Page 41 of Trouble from Abroad
I fly down the stairs, nearly tripping over my own feet. My heart’s hammering. From mortification? From guilt? From hope that I heard it right?
The first thing I do is check the bathroom. The door’s shut. Lily’s humming inside—probably peeing to the beat of her own soundtrack. Definitely not within earshot.
Only then do I breathe.
I pivot to her bedroom to find Mia mid-curtsy, brush-mic still in hand. She startles when she sees me. Her eyes dart past me to the hall.
“Where’s Lily?” she asks quickly, scanning the doorway. “What’s wrong?”
She thought of Lily first. Even now. That counts for something.
But my heart is still drumming against my ribs. My hands clench. I’m not madather, but I am furious, stuck on the idea that Lily might’ve heard any of that.
“Mia.” I jab a finger toward the discreet camera above Lily’s bed. “That’s a baby monitor. I can hear everything from upstairs. I haven’t turned it off yet.”
She doesn’t blush—she ignites. The flush on her cheeks is pure, maybe justified, rage. Great. Now I’m the asshole who wiretaps his nanny.
“Why the hell does a grown child have a baby monitor?” she snaps.
“Because she has nightmares. And I’m a heavy sleeper. On a different floor.”
“Of course you are.” She scoffs. “And of course you just came from your room.” She waves a hand, walking from side to side, eyes on the smiling sun rug. “There are laws about this. You need to disclose cameras in your house. It’s my right to expect privacy within these walls, Dr. Preston.”
“There are, and you’re well within your rights to sue me, too.”
She stares at me, as if annoyed at my suggestion. Then she hurls the brush toward the bed. It bounces off the pillow, hits the wall, and lands on the floor with a sad little thud.
“It’s fine. I’ll be fine,” she says, as if the second time might make it true. “Let’s just shelve this under another thing we’ll never talk about.” Her gaze skitters across the room, dodging mine. “Dr. Preston, I might need bigger shelves in my closet. You know, for the things we’ll nevertalk about? It’s getting pretty crowded in there.” Words sprint past her teeth. “Or I can go. Damn it, I don’t want to go. I really like Lily. Canyougo?”
“Mia—”
“Yeah, I heard myself. Thanks. But can you just leave so it’s easier to pretend you didn’t hear me say shaggin?—”
“What’s shagging?” Lily chirps from the hallway.
I go completely still.
Mia flinches like she’s been shot. Then she throws herself on the grenade.
“Hugging!” she blurts. “Shagging is a British hug!”
“A word we don’t say in this house,” I add, then correct myself, “or anywhere else. We don’t use that word at all.” I’m doing my best to sound stern and not completely unhinged.
“Why not?” Lily challenges, hands on hips. “I want to shag Mia.”
Mia bursts into laughter.
I rake a hand through my hair. “And I want to rinse my ears with acid, but I’ll settle for making pancakes instead.” I make a show of flicking the monitor off and flee to the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWENTY
mia
We have breakfast,as normal as it can be, and I consider adding actress to my CV next. The poker face I keep up, as if no third-degree-burn-level embarrassment just happened upstairs, is nothing short of Oscar-nomination worthy.
Preston plates the promised pancakes like it’s another Sunday morning. Granted, these are banana-oat-egg pancake hybrids, but they’re still a far cry from what my Monday mornings typically look like.
They start with some doomed calorie restriction that will most likely fail midweek. Me slurping down a dubious-colored smoothie, trying not to gag from the taste of spirulina, or whatever’s trending as health’s new holy grail that week.
