by Tia Souders
“It is.” Blake shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Jen is what I want, and if I have to spend a month or more wrangling kids to prove I’m the kind of man her parents need me to be, then so be it.”
Grant nodded and clapped him on the arm. “Alright, then. You have my support.”
CHAPTER THREE
MEL
Inside the warm confines of her tiny apartment, Mel settled into the couch. The muffled sound of the traffic outside was nearly drowned out by the vulgar lyrics of the rap music blaring from the apartment across the hall. No matter how many times Mel had asked Diego to lower the volume over the years, he never did, and today she hadn’t the strength for that particular battle, so she did her best to ignore it. Still, it grated on her nerves. Not that there was much left of them. After the coffee shop incident yesterday, Mel had little fight left. The triplets won. They broke her spirit. She was one step away from babbling incoherently from a wheelchair with a little string of spittle hanging from her bottom lip for the rest of her days. She was that close to the brink of insanity.
But alas, there she was. A decent night’s sleep and she found the energy to go on.
And people thought miracles didn’t exist.
She took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. There was a lot riding on the next few hours.
Everything will be okay.
Everything will be okay.
Everything will be okay.
Maybe if she repeated it enough times, it would be true. After all, if everything went well with the nanny interviews she scheduled for today, then that would be one load off . . . Burning sick leave at work was no longer an option. She couldn’t spare any more days off, so unless the Unabomber showed up for an interview, someone was getting a job.
Mel settled her notebook on her lap and waited for the doorbell to ring. She could hear the sounds of the television from her bedroom where the kids were watching a movie. Last she checked, the triplets were glued to the screen with a big bowl of popcorn. From fear or fascination, Mel couldn’t be sure. She had basically threatened their very existence if they so much as blinked for the next three hours while she ran interviews.
She had spent the better part of the morning cleaning up as much as she could. Half the kid’s toys were crammed into the hall closet or tucked under her bed. Dirty dishes still sat in the sink, but she did her best to get the kitchen in order. As she sat there, waiting in the rare reprieve from wrangling kids, her eyelids grew heavy. If only she could close them and drift off . . .
The doorbell rang, jolting her off the couch. Blinking away her fatigue, she headed to the door. Naps were a luxury she couldn’t afford. So were long baths. Dinners without someone fighting or whining or spilling their milk. Adult movies. She missed watching television that didn’t involve cartoons.
On an exhale, Mel braced her hand on the doorknob and readied herself for the first nanny candidate. She bet Linda from Queens would be so amazing she’d be able to call and cancel all the other interviewees after hiring her on the spot. After, she’d weep tears of joy and squeeze in that fifteen-minute cat nap she’d been dreaming about for the last four years. Then maybe she’d discover the kids had miraculously fallen asleep while watching their movie and she could take a nice, hot soak in the tub with extra bubbles. She’d pat herself dry, lotion her skin for the first time in forever, and squeeze into her pre-baby jeans.
How’s that for a positive attitude? She grinned as she swung open the door.
Her smile fell almost instantaneously.
MEL SWALLOWED. HARD.
She liked to think of herself as open-minded. She was not a judgmental person. She was a lover of all people and believed in waving your freak flag, whatever that may be. But . . .
Oh, who was she kidding? She hated most people. Other than her two best friends Caroline and Marti, she was the epitome of anti-social.
She’d blame her hermit tendencies on her kids, but really, her aversion to humans was more due to getting burned in the past and not necessarily individual people themselves. Black, white, yellow, green—she didn’t care what color you were. She didn’t care if you were Emo—or whatever the heck the kids called it these days (in her day it was goth)—a hipster, or into cross-dressing. Who was she to judge? She was a veritable mess on a good day. But don’t let Linda Brown’s plain jane conservative name fool ya. She tested the boundaries of every preconceived notion Mel may have ever had.
She was sure heavy-metal-loving-Linda, the part-time tattoo artist and piercing specialist, was a really nice woman. Probably super kind and sensitive beneath all the leather and the stainless-steel barbells decorating her face. But as Mel’s gaze flickered from one embellishment to the next, she couldn’t help her skepticism.
Mel narrowed her eyes as Linda continued filling her in on the difference between dermal and surface piercings, only half listening. Her eyes zeroed in on the little chain hanging from her eyebrow. Inside her right nostril was something small and dark. Was it a jewel? A booger? The suspense was killing her.
Linda shouldn’t freak her out. She shouldn’t. Judging her on her appearance was wrong. What mattered was who Linda was on the inside.
Right?
If Mel had to guess, she would say that her number one client was Linda herself. Between all the metal on her face, her pink mohawk, and Marilyn Manson t-shirt, Mel’s current mental state was flirting somewhere between petrified and intrigued.
“So you don’t know the difference?” Linda asked.
Mel shook her head.
Linda snorted, seeming to enjoy herself as she explained, “Dermals are single point surface piercings, which differ from the traditional surface bar piercing. See, a needle is used to create a small hole in the skin, and then the dermal anchor is inserted. . .”
Mel winced as Linda mimed her explanation. “Mm-hm,” she murmured as if she was fully listening, but her mind wandered. She imagined coming home after a long day’s work with Linda as the nanny. Brady, Peter, and Kinsley would all undoubtedly sport fresh eyebrow piercings. They’d be belting out Metallica at the top of their lungs and have matching sleeve tattoos. Little metalheads.
Mel shuddered. “Okay.” Mel clapped her hands, and Linda paused in her spiel.
Mustering as much enthusiasm as she could, she said, “We’ll be in touch.”
TWO MINUTES INTO THE interview with Barb, the retired grade school teacher, Mel was sure she struck gold. Metal-head Linda was water under the bridge, a blip in the radar.
Offering her a plate of cookies, Barb shook her head. “No, thank you, though I’m sure they’re delicious. I try to avoid sweets. Sugar is so bad for your health. I figure if I don’t want the kids I’m caring for eating it, then I shouldn’t either. Always lead by example,” she sing-songed.
Mel’s smile engulfed her face as she set the untouched plate of cookies back on the coffee table.
“Oh, did you see the list of my specialty handmade snacks I attached to my CV?” Barb asked.
“I did.” Mel nodded and read from the list, eyes wide. “Whole grain prune biscuits, beet pulp bowls, tofu fries, seaweed chips, and green smoothies. Sounds . . . er, healthy.”
Barb nodded vigorously.
“I have to be honest with you,” Mel said, kicking herself even as she said the words. Did she want to find a nanny? “My children can be a little . . . spirited at times. What methods of discipline do you typically use for the children you watch? And how do you plan on reigning them in when they’re getting rowdy?”
Barb smiled. “No need to worry, Ms. Clark. I am skilled in breaking even the unruliest of children. I use several methods of discipline, but the one I prefer the most is one my mother used on us kids years ago.”
Breaking children? That sounded ominous. Then again, maybe Mel could learn a trick or two. Her kids could probably use some breaking.
Mel nodded encouragingly. She sat on the edge of her seat, listening intently. Was it some unique version of timeout? Rev
erse psychology? A negative reinforcement/reward system. She. Needed. To. Know. Mel could use some fresh methods of wrangling in the little rugrats.
“One thing I like to do is isolate them if there are multiples because power is in numbers.”
Huh. Mel had never thought of it like that, but it made sense. Now that Barb mentioned it, the kids did seem to ban together at times. They were like a pack of coyotes, working together and circling their prey, then pouncing all at once.
“. . .put them in separate closets and apply the age-old method of sensory deprivation,” Barb continued. “Hours of isolation, the dark, and stuffy air works wonders.”
Mel’s smile wobbled.
“And if that doesn’t work, then I dampen a thin cloth, like a washcloth.” Barb bent forward and reached into her purse, pulling out a thin, white cotton cloth. “I take this with me everywhere,” she murmured.
Mel swallowed, and the back of her neck prickled.
“I dampen this and place it over their face like so.” Barb laid the cloth over her face before removing it and continuing in her explanation. “Then I pour a steady stream of water over their faces. It feels like they can’t breathe, but they totally can.” She waved this away with a laugh. “It’s harmless and all psychological, but it sure does scare them into good behavior. Works like a charm every time.”
Mel waited for Barb to laugh. Surely, this was a joke. Barb had an odd, dry sense of humor.
She stared at her grandmotherly face, urging her to smile and say, “just kidding,” followed by a hearty chuckle. But nothing.
Maybe she misunderstood. Although the picture she painted was pretty clear.
When it became clear Barb wasn’t going to say anything else, Mel held a finger up. “Um. I think that’s called waterboarding. The military used to use it as a tactical form of torture to extort information from terrorists and war criminals.”
Barb’s smile stiffened. A wrinkle creased her brow. “Yes, and?”
MEL SLAMMED THE DOOR closed, then immediately grabbed her phone off the coffee table. Who knew her interview would end with a phone call to the police? But she couldn’t exactly let crazy Barb walk around abusing children.
Afterward, she stumbled her way into the kitchen like a zombie. Bracing her hands on either side of the sink, she stared out the window like a man lost at sea, thinking, there has to be more than this provincial life.
Oh, kill her now. Even for her, she had hit an all-time low if she was quoting Disney characters.
She turned her head, slightly dazed. All four interviews thus far had been a disaster, with each one worse than the next. New York City had millions of people in it, yet this was the best she could get?
Her gaze snagged on the half-full bottle of merlot she had bought in a moment of desperation a couple nights ago. Reaching for it, she pulled out the plastic cork and slugged straight from the bottle. Breathless, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand—because she was a lady, thank you very much—then placed it back on the counter. Maybe when the final interviewee came, she’d hide and drown herself in the remaining dregs of the bottle, rather than answer the door.
To say she was scraping the bottom of the barrel was an understatement. Where were the cute college kids looking for a good job come summer break? Or the retirees who needed “something to do” with all their spare time while earning an extra dollar? Where were the stay-at-home-moms whose own children had flown the coop, and now they were lonely and wanting three little rug rats to wrangle? This. Could. Not. Be. It.
When the doorbell rang, she groaned. She swung her head, glancing mournfully toward the sound. As much as she didn’t want to answer, she had little choice. She couldn’t afford to lose hope. At this point, Freddy Krueger could be her next interviewee and she’d have to accept. It was either that or call her parents and beg them to move back because she couldn’t manage her own life and responsibilities.
With a resigned sigh, she said a prayer this wouldn’t be as painful as expected and headed for the door. On the count of three, she yanked it open.
Her mouth dropped, and three thoughts came rapid-fire. First: it’s a man. Second: it’s a hot man. And third: holy crapola . . . It’s the man from The Burnt Bean.
Mel blinked into the void that was her open doorway, convinced this was some sort of joke. “Um . . .” she said dumbly.
The man blinked. A flicker of recognition burned in those dark brown eyes, followed by surprise.
“It’s you.” Mel pointed.
His answering scowl wasn’t very reassuring. “It’s me,” he said, and his deep voice hit her like a sledgehammer.
The vision of her pinwheeling across his table, coffee gushing all around her, hit her full force. The memory of his hand brushing hers as he handed her napkins. How the touch nearly jolted her out of her skin. The encounter was already awful but was made worse by his level of attractiveness. The next time she tripped over her children, she’d be sure she fell onto the table of someone with crooked teeth, pock-marked skin, body odor, and a lazy eye.
Mel screwed up her face, trying to compute the coincidence of his presence outside her door. “What . . . why are you here?” she asked because there was no way he was her next interview.
How did he even find her? Maybe he was there to inform her that, despite the fact her coffee had been iced and filled with cream, it was somehow miraculously hot and he was suing her for third-degree burns. That scenario was much more in line with her current life status.
“I can’t believe . . .” He dragged a hand down his face and glanced around him like he, too, couldn’t fathom the coincidence that he was standing there in front of her. “What are the odds,” he said, still not answering her question.
Mel braced one hand on the door frame and peered out into the hallway as if this was all a joke. Diego’s music still blared, the musician rapping some abominable lyrics about big booty.
In front of her, the man took a step back, as if debating something. Then he dropped his hand from his face and said, “I’m your one o’clock interview.”
A gurgling sound spluttered from her chest, morphing into a chuckle. “Okay. You’re my next interview? Right.”
He laughed good naturedly and glanced to the ground before piercing her once again with eyes the same shade as espresso. “I know this is super weird, but I am.”
Her laughter faded. The joke’s dead, dude.
But he stared at her straight-faced.
“Wait. You’re serious?”
He let out a small laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, almost like he was afraid to admit it. “One hundred percent.”
Mel turned abruptly and headed for the coffee table to her abandoned notebook. Swiping it up, she swiveled around, feeling unsteady on her feet, which she couldn’t blame on the half-glass of wine, but instead, on the presence of the gorgeous hunk of man-flesh at her door.
Settle down, libido.
When she glanced up from her folder, she halted. He’d followed her in.
With a nervous flutter in her stomach, she glanced at her printout of interview candidates. “So, you’re Blake?”
He nodded, his eyes fixed on hers as she tried to regain some measure of composure. “I assumed you were a woman.”
He grinned. “Blake is typically a male name.”
“Blake Lively,” she pointed out.
“It’s one of those names, then. Would you prefer it if I were a woman?”
Was the pope catholic? “Yes.”
He pursed his lips at this. “And why is that?” He crossed his arms over his chest, causing his biceps to swell. She really wished he wouldn’t do that.
“Because . . .” She searched for a reason. Why didn’t she want a male nanny? Because women were traditionally caretakers? Since when was she an advocate for traditional roles? Or was it more that she didn’t trust men?
Alex Trebek’s voice shouted in her head, Ding, ding, ding, that is correct!
“Why would a man wa
nt to take care of children all day?” she asked. “It’s not typical.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Maybe it’s not the norm, but guys can be into kids, too.”
She raised a brow, and he held his hands out in front of him. “Okay, that sounded a little creepy and is definitely not how I meant it. I’m not into children. I just like kids.”
This time, she shot him a double brow raise, and he growled. “Not like that. You know what I mean, but why do I get the impression that anything I say, you’re going to twist it?”
“You’re not making it hard.”
“True.” He pursed his lips. “Do I at least get to sit down for this interview?”
She hesitated, then relented because who was she kidding? Even if she did question the intentions of a thirty-something male who wanted to watch kids for a living, he was the best prospect she had.
That little kernel of truth had her waving toward the couch. “Have a seat.”
He sat down on the sofa, his large frame dwarfing it. “Listen,” he said. “I think kids are fun. I want kids of my own someday, and I’m getting closer to that phase in my life. I’d really like it if you gave me a chance.”
Mel narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure how I feel about a male nanny. Are you single?”
“No. I’m . . . hopefully, I’m going to be engaged by the end of the year.”
He tapped the knee of his jeans, so nonchalant like there was nothing weird about him—this guy—sitting there in her living room. Mel had no idea what to think. Was he stalking her? Was this one giant coincidence? And though she fully believed in equal rights for both men and women, she wasn’t sure how she felt about the prospect of a male nanny. Wrong or not, she couldn’t help it. In this day and age, you couldn’t be too careful, and men were statistically more likely to be a lot of things—serial killers, child predators, perverts, abusers. The list went on.
