Page 59 of Worst Nanny Ever
“She did?” he asks, clearly perplexed by the idea. “But why?”
I gesture toward her. “Because she genuinely wants to include people, and better yet, she’s good at it. You could learn a lot from her.”
He heaves a sigh. “It sounds like I have a lot to learn in general.”
“Lucky for you, old dogscanlearn new tricks.”
My phone buzzes, and I pick it up, smiling when I see Travis’s name.
Travis:Are you free for shopping?
Me:Yes, please. DYING to hear how it went with the donuts.
Travis:Poorly.
Me:You know how to leave a girl wanting more.
Travis:Very poorly.
Me:Meet me at the tea shop.
I set the phone down with a click and find Eugene staring at me.
“Who was that?” he asks.
I raise my eyebrows.
“I was just trying to take an interest,” he says, gazing into his empty teacup. “You told me I should take an interest in people.”
I didn’t mean me, but it would be hypocritical to say so. “It was my boss, technically.”
He gives me a look I can’t interpret. “And do you have a strong feeling of mutual respect?”
I find myself smiling at him. “What do you know, Eugene, I think we do.”
We eat the rest of our breakfast, and I manage to get a few salient facts out of him.
Eugene is sixty-seven. His birthday is on Flag Day,whenever that is. His ex-wife is an accountant, and his son is some kind of computer genius. His spirit animal is a hedgehog, and he has very strong opinions about cheese, which scheduling app is “superior,” and basically everything.
When we’re finished, the dark-haired server comes by to grab the dishes, and I tell Eugene, “It’s time for you to join the elder brigade. We’ll talk later about the kick-ass staff party we’re going to plan together.”
He adjusts the bridge of his glasses unnecessarily. “I’m not convinced a party’s necessary.”
“Oh, it’s necessary. Give me your phone.”
He shoots me a distrustful look.
“I’m just going to plug my number into it.”
He passes it over, and I save my number under THE OLD EUGENE before calling myself so I have his number too.
“Very funny,” he says when he sees it.
“I thought so. Now, come on. Be sociable. Consider it practice. I’m sure they’re having a perfectly normal conversation.”
He grumbles but stands up to join me. Of course, as we walk up to the table of four older ladies, one of them, whom I’ve nicknamed No-Nonsense Constance, says, “I told my granddaughter that I’d like to be cremated, and I want her and her boyfriend to sneak me into the Biltmore Estate and toss my ashes in the Italian Garden.”
“Wouldn’t the fishes eat you?” asks Penny, Sophie’s aunt. She’s not religious, but she makes the sign of the cross on her chest. “I’d rather eat fish than be eaten by them.”
