Page 75 of Mister Mom

“Ugh.” I turn off the television, pick up Payne, and carry him upstairs.

“Vance?” he mumbles.

“No, sweetie, it’s Mommy.”

He rolls over and clings to his emoji pillow—the poop one—and I laugh at the memory of his arm getting stuck in the machine.

Vance was a real hero that day.

After getting Payne into bed, I close his door, checking my phone once more.

Nothing.

Uneasiness rolls inside my stomach after Payne asking about Vance. He’s attached to him. Hell, I’m attached to him. But I’ve never had a man stick around before. Even my own father wasn’t consistently in my life until I was a steady paycheck for him. Then, all of a sudden, I was pretty damn important.

Vance came into this house like a freight train and all three of us hopped on board, with smiles and open arms. The problem is, maybe the freight train was just passing through.

No, no, no. This man-made love to me like no one before. He caressed my body, kissed me tenderly. I have to stop overthinking. Vance isn’t Carver.

Feeling a little better after my mental pep talk, I go to bed hoping to be woken up by Vance.

* * *

The next morning, I’m folding the blanket we used last night and carrying the popcorn bowl to the sink when my doorbell rings.

I glance at the clock. Seven in the morning. The kids are still sleeping. No way it could be Vance unless he caught a red-eye home.

My stomach unleashes dozens of fluttering butterflies. Maybe he’s here to surprise me.

My footsteps move faster and faster the closer I get to the front door and my smile grows wider and wider.

I swing open the door. It’s not Vance. Instead it’s a small Hispanic lady in a pink uniform and a bucket in her hands.

“Hello?” I ask, wondering who the woman is and why she’s here.

“Hello, I am Marisol. Mr. Rose sent me.” She points to the name on her pink uniform.

Clean Queen.

“Why?” I ask, and, without me asking her in, she steps up onto my stoop.

“To clean.” She points to her shirt again. “Please.” Her smile is kind.

“Okay.” I let her in like a fool. “How do you know Mr. Rose?” I ask after she’s already inside with the bucket of cleaning products and probably a camera hidden up her shirt.

She hands me her card and I see ‘fully bonded’ on it, making some of the anxiety that she could be a member of the paparazzi diminish.

“I clean his condo and his friend Leo’s. And I practically raised their other friend, Jagger, when he was a boy.” Again, her smile is plastered to her lips. She’s one happy lady.

I nod a few times, my eyes instinctively moving to the stairway up to the kids’ bedrooms.

When a hand lands on my arm, I look up to see Marisol’s soft smile. “No worries, Ms. Andrews. I’m very discreet. Jagger refers me to many of his high-profile clients.”

“Thank you. Please let me know if you need anything.”

She smiles and walks into the family room.

I stand in the foyer, wondering what the hell to do with myself now.

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