Page 23 of Doughn't Let Me Go

Mel told me Fran loves organizing, so I’m certain this will be a fun project for her.

“I’ll do the heavy lifting,” I entice.

“Deal, sir.”

“Just Porter.”

“Fair enough, Just Porter.”

I shake my head, smiling into the coffee mug poised at my lips. “I think we’re going to get along just fine, Fran.”

“I think so too.”

* * *

FRAN: Marybelle Harp

I getthe text just as the door to the local coffee shop swings open for my first interview.

Mel and I struck a deal when I moved here: if I was going to run the company from the other side of the country, I had to hire a nanny to help lighten my workload.

I agreed, so here I am, waiting for the first potential hire.

Just like I did with Fran, I had each applicant choose the venue for where they’d like to conduct the interview. It’s another thing of mine. I do this to get to know the interviewee before we meet, because the places people feel comfortable say a lot about them.

An older woman scans the shop, and when her eyes fall on me, I know it’s Marybelle.

Slowly—painfully so—she makes her way to me.

I want to try to give her a fair chance because she took the time to apply for the job, but I can already tell she’s going to struggle to keep up with Kyrie.

Hell, I’m thirty years younger and work out regularly andIhave trouble keeping up with Kyrie on most days.

“Mr. Jones?”

I stand. “Please, call me Porter. It’s nice to meet you, Marybelle.”

“Likewise.” She takes a seat, and I sit too.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today.” I wrap my hand around my to-go cup. “Would you like a coffee?”

“Oh, no. I’ve already had the max amount today.”

“There’s a limit to how much coffee people can drink?”

Her eyes widen. “Of course there is. I read an article online once that if you drink more than twelve ounces a day, you’re seventy-five percent more likely to have a heart attack.”

I don’t think that’s true, but I decide not to call her out on it, just making a mental note that she takes her health advice from the internet.

Strike one, Marybelle.

I take another sip of my drink, pointedly looking at her the entire time. Should I let her know this is my third one of the day?

No, best not to scare the old woman.

“So, what makes you want to be a live-in nanny?”

“I hate my apartment. It’s dreadful. Way too many young people living in the complex. They’re exhausting, up at all hours of the day and night.”

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