“The garden is part of the house.”
“I’m in no mood to be contradicted, Matilde. You’ll stay indoors unless I’m here.”
“The babies like it.”
“The babies aren’t in charge.”
“Ilike it.”
I tilt her chin up until she’s forced to look me in the eye. “No setting foot outside this house without my permission when you watch my children. I make the rules here. You follow them. Understood?”
She gives me a tiny, sullen nod. “Yes,sir.”
I’ve already told her to call me Nico. This is the second time she’s called me that instead. A headstrong girl who thinks she knows best. Exactly the sort of hassle I don’t want or need.
Yet, her protectiveness and determination when it came to the children surprised me. They deserve nothing less. For the first time, I acknowledge the possibility she’s not the worst nanny they could have.
“This needs a couple of stitches.” I brace myself for girlish tears.
Matilde simply shrugs. “I could do them if not my right hand.” She pretends to hold a pencil, indicating her hand preference and making me want to grin for some reason.
Prepping the needle, I tell her to keep still. She does, but her plump bottom lip trembles when I pierce her flawless skin. I decide to distract her. “Have you had stitches in the past?”
Her eyes dart up to meet mine, curiously. “I was ten. We have a small farm in Sicily. I helped with the lambs.”
Her thick accent flavors her sweet voice, and an idyllic image springs to mind. “Matilde, the shepherdess.” She scowls at me suspiciously.“Come dici… Pastorella?”
Understanding, she smiles, a radiant sight, and continues. “We grow peaches, too.”
Why does the mere mention of the fruit trigger an olfactory hallucination? Or maybe she really does smell like them.
She also smells like my cologne. She was messing around my bureau earlier, and something buried deep down likes that she smells like my cologne, but that’s for damn sure a thought I won’t entertain.
“One day, I was walking on top of the wooden fence watching lambs play. I lost my balance and fell. A sharp rock cut my leg. Bad. My father treated it.”
“If he was part of Cosa Nostra, he’d be familiar with stitches,” I reply, carefully drawing the needle through again. She winces. Why does my cruel heart wince, too?
“Papà…he warned me not to walk on the fence.”
“Did he punish you?”
“No, but he told me a silly goose faces the con…con queso?”
“Consequences,” I correct, biting my lip to keep from asking if she likes Mexican food.
“Yes. He made me do the first three.” She holds up three fingers and lifts her left leg, showing me a small scar on the inside of her smooth thigh. An inappropriate thought threatens, so I force my eyes to return to the needle.
“Giving yourself stitches at ten,” I murmur, thinking of my own father’s harsh lessons.
“I cried, but I learned.”
“How to stitch wounds or to always listen to your father?”
She gives me a mischievous grin. “How to stitch them so he would not know next time.”
Completely unexpected, laughter attempts to bubble up from my belly before I quickly squash it. I can’t recall the last time I even felt like laughing. She laughs tentatively, watching me closely with her eyes sparkling like diamonds in this lighting.
“Your father died recently?” I ask, mastering myself again. Matilde nods, sadly. "How?"