Mr. Nice Guy (Pierce Brothers Book 1) Page 2

  Tom didn’t know exactly where this was going, but he didn’t like it.

  ‘You’ve made your point, Nadia,’ Tom said. ‘Chelsea should try a nice guy. But not me,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Why not you?’ Nadia asked.

  ‘Not Tom!’ Chelsea cried, and Tom’s tiredness finally got the better of him.

  He crossed his arms and looked at Chelsea the same as Nadia was. ‘Actually, out of interest, why not me?’

  Chelsea opened and closed her mouth a few times, but no sound came out. Ordinarily, Tom might feel sorry for her, but not tonight.

  He was so sick—no, strike that—he was so absolutely over Chelsea going out with idiots when she deserved far better. Maybe a week or two being with a nice guy would show her what she was missing out on.

  ‘But . . . you’re Tom,’ Chelsea finally managed.

  ‘Who is a nice guy,’ Nadia finished. ‘Why not give him a go?’

  Tom wasn’t sure he liked being referred to as though he were a test vehicle Chelsea was about to take for a ride, but a plan was forming in his mind.

  ‘But, but, it’s Tom! We live together. He’s my big brother’s friend. It wouldn’t be right.’ Chelsea appeared to have found her ability to speak again.

  Tom ignored her objections, walked over and crouched down in front of her.

  ‘Nadia’s got a point. Things need to change. So, give me a week. Seven days and seven nights. I’ll show you what it’s like to be with a nice guy.’

  Chapter Two

  Chelsea stared into Tom’s green eyes. She’d always liked the flecks of hazel in them, she thought absently while her brain was working overtime repeating itself.

  Tom. Not Tom. But it’s Tom.

  ‘Chelsea?’

  His deep voice brought her out of her reverie. Then a new thought surfaced.

  Why not Tom?

  Well, he was much too nice for starters. Tom was Mr. Reliable. One of her brother’s oldest friends. The sort of guy you could depend on if you ever needed someone. He was good looking in that unassuming way of his, she supposed.

  But no. It would be wrong. All wrong. Besides, the last thing she wanted to do was upset their easy living situation and comfortable friendship or cause any awkwardness between them.

  She opened her mouth to say as much, but Tom spoke first.

  ‘There needs to be ground rules. This isn’t a friends with benefits sort of arrangement.’ He frowned a little. ‘Nice guys don’t go for that, just in case you weren’t aware.’

  ‘You’re no fun,’ Nadia muttered, and Tom shot her a warning look.

  ‘I’ll take you out,’ he continued, ‘we’ll pretend to date, and I’ll show you what it’s like to be treated right. Simple, really. Then you’ll know the difference next time around.’

  ‘Do you both think I’m stupid or something?’ Chelsea asked, then winced. ‘OK, forget I said that.’ Darren was evidence enough, and she already felt mortified having admitted to her idiotic decision to lend him money. ‘Look, it’s a sweet offer, Tom. But I can find my own nice guy.’

  Nadia coughed. ‘What was that about growing on trees?’

  Chelsea turned to glare at her.

  ‘He’s right here, Chels,’ Nadia said, waving a hand in Tom’s direction. ‘Why not try him out?’

  Tom straightened and gave Nadia an unimpressed look. ‘Let’s be clear. Chels won’t be “trying me out”. I’ll be showing her what she can expect from a guy who’s not an arsehole, that’s all.’

  Chelsea looked up at Tom. She’d always liked how tall he was. He was neither skinny nor built. Just normal, she supposed. But she could admit to herself that he was kind of hot in a cute, unthreatening way. With his neatly trimmed beard, his sandy brown hair that often refused to behave even when it was cropped short, and observant green eyes, he was the sort of guy you’d pass in the street and think . . .

  Nice. He’s nice.

  Chelsea suppressed a groan. What was wrong with her? The minute a guy appeared nice, something in her just lost interest. Well, they were right. It was time she got to the bottom of her relentless bad boy affliction.

  ‘Fine. I’m in.’

  Tom cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Don’t sound so excited.’

  Chelsea wasn’t excited, but she was intrigued. This was new territory for her.

  ‘Any other ground rules?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll pretend this a real relationship. By that, I mean we communicate with each other, spend time with each other, and generally make ourselves available to each other for the next week.’

  ‘Well, of course,’ Chelsea agreed. ‘That makes sense.’ Maybe they did think she was stupid. The thought depressed her.

  ‘Hey.’ Tom perched on the edge of the opposite sofa, appearing to read her expression. ‘I just thought it was worth pointing out because in the past you might have had some guys play hard to get. Or maybe you thought that you had to be the one to play hard to get. You know, treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen? Not in this scenario. Nice guys want to spend time with you. And you don’t have to pretend with nice guys.’

  Hmm. That sounded like a refreshing change, to be honest. Chelsea couldn’t really remember a time when she’d been with a guy who was straightforward like that. The older she got, the more complicated relationships seemed to become. Or maybe it was just the type of guys she went for. Chelsea had never considered it that way before.

  There was that one guy in high school—Jay. He’d been really sweet. Chelsea felt a pang of regret at the thought of him, but shook it off. That had been years ago, and they were both kids.

  ‘Uh oh, you’ve got her thinking,’ Nadia observed. ‘Should we be worried?’

  ‘No,’ Chelsea answered, shaking her head. ‘Thinking is a good thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘I just thought you might be reconsidering, that’s all,’ Nadia said.

  ‘No. I told you. I’m in. Tom’s my trial nice guy for a week. I got it.’ She looked up and met Tom’s eyes, and something unexpected flared between them. It filled Chelsea with heat and she dropped her gaze in shock.

  Tom was her pretend nice guy. Emphasis on the word “trial”. He was doing her a favour, that was all. If she couldn’t successfully date a nice guy who was already a friend, what hope was there for her?

  ‘Chel-see!’

  Chelsea hid her pained expression and turned to address the director of the childcare centre who had bellowed at her from across the room.

  Chelsea had started dreaming about Barb’s unusual pronunciation of her name. Or maybe it would be classified as a nightmare. The way the older woman hissed the “s” and dragged out the vowels at the end of her name with impressive volume was enough to make anyone shudder. It was like an opera singer resonating vowels so expertly it could crack glass.

  As well as the damage to her eardrums, unfortunately the kids had all caught on now, too. Instead of referring to her as “Chelsea” or “Chels”, lots of them now called her “See”.

  ‘Yes, Barb?’ Chelsea replied, stepping around the groups of playing children currently absorbed in their free-time activities.

  Barbara lowered her voice when Chelsea arrived at her side. ‘I expect Dylan’s father will be here soon to pick him up, at which point you’ll need to raise the incident with him.’

  Chelsea held back a sigh. ‘Of course. If you’re sure that you don’t want to talk to him?’

  Chelsea already knew the answer to that question, but working alongside Barb for the better part of two years, she’d learned how to manage the woman’s eccentricities. Or should that be mental problems? Frankly, Chelsea didn’t want to know. What she did know was that Barb saw herself as a captain of a ship, albeit the majority of her crew were toddlers and young children aged between two and five years old. She expected obedience, and that included from her staff, too.

  So, Chelsea generally did what was asked of her at all times, except when certain requests involved taking on more senior duties like discussing a ch
ild’s behavioural issues with a parent. Then Chelsea had learned that Barb liked some pandering to her seniority.

  Barb huffed and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Dylan’s father doesn’t like me for some reason. God knows why, seeing as they’ve entrusted the care of their youngest child to me for five days a week. People are strange.’

  Indeed they were—and that included Barb. Dylan’s dad, Matt, was a decent guy, and he’d admitted to Chelsea on more than one occasion that, while Dylan loved Barb, Matt was a bit scared of her. A lot of the parents were. Barb had a way with the children, but this didn’t extend to the adults. Fortunately for Barb, when the children were happy, so were the parents.

  But Chelsea didn’t say any of that. Instead, she said, ‘I’ll be sure to let you know if I need any input from you when I talk to him then.’

  Barb tutted. ‘That’s the problem with your generation. You’re so reluctant to take on any responsibility.’

  No, it’s not that, exactly. It’s more likely that any real responsibility in this place will need to be wrenched from your cold, dead hands first.

  A child named Maya called out at that moment. ‘See! See! See what I’ve done. Come see.’

  Oh, God, deciphering her name in her place of work was like an ongoing comprehension task, thanks to Barb.

  Chelsea jumped on the opportunity to end the discussion with Barb and walked over to Maya.

  ‘Hey, Maya. What’s that you’ve got there?’ She crouched down beside her.

  Maya was a chatty and intelligent three-year-old girl who had recently mastered the fine art of Duplo building. Chelsea listened intently as the girl explained what her creation was. Chelsea loved how kids this age had so much creativity, not an ounce of self-consciousness, and plenty of pride in their work without being egotistical. Aside from the temper tantrums and toileting issues, Chelsea often wondered if the world would be a better place if no one ever grew up.

  Lord knows Chelsea had tried hard to never grow up, but it hadn’t gone exactly to plan. Instead, she found herself surrounded by kids on a regular basis, usually preferring their company to adults. Oh well. At least she got paid for it.

  When Barb settled the children down for afternoon story time, Matt arrived to pick up Dylan. Before Dylan could see his father, Chelsea quickly went over and indicated that he should join her outside.

  ‘Uh oh,’ Matt said, when they were out of sight from everyone. ‘Should I be worried? At least it’s you coming to talk to me and not Barb.’ He cast a concerned look inside, and Chelsea resisted the urge to place a comforting hand on Dylan’s arm.

  Barb had already spoken to Chelsea numerous times about her touchy-feely tendencies, so she now curbed them whenever the parents were around. But she secretly soaked up all the cuddles and leg-leans she could from the children when Barb wasn’t watching.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about.’ Well, nothing new, anyway. ‘There was another incident today where Dylan lost his temper and bit one of the other boys on the shoulder. The boy is fine, but we need to tell both sets of parents about it.’

  Matt swiped a hand through his dark brown hair. ‘Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to swear. I just don’t know what to do about it. Our older children never lashed out like this. But Tori and I were still together then, and maybe that’s got something to do with it.’

  ‘Matt, please don’t blame yourself. In my experience, some children are biters. While it’s possible there’s a reason for it, there are plenty of times it simply comes down to their personality type.’

  ‘Wonderful. Should I steel myself for the teenage years ahead because he’s going to get into fights? I was never like that, and I just can’t relate.’ Matt’s dark eyes swam with concern.

  ‘Not at all. He’s a toddler and gets frustrated from time to time. He just needs to be taught better ways to deal with his frustration. We encourage him to use his words and to take some quiet time. There are lots of methods he can learn to self-settle that we’re working with him on.’

  ‘Thank you. And I mean that. You girls are wonderful. You, particularly. He’s always so happy when he comes home each day and he chats constantly about you. Chelsea this, and Chelsea that. It means a lot that you spend so much one-one-one time with him, and it makes me feel slightly better about him being here full-time . . .’

  Chelsea noted the word “girls”, which she was pretty sure didn’t include Barb, and she was secretly flattered that he’d thought to compliment her personally. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but she had been making an effort to spend extra time with Dylan where possible so he’d feel comfortable with the change to his routine.

  But gosh, the guilt couldn’t be healthy for Matt. Dylan had only been at Kinder Kids two days a week until Matt had split with his wife six months ago. Since then, he’d been there every day.

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. Dylan’s doing great, and you’re right, he is happy here.’

  ‘Apart from when he bites the other kids.’

  ‘Matt, I’m not telling you about it to make you feel bad, OK? It’s our duty of care to tell you, that’s all. There’s no judgement associated with it.’

  Matt sighed. ‘I know. I’ve never felt anything but support from everyone here.’

  ‘And that’s the way we like it. Why don’t we go get Dylan? I know he’s looking forward to seeing you.’

  Chelsea ushered Matt inside, and as soon as Dylan saw his father, his eyes lit with joy. He jumped up and crashed past several other kids as he ran into his father’s arms.

  ‘Everyone say, “bye-bye, Dylan”,’ Barb instructed the children.

  The children echoed Barb and lots of waving followed. Chelsea felt a pang of sympathy for Matt. Since he and Tori had split, he saw his children far less, and you could physically see the weight of the separation from his children bearing down on his shoulders.

  When Dylan and Matt were gone and the children had returned their attention to the book, Barb mouthed “Break time”. Chelsea didn’t need to be told twice.

  She slipped into the break room and grabbed her much-needed afternoon can of Coke and her mobile phone before collapsing onto the old sofa that smelled faintly of mould. Chelsea had experienced far worse smells working with a group of under-fives, so she was able to tolerate a musty, second-hand sofa.

  She took a swig of the caffeinated beverage—she didn’t drink coffee but allowed herself one Coke a day—and flicked through the messages and emails on her phone. She hadn’t had a chance to check them since she’d arrived at ten that morning and it was now three in the afternoon. This wasn’t uncommon. When she did the later shift from ten until six, calling her lunch break a break was laughable and usually involved scoffing down whatever food she could manage in a few minutes between dealing with the kids. Afternoon story time was her only opportunity for a genuine break because story time was Barb’s thing.

  ‘And may that always be the case, amen,’ Chelsea muttered.

  She blinked when she saw two messages from Tom and hesitated before opening them.

  ‘So it begins. I wonder what Mr. Nice Guy has got planned for day one.’

  Just then, Kendra, their young trainee, rushed into the break room looking wild-eyed, and Chelsea stood up.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Poop level four. Seriously gross. We’ve run out of wipes.’ Kendra stood on the spot, her eyes darting around the room desperately. ‘Barb’s reorganised again, hasn’t she? When does she even find the time?’

  Chelsea went straight to the storage supply cabinet and tossed Kendra two packs of wipes. ‘Pretty sure she never leaves. One should be enough, but always good to have a spare. Will you be alright?’

  Kendra caught the packs easily and grimaced. ‘I’ll be fine. You need a break. Michael’s digestive system, on the other hand . . . what is the deal with that?’

  Oh dear. Poor Michael’s bowels were always causing the girls problems. One week he was backed up, the next flowing freely. Chelsea didn’t r
epeat the offer of help as she really wanted to enjoy the rest of her drink and read Tom’s messages.

  Kendra dashed back out the door, and Chelsea returned to her seat. She read Tom’s most recent message first.

  You’re not playing hard to get, are you?

  ‘Oh, shit.’ Chelsea scrolled up to the earlier message.

  How about a swim down at the beach after work? If you’re on the late shift, I can meet you there around six-thirty. I’ll bring your swimmers and towel. Just tell me where to find them.

  ‘Damn.’ Tom had sent that message well before lunch.

  Great start to your Mr. Nice Guy trial, Chelsea.

  She typed a reply quickly.

  I’m so sorry. Chaos here at work today. Every day really. Only just checked my messages. A swim sounds great. Red or blue swimmers in the top left of my chest of drawers will do. See you then.

  Chapter Three

  Chelsea inhaled the salt air gratefully as she closed the door to her hatchback, then walked towards the sand. A walk or a swim at the beach after work was a great way to shift from frazzled to revived.

  She still found herself needing to pinch herself occasionally. In Sydney, she’d lived too far from the beach to head there straight after work. Or if she had, she probably wouldn’t have arrived until after dinnertime and would have had to pay a fortune in parking.

  One of the things she loved about Newcastle was there were generally no parking charges and limited restrictions, and everyone was only about twenty minutes from the beach. In Chelsea’s case, she was only five minutes away. It was absolute bliss.

  She spotted Tom down on the sand. Or at least she thought it was Tom. He was facing the water, shirt off, his brown hair tousled by the breeze.

  Chelsea swallowed. Tom. Shirtless.

  Weird.

  Despite sharing an apartment, they had their own ensuite bathrooms and were always careful to be respectful of each other’s privacy. Probably on account of the fact that he was her big brother’s friend. But now it struck Chelsea as odd that she’d never once seen him without his shirt since living together. They weren’t prudes, for goodness’ sake.