I’m not sure whether Amelia fully recognizes and understands that Levi is her father. It’s not my place to meddle.
When the cookies beep, Panty Thief grabs an oven mitt and pulls the hot tray out of the oven while I hold Amelia back, keeping her out of harm’s way. “We have to be careful. The oven is hot,” I say, wanting to teach her not to get burned.
I’d like to assume her mother ingrained the same basic principles in the kitchen before she came to live with her father. But if she gets hurt on my watch, he’ll never let me live it down.
I’m surprised he still isn’t giving me hell for losing her. At least she was in my bedroom. And I swear I searched that room inside out. Well, except for my luggage.
Kids are sneaky, and Amelia is no different.
“Listen, I should warn you. Connor can be a bit abrasive.”
“Are you warning your daughter or me?” I ask.
“You,Airplane Girl. I want you to be aware of what you’re in for if you stick around.”
“I can handle him,” I say, muttering, “He can’t be any more difficult than you.”
Levi must hear my comment because he spins around, pinning me with his stare. “Connor tends to be obnoxious and likes to think he’s in control. I am in control. There’s a difference.”
“You like to think you’re a Dom,” I say a little too loudly. But I don’t think Amelia understands and she’s certainly not paying attention. Her gaze is transfixed on the tray of cookies that Levi scoops off onto a plate to cool.
“What do you know about Doms?” Panty Thief asks, glancing at me over his shoulder.
Does he want me to school him? He’s got to be kidding me! “I know they like to think they’re in charge, but really, it’s the girl who’s taking the reins.”
“Is that so?”
Levi’s phone buzzes again, and I curse under my breath. “Watch Amelia and the cookies. Connor is pulling up.”
The minute Levi is out of the kitchen, Amelia reaches for the plate of cookies. “They’re hot,” I say. Never mind that it’s early for her to have sweets before lunch.
Levi doesn’t have any kid-friendly plates. There’s nothing made of plastic in the cabinets or even paper plates lying around.
I grab a small plate and place a single cookie on it. “How about we get you seated at the table?” I suggest, carrying the plate to the table. The last thing I want is for her to drop the dishware and end up hurt from the slivered shards.
She climbs onto the wooden chair and sits on her knees, reaching for the cookie. “It’s hot,” I remind her, blowing on it.
She mimics my actions before touching it carefully. When she’s satisfied it isn’t too hot, her tiny fingers grab the cookie, and it falls apart between her mouth, the table, and the plate.
Amelia is a mess, but the girl doesn’t mind, grabbing every morsel and crumb as if leaving one behind were a crime.
Panty Thief joins us in the kitchen at the small table with two chairs. I don’t sit. I stand beside Amelia, keeping a close eye on her. I grab a few napkins, cleaning up the sticky, chocolatey mess she leaves behind.
“Well, hello,” the gentleman accompanying Levi says.
I assume it’s Connor, but the two look nothing alike. Are they half-siblings or step-siblings? There’s not even a slight resemblance. Where Levi is easy on the eyes and makes my heart pitter-patter in my chest, Connor doesn’t give off the same sex appeal or vibe.
He’s quite a bit shorter, and his shoulders slouch forward. He’s wearing a wrinkled collared shirt and slacks that look a little too tight. Is that on purpose, or does he not know how to pick out his clothes?
Not only is he shorter than his brother, but he could also use a little trim. His eyebrows are bushy, and I swear there’s ear hair sticking out. It seems his hair grows everywhere except the top of his head—poor fellow.
I offer him a friendly smile as he holds out his hand. “You must be the new nanny my brother told me about. I’m Connor, the good-looking brother,” he says.
I try not to laugh. I’m glad the guy has good self-esteem and confidence, because there’s no way in hell that Connor is anywhere near the attractive level of Levi. It’s like one son got the good genes and the other, well, he missed out.
Not that I should be comparing brothers. I’m not into exploring that level of spice in my love life. Or lack thereof, if I’m to be honest with myself. The most heat I get is from my trusty vibrator and those romance novels I read late at night.
At least it’s trusty. Hell, even my ex, when we were married, couldn’t find that special button to press that would make walls shake—such a shame.