Naught or Nice Page 3

  Adam opened the car door with a giant smile and laughed. “Get in here. You’re going to break something.”

  I was out of breath and on a high when I slammed the car door shut. “I can’t believe it was you!”

  “Guess there is a such thing as luck after all.”

  “I…I have no idea how to thank you.”

  He winked. “That’s okay. I have a few ideas.”

  The car slowed to a stop. Adam wouldn’t tell me where we were going, but we definitely weren’t heading to the airport or back to my apartment. But, I didn’t care. I never wanted to get out of this Uber. Not only was I sitting next to a hot guy who smelled good, but he’d saved my ass from being homeless on Christmas Eve—from Ebenezer Scrooge, of all people. I had no doubt that the judge would have evicted me had things not worked out the way it did.

  Adam opened the door, and I looked up at where we were. “Rockefeller Center?”

  “You said you loved the tree. Figured our flights were probably delayed anyway.” He shrugged. “And if we miss them…that wouldn’t be such a bad thing either, would it?”

  I beamed from ear to ear. “No, it definitely wouldn’t be.”

  Adam exited the Town Car and held out his hand to help me out. He didn’t let go even after the Uber started to pull away. His hand was warm and so much bigger than my little one. We walked side by side to the tree. I really did love it here. Rockefeller Center at Christmas was a magical place, even if I didn’t get my proposal.

  Adam and I stood and stared up at the tree. He looked at me and then stopped a couple walking by. “Excuse me. Would you mind taking a picture of us in front of the tree?”

  They both smiled. “No, not at all.”

  Adam fiddled with his cell and handed it to the woman.

  “You ready, beautiful?”

  I’d assumed he meant to smile big for the camera. So I did.

  But obviously he had something else in mind. He grabbed me into his arms. “Meredith Grab-my-junk Eden, you stole my Uber, snapped photos so I can lie to my mother, and made me commit perjury to a judge today, and yet I haven’t smiled this much on Christmas Eve in years. Will you do me the honor of putting this picture in the empty frame on your desk?”

  I laughed. “I’d love to.”

  With a big smile on both our faces, Adam bent me backwards into a deep dip, and planted his lips over mine.

  It just goes to show that with a little luck, fairy tales can come true, despite Ebenezer Scrooge.

  THE END

  Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

  Much Love,

  Vi & Penelope

  with Vi Keeland & Penelope Ward

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  Bang.

  Scream.

  Bang.

  Scream.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  The sound of the headboard hitting the wall sounds over and over, accompanied by screams, and I throw my head back, sweating and aching in every imaginable place I could ache. I’ve not been this exhausted in . . . ever. I’m being tested to my limit, pushed past my comfort zone. Why did I agree to this? How did I ever think I could handle it? More bangs from the headboard, more squeaking of the mattress. More sweat. I can’t take anymore.

  A loud, ear-splitting scream bursts out of me, my eyes clenching shut as I finally lose the willpower to keep hold of myself. To not show my weakness. To breeze through this and come out the other end with my pride still intact . . . and my job.

  Mega fail. I’m a loser. A poor excuse of a woman.

  The second my scream stops, I frown into my darkness.

  Silence.

  Beautiful silence.

  Gingerly opening one eye, I brace myself for what I might be faced with. Three kids stare back at me, eyes wide, their little bodies frozen on their parents’ bed. The sheets are strewn over every inch of the master bedroom—on the floor, the dressing table, even the attached bathroom. Every place except the bed. Why they believe their parents’ bed is a trampoline is beyond me. They have toys, for God’s sake. Shit loads of them.

  I quickly pull myself together and draw breath to speak. “It’s lunchtime.” No sooner have I uttered the words, they’re off their mum and dad’s bed like little rockets, stampeding down the stairs of the Georgian townhouse to the kitchen.

  Leaving the mess behind for later, I follow them, trying to pull myself together— clothes, composure, and all. I look down at my slim-fitted trouser suit—my pride and joy—and my gorgeous heeled pumps as I take the stairs. This suit, these shoes, they’re my power office wear, bought especially for my new job as Executive PA to the most famous Editor in Chief at the most famous sports publication in the UK, Mr. Pete Russell.

  The kids that just shot down the stairs are his. So, I hear you asking, why the heck am I in his house looking after them?

  Blame his wife. I snarl to myself, just thinking about the self-important wench. Apparently, my new role includes babysitting when she so demands it. For such a high-profile influential businessman, Mr. Russell is a wimp when it comes to standing up to his demanding wife. The schmuck.

  When I arrive in the kitchen, all three Russell spawn are sitting at the table like good little children. I eye them with suspicion as I round the island to the hob, collecting the plates and sliding one in front of each of them. Because, yes, feeding them comes with the job too, apparently.

  Petal, the eldest, looks at her lunch like it’s been served from a dustcart. “What’s this?” she asks, poking the nuggets around her plate. At six, she’s way too smart for her own good, with a counter to whatever I ask her to do. She also has a hair flick down to a fine art, performing one each and every time something smart comes out of her mouth. Which is often.

  “Lunch,” I answer, cutting up Holly’s, the youngest Russell, into small pieces. She’s just turned four, and a total hurricane. Then there’s Arthur, the middle at five, who seems to take immense joy in correcting my English at every opportunity. He’s hailed as the creative one of the three siblings. He acts and sings everything he says and does.

  So, basically, Mrs. Russell was permanently pregnant for three years. And now, her husband’s new PA is providing light relief and looking after her boisterous army of kids whenever she so desires. And today she so desir
es to go Christmas shopping. I’ve been in the job for a month. This was most certainly not in the job description. In the past few weeks, I’ve cooked dinner and fed their kids more nights than not. It’s not long-term, according to Mr. Russell. And my help is much appreciated, apparently. It’s the time of year, so he says. Parties to attend and fun to be had. That’s all good and well, but it’s Christmas Eve, my parents are due to arrive in a few hours, I haven’t bought one present, put up a tree, or prepared the guest room for them. I’ve been too busy being a skivvy to the Russells. But what am I going to say? No? To Mr. Pete Russell? The man can open endless doors for me in the world of journalism.

  “We usually have a sandwich for lunch,” Petal mumbles. “And a lot earlier than this.”

  I grit my teeth. “There’s no bread. We’ll call this an early dinner.”

  “Well if it’s dinner, where’s the vegetables?” Petal pipes up again. “Mum says we have to have vegetables with every meal.”

  “Then Mum should be here to cook for you.” I smile sarcastically but immediately chastise myself for it. She’s a kid. It’s not her fault her parents are selfish arseholes. “Eat up,” I order them all gently, grabbing my phone off the counter when it rings. “Mum,” I sigh, despite trying not to, as I walk across the kitchen and start collecting up the toys scattered everywhere.

  “Hello, Shannon darlin’.” Her soft Irish accent soothes me, and I need soothing. “I have an update for you. We’ve just docked.”

  I smile. I’ve had an update every hour since she woke up this morning. “Good crossing?”

  “A bit choppy. Your dad got seasick.” She chuckles. “He’s spent the past eight hours looking green.”

  “You should have flown. It’s an hour, and Dad wouldn’t be green.”

  “You know your father. He can’t get comfy on those plane things. And it ain’t natural for us to be thirty thousand feet in the air. Is the tree up? You know your dad likes a good tree.”

  “Of course,” I lie.

  “Turkey ready?”

  “Just prepared it.”

  “And you got the sausage meat so Dad can make his special stuffing to stuff the bird?”

  Now that I have done. “Check.”

  “Marvelous. Finished all your chores?”

  I drop a few Lego bricks into the toy trunk and look across the kitchen, where three children are all eating quietly. “All my chores are done.” Another lie, but I don’t want her to worry. Come hell or high water, I’ll have everything ready for their arrival, and I’ll have gifts for all, too. On that note, I glance at the huge station house clock on the bare brick wall in the Russells’ kitchen. Three o’clock. The stores close in two and a half hours, and Mrs. Russell gave me her word she’d be home by two thirty. I’d booked this afternoon off to do Christmas stuff, not babysit. “So looking forward to seeing you, Ma.”

  “You, too, darl—” She’s cut short by a loud yelp, and I dart my eyes to the kids at the table. “What was that?” she asks, and I cringe. Ma wasn’t best pleased when I told her I’d helped out once or twice with my boss’s kids. She said I’d be a skivvy before I knew it. And I hate that she was right.

  I stare in horror as Petal points at Holly. “Shannon, look what she did.”

  “Shannon,” Ma asks down the line, “is that a child shouting I hear?”

  “Might be,” I squeak. “Ma, any idea how to get a marble out of a kid’s nostril?” I rush over and take Holly’s fork from her hand as she pokes at her nostril with her finger. “Stop, you’ll push it up more.”

  “You’re looking after his kids again?” Ma asks, obviously shocked, and a bit disgusted, too. “The feckin’ nerve those people have. Where the bloody hell are they?”

  “Work emergency.” Yet another lie, and before I can spill more, I say, “Ma, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.”

  “Aye, ya will.” She huffs a few times and then hangs up, understandably pissed off. She struggled enough when I left Ireland two years ago . . . and for a man. A man who dumped me for a leggy blonde with killer boobs and a brain the size of a pea. Now Ma’s struggling with the fact that I haven’t returned to my homeland after my life went tits-up because of that arsehole. But there are more opportunities here for me. More chances to climb the ladder.

  “Right.” I collect Holly from the table and sit her on the countertop. “I want you to blow your nose real hard, okay?” I push into her left nostril as she nods, a massive grin on her face. She thinks this is a game, which is probably a good thing. Oh God, please don’t make me have to go to casualty. I haven’t got time. “After three.” I bend to get to Holly’s level and start to count, and on three I blow with her. The marble shoots out and smacks me on the forehead. “Motherfucker,” I yelp, releasing her to clench my head. “Ouch.”

  “Oh, you said a bad word,” Petal sings, and Arthur starts chanting along with her. “Bad Shannon, bad Shannon, bad Shannon.”

  I’m so busy cursing that I barely notice when something scuffs me. But I do open my eyes as I hear a bang, followed by a slight delay before a huge, almighty roaring cry starts. Shit. I look at my feet, where Holly is wrapped around them screaming bloody murder. “Oh my God.” I dip and scoop her up, bouncing her in my arms as I scan her for injuries. I can see nothing obvious—no cuts, bruises, or scrapes. “You’re fine,” I say gently, rubbing under her eyes. “Aren’t you?” She hiccups over her receding sobs as she nods, and I pool a little in relief, thankful I’ve not killed one of my boss’s kids. “I’m really not cut out for this, guys,” I say under my breath as I take Holly back to the table. Sitting her down and reloading her hand with a fork, I scan the rest of the children to make sure they’re all in one piece since my attention was diverted. “How about some ice cream?” I chirp, clapping my hands enthusiastically.

  “For our silence?” Petal asks, just before shoving a potato wedge in her mouth. I narrow one eye. She’s a cute cookie.

  “Or for your discretion,” I counter. It sounds less cunning.

  “Okay,” she sings, and I hurry to the freezer, quickly checking the time again. Three thirty. Shit, I’m cutting it fine.

  “Yoo-hoo.” Mrs. Russell’s voice travels into the kitchen, the front door slamming soon after. What’s she so damn happy about? She’s an hour late. I turn with the tub of ice cream, just as she dances into the kitchen, weighed down with shopping bags. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late.” She lifts the bags, as if to rub it in that she’s been shopping and I haven’t. “Last-minute outfit for Pete’s company Christmas gala this evening.” She smiles and disappears up the stairs as I grit my teeth and proceed to dish out the ice cream before quickly tidying up the counter. I’m not loading the dishwasher. Or waiting for the kids to finish their dessert. I’m off.

  I’m collecting my bag when she waltzes back into the kitchen. “What happened to our bedroom?” she asks, pointing out the door. “It looks like an earthquake happened in there.”

  An earthquake? You could say that. “Your kids decided to use the bed as a bouncy castle. Sorry. I hadn’t got around to tidying it all up.” I had no intention of tidying it up.

  Mrs. Russell gives me a look that makes me feel like a child. All condemning and disapproving. “Never mind.” She rolls her eyes and goes to the table, dropping loving kisses on each of her kids’ foreheads. She pauses when she gets to Holly. “Oh my goodness, what happened?” She moves aside, giving me a clear view of her youngest . . . and the huge lump slap bang in the middle of her forehead.

  Shit.

  Petal jumps down from the table and performs one of those amazing hair flicks. I fear the worst. “Holly got a marble stuck up her nose, and Shannon left her on the countertop by herself. She fell off.” I balk at Petal as she grins around her last mouthful of ice cream. The traitor.

  “What?” Mrs. Russell swings to face me, an appalled look on her face. “You left her alone on the countertop? And she got a marble stuck up her nose? How? Weren’t you watching her? I’ve told you bef
ore she has a habit of putting things in holes.”

  Breathe. Don’t let your Irish feistiness take this woman down. It’s Christmas, after all. The season of goodwill and all that bullshit. “It was nothing.” I head for the door. “She’s fine now.”

  “Where are you going?” She’s hot on my heels, and I frown as I grab the door handle and open it.

  “I have Christmas shopping to do and relatives to prepare for.” I don’t mention that I already explained all that this morning when she abandoned me with her kids for the day.

  “But you can’t.” She sounds a little panicked, and I turn to find she looks panicked, too. “I have Pete’s Christmas gala this evening. You have to look after the children.”

  I have to? I balk at her. This woman is something else. “I already told you, Mrs. Russell. I booked this afternoon off as annual leave. I have things to do.”

  Her demeanor changes in a split second, going from panicked to stern. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  “Sorry?”

  “If you fail to fulfill your duties, my husband will be forced to find another PA.”

  Another PA, or a nanny? I’m trying to rein myself in—really, I am, but this self-important wench would test the patience of a saint. I straighten my back and clear my throat. “I don’t believe my duties listed childcare.”

  “What part of personal assistant don’t you understand?”

  She just keeps on giving. Unbelievable. “I haven’t got time for this right now.” I whirl around and take the steps down to the street. “I will discuss it with Mr. Russell myself after the holidays,” I call over my shoulder, hurrying to the main road to hail a taxi. I have two hours to find five Christmas gifts. I can do it. No sweat.