Page 57 of The Big Puck

Shooting up to a sitting position, I hold myself back from running down to his room to insert myself into their conversation—since I seem to be the main topic, why shouldn’t I?—and tell him he’s a big fat liar. He feels the connection between us. I know he does.

I’m soooo his type. But he’s an emotional chickenshit and can’t bring himself to admit it.

They’re pounding down the stairs now, their argument and their relationship coming to an end. Where does that leave me? Still waiting in the wings as the untouchable nanny, pining after her baby-daddy boss who has more baggage than a Samsonite factory. I feel like such a cliché.

* * *

Coffee ready, my fingers shake as I pour a cup for him in his travel mug and then one for me. Without waiting for it to cool for even a millisecond—because I got exactly zero winks of sleep last night—I take a big gulp as if it’s going to calm my nerves. Hah. Nothing—except maybe another kiss from Spence and his reassurance that his words last night meant nothing and that the kiss meant as much to him as it did me—will calm my nerves.

But since I’m no chicken, not deep down, I’m going to confront him and get it over with. If I’m first to say we should put the kiss behind us because it’s true as much as my lady parts wish it wasn’t, then I’ll be in control and won’t feel so…so out of sorts and nervous and so not like me, discouraged. To counteract the ball of uncomfortable emotions—the kind I don’t know what to do with because even when I slammed the door on Moe, I never felt like this—I need to take charge.

With Moe, it felt like I was ending a chapter and ready to move on to my next chapter. Even when I resigned my kindergarten job and said goodbye to all my dear friends—temporarily, of course, because they’ll always be there—I didn’t feel this pit in my gut and how it bobs up into my throat every now and then.

There’s something about Spencer Logan that gets to me so deep down that it defies all understanding and logic. That can’t be good, can it? Not even if Aunt Hildie thinks otherwise. She’s thinking of what’s good for Spence, but even then, it’s hard to believe she’s right and I’m actually good for him.

That’s not the vibe I’m getting from him, not based on his words and his scowl, anyway. I take another slower sip of my coffee, and when I look up, there he is, standing on the threshold to the kitchen, staring at me with those intense gold-flecked eyes like he’s wondering how to get past me to the back door without interacting. I almost laugh—not the ha-ha kind.

Instead, I hold out his mug of coffee with a miraculously shake-free hand.

Spencer mutters something that might be thank you and takes the coffee, face tight and stoic, eyes intense and aimed at my lips—because I’m not smiling, that has to be why. I put on a grin. It’s not entirely fake, but I feel like a clown. Shit. Just get it over with.

“Before you go, I want to talk to clear the air between us. You’ll be gone for three days, and if you leave without us talking, I don’t think I’d be able to take not knowing where I stand all that time.”

His face changes, though not for the better, unless the worried frown he’s giving me now is better than the intense-scrutiny frown.

“You stand in the same place you always did, Lainey.” His voice is rusty and tired, and my belly pitches at the idea that maybe he didn’t get much sleep, either. He puts his mug down and runs a hand through his hair, gazing at the baby monitor. “You’re here to take care of Krissy, not me. I can take care of myself. I have hockey to keep me focused.”

I nod, my heart melting and crying in protest at his brave words because he’s so wrong. Nothing’s changed in my mission as far as I’m concerned. I’m still determined to do whatever it takes to lighten his life, lighten his load, and make the man smile, damn it.

“I don’t know why you think you can separate caring for Krissy from caring for you. You’re a family unit, and your well-being is connected at the most basic level.”

He grunts and picks up his coffee to take a long sip as if he’s considering my words. “Then I better do a good job of taking care of myself, which means I need to avoid tangling myself up in complicated relationships. You may have guessed by her absence that Shonda left.”

I snort. “In the dead of night. Of course, I know. I’m not deaf.” He almost smirks. I smirk back at him. Then because I’m a stickler for full disclosure, I blurt, “I heard every word.”

Silence drops like the heavy thud of overstuffed baggage. He stares in disbelief, and his face—no, his entire body—tightens, coiling up like he needs to keep whatever’s inside him locked down when it’s desperately trying to escape.

“I’m sorry. Don’t read anything into whatever you heard. It changes nothing…between us.”

These heart palpitations should have me worried as I reflexively raise a hand to my chest and work hard to figure out what the hell he means by it changes nothing between us because that’s the exact crux of the problem. What the hell is it we have between us anyway?

“Continue,” I say.

His face goes all puzzled, with deep furrows lining his forehead and his eyes trying to read my mind. I know how he feels because I can’t read his mind either.

“What?” One word. Of course—why use a sentence when one word will do?

“You said nothing’s changed between us, Spence, but that’s the exact mystery—what exactly is there between us? And don’t say nothing because that’s crap, because you wouldn’t have kissed me if that were true.”

He looks down and mutters. “Fuck.” He heaves a breath and takes a swig of his coffee like it’s a shot of whiskey before he faces me again. “The kiss—I’m sorry. It was a mistake.”

Shit. I was supposed to be the one who said that. Then maybe this stabbing sensation wouldn’t hurt so much.

“You sure about that?” I don’t believe him. “You sure there’s not some reason, something between us that might have instigated the kiss?”

“You instigated the kiss. I…find you attractive—but that doesn’t change anything. We have no relationship. You’re Krissy’s nanny—temporarily. You’re the sister of my best player.”

“We aren’t friends?” I say with a firm voice like I’m cross-examining him, trying to trip him up. I think Aunt Hildie would be proud.