Since she was on a roll, D.J. made another conclusion: Max still loved Terry. Very much.
Bringing her thumb to her mouth, D.J. gnawed on a cuticle, the very habit she’d tried to replace with chewing gum and frequent manicures.
Terry must have been beautiful. The children certainly were, and Max—
Biting her thumb so hard it hurt, D.J. scowled and whipped her hand down to her lap.
Gritting her teeth, she shook the pain from her thumb. Something about the way Max looked at the photo in his wallet had distracted her. She needed to concentrate on the relationship between him and Loretta.
Clearly, being the sole provider for four children was taxing Max to the limit. So, why hadn’t he contacted his grandmother for help? He had to know that his mother’s family made Donald Trump look like a slacker. Even if he’d never known Loretta up close and personal, surely no one would fault him for approaching her now.
According to Loretta, she and her daughter—Maxwell’s mother—had been estranged for years before the younger woman’s death fifteen years prior. Loretta had offered no explanation for the estrangement and had made it clear to D.J. that the topic was not open for query.
Loretta had not seen her grandson since he was a restless, and according to Loretta, hot-tempered teenager. She wasn’t even aware that she was a great-grandmother. D.J. didn’t have all the details about Max that Loretta had requested, but so far he appeared to be a man that would make a granny proud. Gut instinct told D.J. that Max was a good person.
She, on the other hand, was in his house, lying with every breath she took.
Undressing in the dark, conscious that her muscles were already protesting all the bending and stretching she’d done during her cleaning spree, D.J. hoped her conscience would bother her less in the morning.
Setting her internal alarm for 7:00 a.m., she lay on her back and stared into the darkness, waiting for sleep to overtake her. She had plenty to think about while she drifted off, but one image in particular kept coming back: Max on the couch, staring at the photo in his wallet and looking very much as though he was determined not to cry.
Rolling onto her side, D.J. scrunched the pillow till it suited her and closed her eyes. Her last thought before she fell asleep was that she doubted there was a man alive who had ever looked at her picture like that.
“Hey. What do you think you’re doing?” Max’s whisper held more than a hint of censure.
“We’re watching,” Sean whispered back. “She kinda spits when she sleeps.”
“Come out of there. Right now!”
D.J. frowned, blinked and woozily lifted her head. The voices she heard were evidently not part of a dream. By the time her eyes focused, she saw the backs of three little people as they marched out the door, having been duly chastised by the frowning countenance of Maxwell Lotorto. He reached for the knob, but looked up to catch her watching him. A cautious smile replaced the scowl.
“Hey, you’re awake.”
Gingerly, D.J. sat up, pulling the sheet with her. Sneaking a glance at the digital clock on the nightstand, she almost groaned. So much for her internal alarm, previously as trustworthy as Big Ben. It was eight-thirty already.
“I hope the kids didn’t bug you.”
D.J. ran a hand through her hair. “No.” She tried to smile, but it wasn’t easy. Not only was she, the nanny, the last person up this morning, but also beneath the sheet, D.J. wore only a T-shirt and panties—no bra, no pajama bottoms. Granted, she was covered by a bedspread and a sheet hiked up to her chin, but she felt more self-conscious than she had the first time she’d stayed at a man’s apartment overnight. “Sorry I stayed in bed so long. I’m usually up way before now.”
He waved her guilt away. “You had a tough first night. At least that’s what Anabel tells me.”
The kid with her finger on the pulse of the food pyramid had ratted her out? “It wasn’t bad.” D.J. protested mildly, but if he already knew about James’s collision with a spaghetti sauce display at the market, or about the scorched hot dogs she’d tried to convince the children were “cook-out style,” she figured her goose was cooked.
“My brothers and sisters are all adults now. I’m a little out of practice with kids.”
Max accepted that easily. “Tell me about it. I think I’m still there myself.” Awkwardly D.J. laughed with him. “The teenage years.” He shook his head, looking, D.J. thought, a bit green around the gills. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to those. Especially with the girls.”
D.J. arched a brow. “Why ’especially with the girls’?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He waved a hand in her direction. “Teenage girls want to talk about bras and boys. What do I know about that?” Taking a moment, he amended, “Actually, I know a lot about bras and boys, but nothing I want to tell Anabel or Liv.”
Max looked so adorably cocky and disgruntled and paternal, D.J. wanted to laugh…until the talk of bras made her remember she wasn’t wearing one under her thin muscle shirt. She tugged the sheet closer.
“Well, I think I’ll get up now.” She waited for Max to leave, but he seemed preoccupied, as if he hadn’t really heard her, and he definitely wasn’t leaving. D.J. tried again, prompting gently, “I need to get up, and I’m…not really dressed for company.”
That got his attention. His gaze traveled down the sheet and bedspread as if it just occurred to him she might not be wearing jeans under there.
He turned red—actually grew red—beneath his collar. “Right. I’ve already got the kids’ breakfast on the table, so take your time. When you’re ready, we can have coffee. And a talk.”
Smiling agreeably until he left the room, D.J. stayed in bed a couple of minutes after he closed the door. Criminy! She’d over-slept, so Max had been forced to fix the children’s breakfast, and still he wanted to have “a talk,” surely about her staying on as a nanny. Either the man had an appreciation of equality that would make working women everywhere lust after him…or he was truly, truly desperate. Maybe both.
Her stomach growled loudly as she grabbed her clothes and headed for the shower. Maybe he’d take pity and feed her, too.
Heading toward the dining room, where the kids were squabbling over whose chocolate chip pancakes had the most chips, Max took a minute to draw a deep breath and clear his head.
She’s the nanny, he reminded himself, striving to keep his eye on the big picture. Daisy Holden, as she’d introduced herself yesterday, would be a great fling, no doubt about it. And, frankly, he could use a good fling. With all the responsibility he’d assumed over the past four months, Max figured he deserved a fling. He’d earned a night—what the heck, maybe two—of carefree laughter and lust.
Not with Daisy Holden, though.
Long Thoroughbred legs and wide, sexy smile aside, Daisy Holden was going to make an even better nanny than she would a fling. And Max needed a nanny more than he wanted a lover. He needed someone with staying power in order to impress the social worker who’d been scrutinizing his home, his life, his bank account and just about everything else for the past month. A social worker from the Department of Human Services held his family in the palm of her hand. If he failed to impress her with his ability to create a stable home, he could lose the kids.
Briefly, Max closed his eyes, amazed by how quickly that thought could flood his body with fear. He wasn’t perfect. God knew his parenting skills could use a shot in the arm. He lost his temper too often with the twins. He was a total pushover with Liv. He sometimes forgot that Anabel wasn’t as grown-up as she liked to pretend and failed to anticipate her needs.
But he’d loved them all from the day they were born. The five of them made a pretty motley crew, but they needed