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“She doesn’t know the meaning of bedtime,” I tell him. “I think she misses her mother.”
He nods and leans casually against the wall, the tie tucked under his tailored jacket and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. The jacket is unbuttoned, like he started undressing on the way to the servants’ quarters, his shift over.
“But the later she goes to bed, the more she sleeps through the night,” I admit, and he smiles, a bright smile that makes the dim hallway flicker a little.
“I’m James,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to be properly introduced.”
“Laila,” I tell him, reaching out, and he grasps my hand in his. His hand is warm and his grip is strong, not enough to cause me any distress but enough to hint at what he’s capable of. I catch a whiff of his cologne and it’s earthy, woodsy, like the pine forests of my childhood.
Damn. I knew he was good-looking already; I mean, there’s something about a bodyguard and the way they prowl and protect with utmost confidence that would make the most cynical person swoon, not to mention I’m a sucker for a guy with brooding dark looks, which I blame on an early obsession with Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre (who, in hindsight, is a bit of a problematic hero, but hey, we like what we like).
He lets go of my hand and nods down the hall. “Walk you home?”
I find myself biting my lip in coy response and nod. “Sure.”
My goodness, what the hell has come over me? I think back to my pep talk before I stepped into the hallway, the mantra I’ve been repeating to myself: You’re doing good, don’t mess it up (translation: the last thing I need to do is look all googly-eyed and hormonal the moment a handsome guy shows up in my life, especially if I’m working and living alongside said handsome guy).
I give my head an internal shake as we walk down the hall. I’m pretty tall, but walking beside him makes me feel like I’m in his shadow.
“So you’ve only been working here for about a week, right?” he asks, and I nod. “Where were you working before this?”
This should feel like small talk, but it genuinely sounds like he’s interested.
“I was a nanny for a high-profile diplomat in Sweden,” I tell him. “But they weren’t a great fit for me, so when my recruitment agency told me about the Fairfaxes, obviously I was interested. I’m still in shock that they actually picked me. The competition for this job was fierce.”
He holds open the French door at the end of the hall for me, and we step out into the night air. He wasn’t wrong about me working late; it’s dark outside save for a few fairy lights in the trees beside my quarters and the sconces lighting the path. The air smells like night-blooming jasmine and it’s pleasantly warm. The heat waves this July have had England melting all over the place, but you don’t really notice when you’re inside all day with the baby. Besides, where Primrose Cottage is, just outside London, some topography with the Thames and the surrounding hills makes it feel cooler than the city.
“Are you Swedish?” he asks. “You sound Swedish.”
“Norwegian, actually,” I tell him, trying not to get annoyed at being mistaken for a Swede since I can’t blame him for thinking so. “But my accent is a little morphed from working in so many different places over the years. I tend to mimic without realizing it.”
“Aye,” he says, his accent coming on thicker. “Wish I had that problem. When I worked in Belgium, I thought my brogue would lessen, but that isn’t the case with us Scots. Certainly not me anyway.”
I glance up at him, the lights casting shadows on his face, illuminating his features or casting them in dark relief. His jaw is angled, hard and sharp under a five-o’clock shadow, but his lips are soft and full. He is beautiful, and for a moment I feel like I’m a character in a movie and the director just told me to act smitten.
“I’ve always been a fan of the Scottish accent,” I tell him before looking away so that the light doesn’t show me being an utter simp for him. I clear my throat and focus on the stone path in front of us. “So how long have you been working for the Fairfaxes?”
“A few years,” he says. “I was with them when they moved to the island in Canada.”
“That must have been a trip,” I say. I remember that before Madeline was born, when Monica was being lambasted by the press simply for her Hollywood background and the color of her skin (though of course no one in the media would admit to the blatant racism), she and Eddie went overseas to a small island in British Columbia to escape the scrutiny. It seemed to work because after that I heard very little about them, like they finally got the peace they needed.
“It wasn’t London, that’s for sure,” James says. “I was more than happy to come back here. I need the city lights and the people to keep me going. Protection officers aren’t meant to relax.”
“That’s kind of sad in a way,” I tell him. “What do you end up doing for fun, then? I mean, you don’t work all the time. I know you have shifts with the others.”
When he doesn’t say anything I glance at him. He appears deep in thought, the light from the fairy lights making his eyes seem to glow. “Well, usually I try to make sure that I’m out and about when I’m not on duty. There’s a few pubs I like to visit, some friends I try to get a drink with when I’m off.”
“Must be hard to make friends as a bodyguard?”
“Aye,” he says, nodding. “It is. That’s why I think it’s important to try to get out and socialize when I can. I need the distraction. And you? Do you end up having much of a social life when you’re a nanny? Seems you work as many hours as I do.”
“I try not to,” I tell him. “I mean, I don’t know that many people here, and I don’t want to make enemies on my first week.”
He spits out a laugh that’s more of a bark. “Enemies, huh?”
I shrug, giving him a quick smile. I said it as a joke, but it’s kind of the truth. I imagine it would be hard to have a social life as a nanny, but I’ve always leaned into being a loner anyway. It’s easier that way when I feel I can’t let my guard down around people, and with my mask on, I still come across as odd sometimes, which makes making friends hard. Growing up in a tiny village where everyone not only knows your name but also what you eat for breakfast, I went from being Laila the Pitied (“Oh that poor girl, losing both her parents so young”) to Laila the Strange (“Oh that weirdo with her dark music and empty stare”). I was always branded as “different.” And if different stands out in a tiny village, you can imagine it stands out when you’re a nanny for a prestigious or royal family.
Which is why you better not view James as a friend, I remind myself, even though the way my body is reacting to him is not very friendlike.
