Page 499 of The Winslow Brothers

Maria

Sweat dots my brow and my arm aches as I finish blow-drying the last few pieces of my dark hair.

I love my hair, I really do—I’ve been blessed with the kind of thick locks most women would kill for. But let me tell you, it’s no easy feat getting this hair of mine to dry in a practical amount of time, and it’s even harder now that I’m not the only person I have to get ready.

I steal a glance at Izzy in the mirror, still calm and quiet in her bouncy chair—thank God—and then check the clock on the far side of my vanity. With only an hour left until my showing across town, I’m going to have to move double time.

More sweat dots my brow, and I stop mid-brush to fan my face.

Holy hot tamales.I shouldn’t be sweating like this fresh out of the shower, but that’s what forty-five minutes of blow-drying will do to a girl.

Confident my hair is as good as it’s going to get, I add a little extra deodorant and spin on my bare feet to look directly down at my girl. Her cheeks pull up in what I’m convinced is a barelythere smile, and my heart clutches.I don’t know that I’ll ever get over being the center of someone’s universe.

I don’t have time to get sentimental and teary-eyed right now, though, so instead, I get sassy.

“Girlfriend, we have to get our asses moving if we’re going to make it to the showing in time,” I tell her with a hand to my bare hip. “I have to get dressed. I have to get you dressed. And then, I’m sure, you’re going to want to eat.”

She sucks on her bottom lip.

“Oh, I know, honey. Food is always your top priority,” I say and reach down to pick her up. “It’s mine too. But today, we have to do clothes first.”

Into the walk-in closet of my bedroom with Izzy on my shoulder, I grab a bra, underwear, my favorite black Chanel pencil skirt and matching jacket, and a black silk top to match.

Normally, I’d go with a white or soft pink blouse, but spit-up is a real and constant hazard in my life these days, and black hides mess better. I walk back out to my room, and the clock on my nightstand glares at me with hard facts.

I only have forty more minutes to get us dressed and get Izzy fed if I’m going to have a full fifteen minutes to get across town—which, honestly, is pushing it. Sure, to most people, even me a year ago, that sounds like plenty of time. But once you add a baby into the mix, time seems as if it evaporates.

Come on, Maria, pick up the pace.

I gently lay Izzy in the center of my bed while I get dressed and slip on some heels, and then I pull her back into my arms and head into her nursery.

“What are you going to wear today?” I muse as I scan her closet for options.

A pink onesie with kittens? No.

A yellow dress with bumble bees? Nope.

Balloon onesie with “I’m a floating baby” in big letters on the front?Hell no.

“All you have is frilly lace dresses and sleepers with cute animals on them,” I say out loud as I run my fingers along the clothes hanging in her closet. “This isn’t the vibe we need right now, Iz. All these things scream ‘I’m a baby,’ and Eleanor hates babies.”

I need a power suit. A pencil skirt. A sporty blazer, at the least.

It sounds crazy, I know, to want to dress Izzy up like a business professional, but since leaving her alone in the apartment isn’t exactly an option at this ripe age, I’m kind of in a bind.

The last time I showed Eleanor Waverly an apartment, when she spotted the fourth bedroom that was being used as a playroom, she said, “Ew. I hate kids.”

Nerves clutch my belly.Man, I hope she doesn’t get pissed that I’m bringing Izzy with me to this showing and, like, curse her out or something. People don’t cuss at babies, right?

I’d push this off onto one of my new agents, Daniel or Brenda, but they arenotready for someone like Eleanor. She’s tough-as-nails, rude-as-hell, and the revenue she’ll generate for the company is too much to risk.

When I glance down at Izzy’s denim-blue eyes, she doesn’t look nearly as concerned as she should be.

“Yes, I’m fully aware youarea baby, but I need you to not look like a baby,” I tell her. “You’re a very small adult, okay?Verysmall. Start getting into character now.”

Izzy sucks on her bottom lip, her mind more consumed with food than anything else.

“All right, all right. You’re a foodie. We can work with that,” I state crazily, carrying Izzy back to my bedroom and into my walk-in closet.

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