Page 36 of The Nanny Game Plan
“Oh. Good. I…didn’t notice.” I say, sliding into the closest chair as I think about “great minds.”
I wouldn’t call myself a “great mind.” I made good grades in school, and do my best to engage my critical thinking skills—especially with anything I see on the internet—but I’m not the kind who goes looking for thought problems to wrestle to the ground. I’m not like Nix with his philosophical fixations or Blue with his need to get to the bottom of the spiritual mysteries of the world. I’m just a man who wants to live a good life and avoid trouble as often as I can.
But Trouble has had its eye on me lately, a fact proven by the presence of the woman settling into a chair across from mine…
It’s forcing me to think harder, deeper, and I honestly can’t say I’m a fan.
“Thinking is less painful with caffeine,” I confess, summoning a real smile to Clover’s face.
“Amen,” she says. “Especially when you’ve been up since the ass crack of dawn.” She bites her lip, making me uncomfortably aware of her mouth for a moment before she adds, “I obviously didn’t cuss in front of the girls, and I don’t plan to start.”
I huff and drag a hand through my hair. “Well, you’re a better person than I am then. I let things slip more than I should. Always have. Frederica, my ex, used to ride me about it. But at first, when the girls were babies, I couldn’t see that it mattered. They couldn’t understand what I was saying anyway. Then, by the time I realized that Ava was soaking up everything I said like a sponge who thought the word ‘shit’ was hysterical, it was too late. But I’m working on it. I am. I don’t want the girls saying something that will get them in trouble at school.”
She nods. “I wouldn’t worry about it. They were both so sweet today. Not an unkind word from either one. They really are such good little people, Dean. You’re doing a great job with them.”
My shoulders tighten. “Thanks, but I can’t take credit for that. I mean, I do my best, obviously, but their mom was the one with them most of the time. Before. Frederica was an amazing mother, right from the start.”
Clover’s brow furrows. “I’m sorry you lost her. It’s so hard. For all of you. I’ve never been married, but I can’t imagine it’s easy to lose someone you loved that much. Even if you weren’t together anymore.”
“Thanks,” I say, my throat tight. “No, it hasn’t been easy, but…” I pull in a breath, willing myself to lighten the tone.
We aren’t here to wade into the emotional deep end. We’re here to decide how best to go our separate ways. Or…not? Maybe it’s crazy, but the longer I sit here, the more firing Clover seems like the wrong call. She really does seem to have bonded with the girls, and they with her, almost instantly. Who knows if we’d get that lucky with another nanny?
“But we’re doing better than we were even a month ago, for sure,” I add. “I think going back to preschool next week and dance classes and the rest of their routine will be good for them.”
She nods. “I agree. Routine is important. And soothing. Especially for kids.”
“Yeah, it is.”
An uncomfortable smile creeps across her face as the silence stretches between us. “So…are you going to fire me or not? Not to be pushy, but the suspense is kind of killing me.”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’m still wrestling with it. But thank you. For your text and telling me more about your mom. I’m sorry you lost her so young. I hate that you had to go through that.”
She nods. “Thanks. It’s not something I share with everyone. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me or assume I’m some broken, motherless creature or something, but…” She shrugs. “But I obviously felt you should know more.”
I frown. “Do people really think that? When you tell them?”
“Sometimes. There’s definitely a change in the way people treat you before and after you share that your mom died when you were three years old.” Her lips hook up on one side. “You’re being a lot more serious and careful than you were before, for example.”
I tip my head in acknowledgement of her point. “But to be fair, we’re having a serious conversation.”
“It doesn’t have to be serious,” she says. “Look, I know?—”
The coffee maker finishes its cycle with a long, angry hiss. Clover starts to rise, but I motion for her to stay put. “I’ll get it. Sugar and no cream for you, right?”
“Yes, please,” she says, adding in teasing voice, “I like my coffee like I like my men, dark and sweet.”
I arch a brow. “I think we both know that’s not always true. Can’t get much whiter than my pale, white boy ass.”
She grins. “I don’t know. I’ve seen paler.” Sobering, she adds, “And you were never ‘my man,’ Dean. We made out. Once. Andit was great, but we already decided it wasn’t going to happen again. So…I’m not sure I see the problem here.”
I grunt and proceed to fetch the coffees. I also like mine dark and sweet, though I can’t say that’s how I like my women. Before Frederica, who was half Latina, I dated all over the racial and ethnic spectrum. I don’t think I have a “type.”
All I know is that right now, I’m finding tall girls with wild, curly hair and big brown eyes pretty damned tempting.
This one, in particular…
But if she truly doesn’t feel the same way, if this is just a “me” problem, then…
