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Chapter 8
Madison
I roll the stupid NDA in my hands as we walk out into the hallway, all the while wondering if I should just keep going and walk right out the front door.
I’ve done my best not to gawk at him since I found my eyes locked on his muscled ass all the way up the damn stairs. He had to have caught me staring at some point. Why else would he have me sign an NDA?
Embarrassment heats my cheeks as he leads me deeper into the house. I eye the stairs but find that I’m drawn to him like a magnet and can’t go right when he goes left.
“Cale and Cole have these four rooms over here,” he says, as if it’s completely normal for four-year-olds to have the same square footage most people have in their entire house. “They share a bedroom, and most mornings I find them in the same bed together.”
He steps inside a room, sweeping his hand up the wall to flip on the light.
Surprisingly, the beds they have are matching twin-sized, each with the blankets ruffled but pulled up in a way that tells me the boys made them themselves. It softens my opinion a little to know they don’t have someone coming in to do that for them. I couldn’t imagine the personalities they’d have if they were waited on hand and foot.
“They always make their beds?”
He scoffs. “I wish. We’re working on it, but they often need a reminder. Same with brushing their teeth. Over here is the play area Dad and I are working on when we get a break from the store.”
“Still closed on Sundays and Mondays?”
“Yeah. You’ll have those two days off. I spend as much of my off time with them as I can. We’d be able to get more business if we were open seven days a week, but Dad doesn’t want to hire anyone to help out. If I changed the hours, he’d be up there every day and he’s getting too oldfor that.”
“I bet you won’t say that to his face,” I challenge, knowing that Henry Woodson is a man’s man. He wouldn’t take kindly to the reminder that he’s no longer a spring chicken.
Chase smiles, and it looks more genuine than the one he gave me earlier in the day. “I like staying alive. The boys have been told to stay out of here, but since they love to challenge me, we make sure we pick up all our tools. It’s why I need a nanny. We can’t put everything away down at the store.”
“That reminds me,” I say, stepping back when he backs out of the room. “What’s the protocol on Cole’s wound care?”
His eyes narrow as he looks at me in confusion.
I point to my own finger. “Where Cale cut his finger off?”
“Cut his—? Cale did not cut Cole’s finger off,” he says, frustration lacing his tone. “There’s a cut yes, but it’s not much more than a scratch. Come on.”
I follow him when he waves me into the next room. “See for yourself. Who told you his finger was cut off?”
One of the boys sitting in front of the overly large television spins his head in our direction, one hand of his cradling the other to his chest.
“You’re gonna do what?”
“Nothing, buddy,” Chase assures him.
“Mom heard down at—”
“Of course she did,” he mutters. “Cole, come here, kiddo. This is Ms. Kelly.”
“Madison,” I correct, holding my hand out for the child to shake.
He looks from my hand to his dad twice.
“Firm grip,” Chase says with a little grunt of example.
Cole grunts as he tries to squeeze my hand as tightly as possible. It has to be the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. When he takes a step back and smiles up at me with satisfaction in his kind blue eyes, I fully expect him to lift his arms and flex those tiny muscles he has.
“How does your finger feel?” I ask, scrunching my nose to show my sympathy for him getting hurt.
“We suck at magic,” he says as he holds out his little hand in front of me.
