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  He looked at all the ingredients on the counter. “It’s a cooking lesson?”

  “Do you know how to cook?” I asked.

  “No,” he answered.

  “Then, yes. It’s a cooking lesson.”

  “But why do I need to learn how to cook?” he persisted.

  “Do you like to eat?” I responded easily.

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Of course.”

  “Cooking is like knowing a magic trick. It’s therapy, really, because it is self-care at its finest. And it won’t hurt you to know how to meet some of your own needs. I’m not here to help you memorize some text books until you parrot what everyone else has researched and written. I’m here to show you how to think independently, to be self-sufficient. What better way than learning how to meet one of your most basic human needs?”

  I could tell by the way he stared at me that he was seriously reconsidering this whole home-schooling business. But I didn’t care if he liked me or not. The last thing this kid needed was someone else to give into his demands and treat him like a king.

  The whole reason he was acting out was because he was continually testing boundaries only to find they were simply not there. I had seen it many times with my students who were the children of divorce. Their parents felt so guilty about how their split may have affected the child that they didn’t reinforce rules and boundaries. No one wanted to be the bad guy and risk that the child would love them less, virtually turning parenthood into a popularity contest. They wanted to be friends, rather than authority figures that could, and should, say no. I knew that if I wanted to reach this kid, I had to establish firm boundaries early. If I couldn’t do that, that meant the train was already derailed and there was no point in my taking the job.

  Both Jonathan and Drew had to trust me and my methods. He needed a stable influence and clear rules with concrete consequences should he defy them.

  Apparently the threat of my leaving was enough to get his attention. He straightened and walked around to stand next to me at the island prep counter. “What are we making,” he asked, before adding, “Rachel,” with a lot less snark than before.

  I smiled. “Meatloaf.”

  “Meatloaf?” he whined. It was the first time I saw the nine-year-old little boy hiding somewhere behind that carefully cultivated demeanor.

  “Yep,” I said as I placed the bowl in front of him. “But I’m pretty sure you haven’t tried meatloaf like this before.” I turned toward the cooktop. “How’s that bacon coming, Cleo?”

  She used tongs to place the final sizzling strips onto the plate, which she brought to us.

  I had Jonathan’s interest from the moment he spied those crispy strips. “I like bacon,” he said.

  I grinned. “I had a feeling you might. You crumble the bacon. It’s hot, so be careful. Use the tongs.”

  After he was done with that task, I instructed that he add it to the bowl with the ground meat. Next, he grated some block cheddar into the bowl. I cracked the egg, showing him how to do it and not lose any shell, and then let him measure out the breadcrumbs and the mayonnaise while I explained the purpose they served in the recipe. “Go wash your hands,” I said as I put the empty cookware into the sink. “Now let’s have some fun.” I thrust the bowl in front of him. “Dig in.”

  His eyes widened with disgust, which made me laugh. “Come on, dude. You’re a Kung Fu master.” I slipped my hands into the mixture, which made disgusting noises as it slid through my fingers. I made a face, which made him laugh. “Come on,” I said again. “Pretend they’re brains.”

  He gingerly put his hands into the meat mixture, making the same face that I made. “Ew, it’s gross!”

  “That’s because they’re zombie brains,” I teased. He giggled even more as we mushed together the meat mixture, and then he helped me mold it into a loaf and cover it with a ketchup/mustard mixture. Cleo, who had been working on the potatoes, let us toss the potato wedges in olive oil and rosemary before we popped those in the oven as well.

  While those cooked, Jonathan and I cleaned up all the dishes and instruments we dirtied. I rinsed while he placed each item into the dishwasher. Once that was done, I toasted him with a bottle of ginger ale served in crystal flutes to celebrate our successful first lesson. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

  “Just because I made it doesn’t mean I’ll eat it,” he proclaimed, but an hour later he had practically licked his plate clean. Cleo rewarded our hard work with some chocolate cake. We were stuffed and happy as we retired to the media room to watch TV.

  Of course their media room better resembled a movie theater. The darkened room had walls upholstered in Corinthian leather, with theater bucket seats that faced a screen which covered an entire wall.

  I asked him to show me his favorite show, which was a smart anime series focused around a group of teenagers. He asked to see one of my favorite shows, which happened to be an offbeat family comedy that had us both laughing and nearly weepy and sentimental by the end of the hour long marathon we watched it. I was yawning as the clock ticked toward nine o’clock, which according to my Texas clock was two hours later than that.

  “I guess you probably want to go to sleep,” he said after yawn number three.

  “It’s been a long day,” I agreed. “I had fun, though,” I assured him.

  He offered me a shy smile. “Me, too.”

  He walked me to my door before we bid each other goodnight. Before he turned toward his own room, he halted me with, “Rachel?”

  “Yes, Jonathan?”

  “Can we cook again tomorrow night?”

  I softened into a puddle as I looked in those hopeful blue eyes. “Sure,” I said.

  He grinned as he bounded off to his room.

  After I changed into my shorty pajamas, brushed my teeth and washed my face, I slid in between the luxurious sheets on the big canopy bed. I had already placed a leather-bound book on the nightstand, so I picked up the copy of Great Expectations to read some before I drifted to sleep. I was on page 4 before the phone rang.

  “This is Rachel,” I answered.

  “I see you have survived Day One,” Drew Fullerton murmured into my ear, which made me snuggle deeper under the covers as though he could see me in my current state of undress. “Found the armor, did you?”

  “None needed,” I said. “Your son is very intelligent and curious and willing to learn. He responded very well to the boundaries I attempted to establish today.”

  Drew chuckled. “Are you sure that was my son?”

  I laughed. “Quite. As a matter of fact, we had a lovely evening.”

  “So nothing has you making a beeline back to Texas?”

  I thought about my run-in with his cocky brother. “Nothing,” I lied easily. “But it was only Day One.”

  “Well,” he said softly, “I have full confidence that you can handle yourself. Otherwise I never would have offered you the job.”

  While we’re on the subject, why did you offer me a job? “I will do my best to live up to your expectations, Mr. Fullerton.”

  “Drew,” he corrected; his voice as smooth as silk sliding across my senses. I could almost feel his warm breath against my ear. I found myself unexpectedly discombobulated by the visceral reaction I had. I had spent far too many years pounding those kinds of thoughts into dust like a mental game of Whac-A-Mole, so much so I was sure I wouldn’t know what to do with a naked man if he landed right in my lap with chocolate in one hand and wine in the other.

  “Are you there?” he asked, his voice cutting through the fog in my brain. I instantly knew I had zoned out for a moment, forcing him to pull me back out of my own head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said as I blushed, hot with embarrassment. “I’m just tired, I guess. It’s been a big day.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed. “I won’t keep you; I just wanted to check in. Rest well and sweet dreams, Miss Dennehy.”

  The word was out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Rachel
.”

  He rolled it around in his mouth. “Rachel,” he repeated.

  My eyes closed. “Goodnight, Drew,” I said before I managed to hang up the phone and roll over to sleep.

  Chapter Five

  When my eyes opened that Sunday morning, it took a minute to remember where I was. My brow furrowed as I tried to wrap my mind around the wispy fabric draped carefully across the canopy above me, which fluttered gently in the breeze from the open window. I grunted through a languid stretch, and the sheets felt cool and silky smooth against my bare skin, which further reinforced the idea I wasn’t, in fact, dreaming.

  Oh yeah, I thought. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

  I glanced at the clock beside the bed, which announced it was just after seven o’clock. I eased up into a sitting position, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My plush surroundings certainly lent to the idea of a lazy Sunday, curled in bed like a cat, nose deep in a book as I listened to the birds outside. But I was here to work, kinda, so I felt compelled to slip from the bed and pad softly to my bathroom to shower and dress.

  A half-hour later I was downstairs in the quiet, empty kitchen, reading the paper that had already been delivered, and drinking a cup of tea. That was where Cleo found me as she let herself in the back door. “Good morning, miss,” she greeted with a smile. “Sleep well?”

  I nodded with an impish smile. “Maybe a little too well. It’s going to be hard to go back to my single bed in an economy apartment after a week of this.”

  Her eyebrow arched. “You’re not staying with us, Miss Dennehy?”

  “Rachel, please,” I said. “Nothing’s been decided either way. I still have to meet Drew.”

  My use of Drew’s first name seemed to shock the older woman silent. She bit her lip as she pulled breakfast fixings from the fridge. I was on my feet in a flash. “Let me help you,” I said. “In fact,” I said as I glanced over the ingredients, “let me do this. You sit and read the paper.”

  Cleo shook her head. “I can’t do that, miss.”

  I took her by the arm and led her around the island toward the breakfast nook that faced out over the backyard. “How do you take your tea?” I asked, indulging no further argument on the matter.

  She could tell by the look on my face the battle was lost. “A splash of milk,” she answered. “And just one cube of sugar.”

  I smiled. That was more like it. I prepared her cup of tea and then shooed her out of the kitchen entirely as I took on the task of preparing breakfast. By the time Jonathan bounded downstairs, I had a full country breakfast waiting for him. His eyes widened when he saw the stack of blueberry pancakes, fluffy scrambled eggs with a bit of cheese, and more crispy bacon. I had just finished squeezing the orange juice when he sat at the table. “This looks great!” he said with a happy smile. “But where’s Cleo?”

  “Taking a break,” I said as I put a glass in front of him. “I insisted.”

  His face fell. “My dad won’t like it if you do that,” he warned.

  I took my place at the table. “Your dad’s not here,” I reminded. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was processing this strange new turn of events. He didn’t say much through breakfast. My guess was that he was trying to figure out how to navigate this entirely new territory. I got the sense that not too many people stood up to his dad. He might have very well been mentally preparing himself for the battle – and new teacher – forthcoming. We ate in relative silence, while he stole bewildered glances in my direction. I would smile and continue to eat. The way I figured it, if Drew Fullerton was willing to have my head because I deigned to cook breakfast, rather than have it served to me, then he wasn’t the kind of guy I wanted to work for anyway.

  I had no interest in being some kind of yes-man who toed the company line. I was here to teach a young boy who clearly needed structure, rules and responsibility, not more coddling. If Drew was going to be gone three or four nights a week, he’d have to trust my methods, which…by the look of things… were already getting results.

  When I asked Jonathan to clean up, he barely squawked at all. He merely asked why and I said, “I cooked. You clean.” He didn’t argue further as he took his plate to the kitchen sink, where he stood rinsing out the dishes, much like we did before, without complaint. He said nothing as I prepared a plate and took it out to Cleo.

  She, however, was quite embarrassed when I served her. In fact she was fairly upset about it. “You really shouldn’t do this,” she said. “Master Fullerton would be very displeased.”

  “You let me handle Master Fullerton,” I said. “Trust me, I can take the heat.”

  She was so contrite, I figured that I’d get out of her hair for a while and let her get back to her job. I returned to the kitchen, where I found Jonathan scrubbing the table with a soapy sponge. I smiled at his initiative. “Looks great,” I said. “How about a victory lap around the block?”

  He looked puzzled. “Outside?”

  I laughed. “Is that a problem?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I’ve never done it.”

  “First time for everything,” I said as I headed for the door. “I know there’s a park nearby. I thought I’d go check it out.”

  “Greystone,” he confirmed as he fell into step beside me. We exited the house and headed down the slope to the outer gate.

  “Is it as pretty as I hear?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I’ve never been there.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s like three blocks away.” He shrugged again. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea of a kid not visiting his local park.

  Of course, Beverly Hills’ Greystone Park and Mansion wasn’t exactly a playground for local children. It was more a monument to opulence. The Tudor-style mansion sat atop a steep hill, surrounded by lush landscaping dotted with gardens and fountains. I already knew that we couldn’t go into the famous mansion itself, as the website said it was only shown by appointment. But a relaxing stroll around the grounds sounded like a fine way to spend a sunny spring Sunday.

  “You do this all the time?” he asked as we trudged along the hilly streets.

  I nodded. “Almost every day. I always make sure I live near a park. Nature is my happy place. Everything is alive and vibrant. It makes me feel renewed.”

  “Uncle Alex likes the outdoors, too,” he said. “He lives on a ranch in Ventura County, but I’ve never been there. He tells me about camping trips and hiking and mountain climbing. But Dad would never let me go with him.”

  I didn’t ask why. Anyone who had read a paper could have figured that out. “I guess that means you and I will have to fit that into our curriculum. I’m sure there are plenty of places around here where we could go for a day trip. I love to hike. And I was looking forward to checking out the local trails.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not thinner,” he said with childhood candor.

  I offered the shrug this time. “I’m healthy. That’s all that matters.”

  “You’re the first…non-thin person my dad has ever hired,” he continued. “He considers physical excellence the cornerstone to success.”

  I bit my lip. “Does he, now?”

  Jonathan nodded. “He thinks fat people are lazy.” I chuckled, which took him by surprise. “What’s so funny?”

  “Common misconception,” I said. “It’s a stereotype and stereotypes never tell the full story. I don’t think anyone who knows me would use that word to describe me.”

  “I know I wouldn’t,” he said. “You’re not the first teacher my dad hired. The other ones wanted to sit by the pool or cozy up to my dad. They didn’t want to be just a teacher.”

  I was confused. “From what your uncle said yesterday, I got the impression I was the first one.”

  “You’re the first one like you,” he said.

  I had to laugh. “From what everyone is saying, I may be the last one like me, too. I don’t know if your dad will want to hire me after this weekend.”
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  There was a long pause. “I hope he does,” Jonathan finally decided.

  I glanced down into those endless blue eyes and it tore at my soul. This was a child who desperately needed his mother, so much he was clinging to the help as a substitute. It was what Alex had suggested the day before. “I know I’m not supposed to ask you this, but … why don’t you see your mom?”

  And just like that, the window in his eyes slammed shut. He looked away. “You’ll probably find out why today.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She always tries to visit while Dad is away on business. Uncle Alex was on a scouting mission yesterday, to see if the coast was clear. Without my dad around, they think they can finally convince me to go with them.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “And you don’t want to go?”

  He shook his head; his shoulders slumped under the unbearable weight of the adult drama that drove his life. I had seen this happen with many students in the middle of a nasty divorce, where the pain of a failed marriage drove adults to use their kids as pawns to get back at each other. They never understood what it was doing to their children, who already shouldered so much unnecessary guilt for the divorce in the first place. I placed my hand on his shoulder, to show him he didn’t have to carry that burden alone. “Then you don’t have to go.”

  His eyes finally met mine. “You can’t stop them.”

  “Rule number three,” I announced. “Never underestimate me.”

  We gained so much momentum we ended up jogging down one of the hills. We came to a breathless stop amidst giggles. “Race ya home!” I said as I took off running. He was quick on my heels and beat me by a hair to the gate.

  “I won!” he said triumphantly. “What do I get?” he asked with an impish smile.

  I ruffled his hair. “My respect.”

  He laughed and we headed up to the house nearly an hour after we left. I grabbed my book and headed out to the pool, to keep him company as he swam. I wore a floppy hat to protect my fair skin from the sun, lest I burn like a lobster and freckle even worse, and slathered what skin that was exposed from my Capri shorts/tank top set with a liberal dosing of sunscreen.