Her Christmas Wish. Kathryn Springer
Positively ancient, Ben thought wryly. He moved some papers on his desk and suddenly saw a bright pink sheet of paper that he hadn’t noticed before, with Olivia’s handwriting on it. The title read “Questions for the Nanny.”
When had the little sprite put this on his desk?
He quickly scanned the list and an odd feeling began to sweep through him.
Are you frendly?
Do you read books?
Are you alergick to animals?
When you go to the park, do the swings make you sick?
Can you make macaroni and cheese not from a box?
Do you have rolerblads or can you borrow some?
Are you craby in the morning before you drink cofee?
As Ben read through the questions, he was struck by the enormity of their meaning. When he’d hired Nanny Baker, he’d deliberately chosen a woman who would be a surrogate grandmother, not a mother. To have hired someone close to Julia’s age would have felt like a betrayal. But now he knew he’d missed something. Something important. Nanny Baker had been almost sixty when she moved in with them and already beginning to suffer from arthritis. She took Olivia to the park but sat on the bench and watched her while she played. And from the time Olivia could talk, she’d begged for a pet, but Nanny Baker was allergic to animals. Olivia had had to be content with a goldfish named Pearl. And he was pretty sure Nanny Baker had never discovered a passion for in-line skating!
He could feel Leah’s gaze on him. “Ah, it seems my daughter decided to take part in the interview process.”
Leah smiled and settled comfortably into the chair. “I’m ready.”
There was no point. What he needed to do was tell Leah Paxson—politely—that he couldn’t hire her, call Mrs. Wallace and ask her—politely—what in the world she’d been thinking, and start back at square one. His gaze drifted to the photo of Olivia and Nanny Baker again, then back to the young woman who sat across from him. She was too young. Too unconventional. Too…pretty. He ruthlessly squashed that wayward thought. But there was something about her…
“Why do I get the feeling, Miss Paxson, that if I tear up this piece of paper, somehow it’s going to piece itself together again and you’ll be back here tomorrow?”
“Mmm.” Leah seemed to consider the notion and he caught a glimpse of a dimple in her left cheek as a slow smile drew up the corners of her lips and warmed her eyes. “Let me guess. You want someone firm, respectable and no-nonsense. Isn’t that right, Mr. Banks?”
She’d seen Mary Poppins, too. And not just once, if she’d caught on that fast. It happened to be one of Olivia’s favorite movies and he had half the lines memorized. And, thanks to a case of the chicken pox when Olivia was two, the lyrics of every song.
“Exactly so.” His imitation of a British accent was so terrible he could tell Leah Paxson was trying not to laugh. He gave in with a sigh and looked down at Olivia’s list. “Are you friendly?”
“I am friendly. But very strict,” Leah said promptly.
“Really?” Somehow, he found that difficult to believe. Maybe it was the boots. “Read books?”
Leah nodded. “And play games…all sorts.”
Ben felt his lips twitch. “Allergic to animals?”
“Not a bit.”
“When you go to the park, do the swings make you sick?”
“The swings, no.” Leah leaned forward. “But I hate the slide. I’m afraid of heights. Do you think that’s going to count against me?”
“I think that evens it out. Can you, and I quote, ‘make macaroni and cheese not from a box?’”
“Blindfolded with one hand tied behind my back.”
Suddenly, he had a visual of Leah Paxson’s face as she moved around the kitchen, with only her pert nose and softly curved mouth showing underneath a blindfold. His office felt warm and he cleared his throat. “Do you have Rollerblades or can you borrow some?”
“I’m willing to give it a try. But not without elbow and knee pads and a federally approved helmet.”
Now he did smile.
“Crabby in the morning before you drink coffee?”
“I only drink herbal tea,” Leah said, “unless someone happens to offer me a cappuccino with whipped cream and sprinkles. And I’m never crabby.”
Somehow, Ben knew that the words he was about to say were going to change his peaceful, quiet home. Maybe forever. “Would you agree to a trial period, Miss Paxson?”
Chapter Two
When the door had opened, Leah was sure of two things. She was sure that Ben Cavanaugh was a man who didn’t smile very often, and she was sure it would be divine intervention if she was offered the position.
She was right on both counts.
What she hadn’t been prepared for was the fact that Ben Cavanaugh was going to be so—just admit it, Leah—so attractive. The fact that he’d been getting ready to terminate her, which at less than sixty seconds may have set a record for the shortest employment term in history, didn’t lessen the impact his serious brown-eyed gaze had on her. Then, just when she knew she’d be back in Mrs. Wallace’s office by noon, still jobless, he’d stumbled on the note from his daughter and his expression had softened.
Up to that point, she would have guessed he was a perfectionist who didn’t allow room for error. The kind of man who made sure the people in his life had been carefully mitered to fit there. Then he’d totally blown her theory by showing an unexpected—and humorous—knowledge of Mary Poppins. Which just happened to be one of her favorite movies.
“Miss Paxson? Would a month’s trial period be agreeable to you?” Ben prompted.
“That would be fine.” She noticed that the humor had faded from his eyes. He already looked like he regretted his decision.
“Why don’t you come by this evening to meet Olivia,” Ben suggested, his tone once again distant and professional. “If you can start tomorrow, I’ll arrange for your things to be moved over.”
Leah thought of the meager possessions she had in her apartment. “Tender Care has always arranged those details for me,” she told him, even as she silently admitted that it was her pride that didn’t want him to know how little she actually owned.
She watched as Ben, still obviously lost in thought, picked up a photo on his desk, framed with painted craft sticks.
“Is that a picture of Olivia?” Leah leaned forward in anticipation as Ben handed her the photograph….
And felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach.
The little girl grinning at her from the photo looked achingly familiar. From the soft, wispy autumn curls to the wide, velvety brown eyes, the girl in the photo was a seven-year-old replica of Leah’s mother, Sara Paxson, when she’d been a child.
“She’s beautiful,” Leah stammered, realizing that Ben was waiting for her to say something. “She looks like you.”
It was only half-true. Olivia Cavanaugh may have inherited her father’s coloring, but the heart-shaped face that gave her an almost pixieish look had come from someone else. Leah continued to stare at the photo, mesmerized.
“You aren’t the first person to say that,” Ben said slowly. “But my wife, Julia, and I adopted Olivia right after she was born.”
Leah swallowed. Hard. It had to be a coincidence. A coincidence that Olivia Cavanaugh looked so much like the pictures taken of her mother when she was a little girl.
“We