Page 7 of The Kiss Principle

But then I hit the dregs of morning traffic, cars piling up ahead of me, some jackass trying to shoehorn himself in. The sun off the glass started to give me a headache, and the Escalade was too hot now, so I buzzed the window down and fought a wave of nausea.

What the fuck, I thought, was wrong with me?

I’d shoved the baby into the arms of a total stranger. I’d run off like a maniac—why? To keep an appointment with a doctor who was, admittedly, nice, and who had also told me she had no intention of buying from me?

Not a total stranger, I argued with myself. Not some rando off the street. The agency vetted him. Approved him. Trained him. He’d looked comfortable with the baby in his arms. Not quite all there, maybe, but he didn’t have to be a rocket scientist. He had to be careful with her, make sure she was changed, fed, warm, safe.

A call came in on the Escalade’s system.

“Mr. Lopez? This is Brigitta with Not So Nanny. I am so sorry we missed your call.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “It all worked out.”

“I’m so happy to hear that. Now, I know we weren’t able to accommodate your needs today, but I do have Zora lined up for the end of the month, and if it’s a good fit, I believe she’ll be interested in discussing the possibility of a long-term arrangement.”

My brain cycled around Zora. Does she wear a mask? That was a knee-jerk thought, the kind of dumb joke that would have made Augustus groan. And then the rest of that sentence freight-trained through my head.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, typically a nanny likes to meet a family before committing—”

“What do you mean you weren’t able to accommodate—what do you mean? He’s there. He’s there right now.”

She made a vexed little noise. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see anything on your paperwork. Let me put you on hold.”

He’d rung the doorbell. He’d rung the fucking doorbell, and I’d—

The way he’d stared when I’d put the baby in his arms.

The way he’d tried to say something.

A rash of sweat broke out across my forehead, my face, my chest. I spun the wheel and whipped the Escalade around.

5

The drive home, parking, running into the house—they were all a blur. I was distantly aware of the flush of heat roaring through my body, the way my hands trembled, how far off the house seemed, like I was seeing it through a telescope. I had to try twice to get the key in the lock. Then the door swung open, and I stared.

He—whoever he was—was sitting on the couch, rocking the baby in his arms as he sang quietly to her. He glanced up at me, and some of that tumbling mass of hair hung in his eyes, but he didn’t speak. He turned his attention back to the baby, still singing. It wasn’t Spanish. Portuguese, maybe; it had the sound of Portuguese, anyway.

The song ended. With a grunt, he scooted forward on the sofa, shifted the baby to one arm, and used his free hand to get to his feet. He glanced at me again and then down at the baby. She was asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling slowly. When I held out my hands, he passed her to me, and I carried her into her room—Augustus’s room—and laid her in her crib.

He was standing by the door when I got back to the living room. I stared at him, trying to think of what to say. How to explain. To myself as much as to him. The exhaustion. The desperation. The brain fog.

But before I could put words together, the rush of adrenaline faded, and exhaustion rolled in. I rubbed my eyes, and a yawn caught me. That made him smile, but it was gone again in an instant.

And instead of anything I’d planned, what I said was “Holy Christ, I need a beer.”

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning.” The words were quiet and held that faint accent I’d heard the first time.

“You’re right. I need to smoke.” I found my vape and hit it. The spiky, earthy taste filled my mouth, and I held the vapor in my lungs for as long as I could before I blew it out again. I held the vape out to him, and he shook his head.

“I don’t think you should do that. Not in the house. Not with the baby.”

I scratched my eyebrow. “No,” I said, and a laugh unraveled inside me. “No, I guess I shouldn’t.”

And then it all hit me at once: Mom and Cannon and Chuy, the surprise of finding the baby, the disappointment, yet again, of giving in and giving up. The exhaustion of the last couple of days, the fog inside my head, the memory of standing there, staring at the two different car seats, trying to make a decision and wanting to cry because my brain seemed to have shut off. Everything from this morning, from the moment I’d opened the door and seen him standing there, and how badly I’d screwed up. I remembered being eight years old and Augustus wouldn’t stop screaming and I didn’t know what to do.

“So,” I somehow managed to say. “You’re not the nanny.”

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