Page 15 of Worst Nanny Ever
“I wouldn’t know,” he says bitterly. “I’ve only heard recordings of his band. It’s like I told you. He won’t let me go to any of their shows.”
It’s hard to keep silent. Because, honestly. Travis is trying so hard to connect with Ollie, but he can’t see the obvious solution sitting right in front of him.
What better way to connect with his son than through something he loves?
“I’m sure he has his reasons.”
He pauses. “I don’t want to talk about Travis right now. We were talking about you becoming my nanny.”
“To be perfectly honest with you, I’d be an awful nanny.”
“I don’t care,” he replies, and the stubborn set of his jaw reminds me sweetly of Travis.
“Okay, but your dad might.” I lift my hands to cut off the protest I know is coming. “And he’d have every right to. I think I ruined that chair, and I’ve only been here for a couple of hours.”
“I’ll get the stain out,” he says. “It’s simple chemistry.”
“But you shouldn’t have to clean up after your nanny, Ollie. That’s not how this is supposed to work.”
He gives me a long, serious look. “Parents aren’t supposed to leave either. A lot of bad stuff happens. It doesn’t really matter whether it’s supposed to or not.”
There he goes again with those heart javelins.
“No, parents aren’t supposed to do that. But we’re like the heroes in fairy tales, aren’t we? They all had crappy moms or stepmoms. So let’s just say we’re super-duper, extra special. I’ll talk to your dad about all of this, though. I promise.”
“Thank you, Hannah.” He flings his little arms around my neck and hugs me, and I’m shocked by the burning in my eyes.
It’s just…
The man and woman who abandoned this child deserve a special place in hell. I truly hope they have to spend an eternity listening to a dry British narrator read a thousand-page manual about steam cleaning carpets. No, that’s not enough. They should have their eyelids peeled back and be forced to?—
“Hannah?” Ollie asks.
“Yes?”
“You can go now. I’m feeling pretty sleepy.”
I tuck him into his bed, then hand over the big stuffed sloth next to it. Something super suspicious happens to my heart when he wraps his little arms around the sloth and snuggles into the blankets, his tiny body barely a blip under the covers.
“Sleep well, little man,” I whisper.
I head into the living room, feeling restless, driven by the same curiosity that’s steered me into half of the bad decisions I’ve made. Except this curiosity runs a little deeper, with a metaphorical current I feel pulling at my toes. It’s because Travis is so closed-off, I decide. A mystery of a man.
I check out his musicroom.
I look inside his refrigerator, taking in the shocking and kind of sexy orderliness.
I tiptoe into his bedroom, feeling less guilty than I should, and look around. There’s nothing much in here other than a big, king-sized bed with a black satin comforter.
It’s easy to imagine Travis pulling off his shirt and falling into that bed, the covers draping over him.
There are a few framed album covers on the wall, a couple of floofy throw pillows that suggest he had a girlfriend at some point, but there’s a conspicuous lack of family photos.
I run my fingers over the books on his nightstand, feeling a tug on my heart when I see a well-thumbed copy ofThe Single Dad’s Handbook. I pick it up and flip through it, smiling when I see that he’s written notes in the margins.
“Hannah?” a little voice says.
I glance back and find Ollie standing in the doorway, his hair sleep mussed.
