Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“So you have a driver’s license,” Mabel said, briskly moving on. “How about a car?”
“I had one.” Veronica hesitated. “I might still have it. I’m just not sure.”
“You’re not sure?” Even Mabel’s voice was wavering now.
“Well, technically it probably belongs to Neil. He bought it for me.”
“How about cooking skills?” Mabel threw out the question, and I saw her crossing her fingers at her side. “Can you make any meals?”
“Besides fried bologna sandwiches?” Veronica laughed nervously. “Not too many.”
“So you don’t have any experience, you don’t have a car, you can’t cook, and you don’t have any references,” I said, mostly for Mabel’s benefit.
“No,” Veronica said. “I mean, yes. All that is true.” Then she pressed her shoulders back and straightened her spine. “Other things I don’t have include a college degree, a trust fund, a rich dad—or any dad at all—and currently, I am probably homeless. All in all, I realize I’m not an ideal candidate for any job right now. But.” She lifted her chin. “I do have grit. And resilience. And self-respect—qualities that I think are important to teach kids. I’m creative and fun. I can turn anything into a game. Maybe I’ve never been a nanny before, but I like kids, I’m responsible, and I know how to memorize a routine. Bonus—I give really good hugs.”
Her blue eyes pinned me with a stare, and I had to admit, her words were persuasive. Her delivery was confident. She truly believed she could do this job.
But I wasn’t convinced. I couldn’t trust my kids to a stranger—I just couldn’t. And I didn’t want to live with one.
Especially not this one, whose eyes and mouth and bare shoulders were doing things to my insides I wasn’t comfortable with.
“I’m sorry,” I said shortly. “But it’s not going to work out.”
And before either of them could argue with me, I strode through the kitchen and out the back door, and I didn’t stop moving until I got inside my garage workshop, where I picked up a piece of sandpaper and started rubbing an old floor plank, just because it was the closest thing at hand.
It was fine, I told myself. It would be the usual kind of summer, and I loved those. I’d take the kids camping and hiking and swimming. We’d visit Mackinac Island and Sleeping Bear Dunes. We could go fishing and water-skiing and tubing off Xander’s boat.
I paused, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm.
Maybe when the kids went out to stay with Sansa in July, I’d take a little road trip myself. I’d sold my bike after the twins were born, but maybe I could rent one. If I stayed in California, I could ride the Pacific Coast Highway. Or go somewhere new—the Badlands in South Dakota, or Independence Pass in Colorado. Maybe that’s what I needed, open road and freedom. Solitude. Time off. Time out. Maybe this tension in my neck and back and shoulders would ease up.
Hell, maybe I’d meet a cute bartender in some roadside dive, somebody with long legs, blond hair, baby blue eyes, and a mouth that curved like the highway around the mountains. Maybe she’d take a ride with me and wrap her body around mine, the engine thrumming between our legs. Maybe later, she’d ride more than just my bike. Lost in the fantasy, I stopped sanding for a moment and relished the feeling of blood rushing to my crotch, my cock surging to life. I closed my eyes and imagined my hands on her skin, her breath in my ear, the taste of her tongue as she rocked her hips over mine.
But when I realized I was dream-fucking the potential nanny I’d just rejected, I tossed the sandpaper aside and went over to the small fridge at the back of the garage. Pulling it open, I grabbed a beer, pried the cap off, and tipped it up. The cold, crisp IPA went down fast, putting out the fire. I wandered out the open garage door and sat down in one of the four Adirondack chairs that circled a small fire pit on the stone patio behind the house.
The windows in the house were open, and through the screens I heard the usual dinner routine begin—Mabel shouting for the kids that it was ready, telling them to wash their hands. Adelaide yelling back “Okay!” and Owen protesting that he’d just washed them a little bit ago because he’d gone to the bathroom. The clatter of plates and forks. The clunk of pans on the stove. The argument over who got their milk in the giant plastic cup I’d won last year at the summer carnival. Owen claimed it was his night for the cup, but Adelaide insisted that Owen had traded it for her cookie at lunch today.