, let me replace it.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

Surveying the damage, she saw the water had rendered her plunging white silk push-up more or less transparent. Her shirt stuck to her skin, showing through to the lace edging of her bra and perhaps to her “true colors,” too. The bra and panties were the only clothing articles on her body that still let her be herself. She’d thought expressing herself through sexy underwear would be safe. Not so much, it seemed.

“Look, Daddy, its soaked right through to her…uh…bra.” Samantha’s gaze shot from Macie’s boobs back to her face. Flicking aside messy bangs, she added, “Don’t you worry, Miss Gray, you tell us your size, and we’ll pick you up a nice new one from the Victoria’s Secret over there in Union Station, won’t we, Daddy?”

“Samantha, settle down!” Mannon, his color high, grabbed for the girl’s arm, pulling her back down into the booth when she would have risen.

Taking in the byplay, Macie decided Samantha Mannon was either the biggest brat on the planet or a poster child for Ritalin—only time would tell. Either way, having your kid mouth off in public before a total stranger would try the patience of any parent, but for a self-styled child-rearing expert like Ross Mannon it must be torture—or in this case, just desserts. So why couldn’t she shake feeling sorry for him?

Macie was about to excuse herself to the ladies’ room when the waitress showed up with their meals. She took one look at Macie’s blouse and promised to bring back some club soda for the stain.

Macie looked down at her lunch of lettuce heaped with strips of hot fried chicken, olives, and hardboiled egg, and felt her stomach flip. The prospect of spending the next six weeks in the thick of the Mannon family’s dysfunction suddenly seemed a lot more like enrolling in boot camp than taking on a journalistic assignment.

Mannon didn’t look so hungry himself. “I’m going to get you that club soda.” He whipped the napkin off his lap, tossed it on the seat, and slid out of the booth.

Across from her, Samantha attacked her fries with the gusto of a reality TV contestant who’d lived off worms for weeks. Left alone with her, Macie couldn’t resist asking, “Aren’t you forgetting the missing ingredient?” She tapped the ketchup bottle with her newly shortened, clear-polished nail.

The kid looked up, gaze glinting with what must be pure evil. “No thanks. I never touch the stuff.”

.

“Sundaes for dessert, Miss Gray? Only, if Samantha asks for the bottle of chocolate syrup, I’d think twice,” Mannon said with a chuckle, pushing his cleaned plate to the side.

Macie felt herself smiling back. Since returning with club soda and extra napkins, her prospective employer had managed to restore them to good spirits—everyone but Samantha.

“Duly warned,” she answered, cutting the kid a look.

Sullen gaze on her picked-over plate, Samantha didn’t join in, not that Macie expected otherwise. Clearly her plan to sabotage the interview had failed—so far. If anything, the ketchup incident had leveled the playing field. Macie felt sure Mannon would have questioned her more closely if it hadn’t been for his daughter’s bad behavior. Far from grilling her, he seemed to be pulling out all the stops on the charm while keeping his gaze trained on the terrain
above
her shoulders. Once or twice, though, she thought she’d caught that deep blue gaze dipping. That he might be checking her out, not as a housekeeper or nanny but as a woman, should have offended her. It should have…only it didn’t. Then again, her whole purpose in coming here was to prove he wasn’t the squeaky clean conservative he portrayed. If showing him her chest hastened that happening, then she’d gladly spring for Samantha Mannon’s next piercing—and toss in a dragon tattoo.

After paying the bill, Mannon looked at her and said, “I’d like to swing by the apartment and give you a quick tour, if that’s okay. That way you can check out the place for yourself and evaluate the perks.”

“The perks?” she echoed, wondering what she’d missed.

He nodded. “My TV flat screen is a full sixty-five inches and my cable package is deluxe. It includes the classic film channel, I swear it,” he added with a smile.

She might be dressed like an angel but thinking of Mannon in terms of “inches” and “packages” had her demon heart beating double time. And though warmed by his reference to their unexpectedly delightful phone chat about old movies—Zach had refused to watch anything older than the eighties—it was clear there was only one answer she could give.

“Sure, I’d like that. I turn into a pumpkin at five, though, when my train leaves.” She’d bought her return ticket in advance and not only because it was cheaper. Since launching Operation Cinderella, like that fairy-tale princess, she always had an eye on the exit.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her, “I promise I’ll have you back in plenty of time.”

They left the restaurant and headed to Union Station, where Mannon’s car was parked, Samantha straying ahead. Glad to be outside again, Macie savored the sunshine on her face. Unlike urban dense Manhattan, DC boasted ample open space as well as warm weather for much of the year.

She’d fallen in love with the capital city when she’d first arrived as a freshman. Had it really been eight years? Biking along the Potomac, picnicking beneath the cherry blossoms, seeing the restored
Lawrence of Arabia
at Cleveland Park’s iconic Uptown Theater were fond if faraway memories.

The light changed to “No Walk,” and they halted at the curb. Mannon asked, “You come back here much?”

She turned and looked up at him. Even tall and wearing heels, she was shorter than he by several inches. “This is the first time I’ve been back since graduation,” she admitted. “I suppose I’m a little lost in nostalgia.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up in a sexy half smile and his deep blue gaze fixed on her face. “You strike me as kind of young for nostalgia.”

She caught his amused expression and tried to feel pissed-off, but it was no use. He was too freakin’ charming, too unflappably good-natured. “It depends on how you measure time, I guess.”

His gaze lingered for a moment more, the unblinking brush of his blue eyes doing funny, fluttery things to her insides. “I reckon you have a point.”

Reckon
. Exactly when had she landed smack dab in the middle of a
Bonanza
re-run? But delivered in his slow, syrupy drawl, the quaint expression sounded not so much out-of-touch as sexy.

Very sexy.

Ahead, a scowling Samantha slouched at the fountain in front of the station, shifting from foot to foot in obvious impatience. A shadow crossed his face. “Sometimes I look at Sam, and I can’t figure out where the years have gone. Other times, I feel the weight of every day like it’s a year.”

According to his website bio and Wikipedia entry, he was thirty-four, eight years older than she. Still, thirty-four was young. It seemed, though, that he must not feel it. “I know,” she found herself admitting, and the weird thing was she actually
did
know. She might be newly twenty-six, but since turning sixteen and coping with all the crap that had gone down during that pivotal, disastrous year, she’d felt older than her age—a world-weary soul locked inside a young woman’s body. Wearing edgy clothes and makeup was like putting a patina over the pain—it held in the hurt but also kept more from seeping in. Now and for the next six weeks, that buffer would be gone.