Page 20 of Worst Nanny Ever
“It’s okay,” he promises. “Rob threw them back and said there was only one person whose panties interested him.”
“Did Sophie go bright red?”
“Yeah, and so did Briar.”
I pucker my lips, wishing I’d been there to see it. At the same time, I don’t regret having been here instead. Besides, I have mixed feelings about returning to Big Catch. I worked there for years, and going back as a visitor would feel bizarre, like seeing a dude you dated for months out on a first date withsomeone else.
Granted, I know my ex, Jonah the Super Tool, went out with Sophie, Briar, me, and the elusive Nora Leigh aka GingerBeerBabe at the same time, but I didn’t see it go down. I also never cared about Jonah the way I care about Big Catch. I’d felt no sense of ownership toward him. He’d claimed to be single. I was always more or less single, and I’d figured we might as well have some fun. I know it was different for Briar, who genuinely cared about him, and of course for Sophie, who was engaged to him.
But Idocare about Big Catch. It was never mine, but for a long time it had felt like mine. Even the way it smelled, like malt and hops, had reminded me of my childhood home. Because Liam and my dad had brewed beer together for years, starting when Liam was at least ten years too young to drink.
All of the over-the-top nautical touches are super dumb, given we live in the mountains, but also really dear to me—like Christmas displays in July.
I loved leading the second shift team. Figuring out which of the employees loved each other, which of them hated each other, and which of them wanted to bone. Helping them. Holding their hands as they figured out what they wanted to do for a living. What their passions were.
So, no, I don’t really want to watch anyone trying on my old job for size, whether they like the fit or not. I have a feeling it would piss me off and make me want to defend my territory, even though I left willingly.
Travis studies me, then says, “You’re dying to ask what it was like there, aren’t you?”
“No,” I say tightly. “If I’d cared, I would have gone. I hadwaymore fun here.”
He gives me a knowing look. “Okay, but I’m going to tell you what you supposedly don’t want to know. The new evening floor manager sucks, and everyonemisses you.”
I search his face for lies and see none, but I can tell he’s holding something back. “I had my doubts, but youdoknow how to improve a woman’s day,” I say. “Still, I think Ollie would like to feel included. You should bring him to one of the daytime shows.”
He leans a little closer, maybe only half an inch, but I feel the distance between us shrinking. “My parents brought me to things I shouldn’t have gone to when I was a kid, and I don’t want to subject Ollie to that. Kids should be allowed to be kids.”
I’m reminded of what Ollie said about Travis’s mysterious parentage, and my natural curiosity kicks in. “Like what kinds of things?”
His lips quirk up at the corners. “You’re imagining live sex shows or coke dens, aren’t you?”
“Just trying to get a mental picture.”
“Fashion shows. Concerts. Red carpet events.”
“Soundsterrible,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest in mock outrage. “You poor dear.”
“Itwasterrible. My mother treated me like a purse dog. My suits always matched her outfits. The kids at school eviscerated me.”
“Ouch. Okay, maybe I can share in your outrage over that. But Ollie wants to feel like he’s part of something. What about your after-school program? I bet those kids would go crazy for Ollie.”
He messes with his hair, covering the birthmark again. “I’d worry about not being able to keep an eye on him. Thinking about it makes me anxious. Maybe once I have a steady nanny.”
I tell him quickly about Nanny Rose and my idea about introducing Ollie to the little old ladies from the tea shop.
By the time I finish, he’s shaking his head.
“No?” I ask incredulously. “This is a slam dunk, Travis. You just don’t want to admit I’m brilliant.”
“That’s not it. You’re right. It’s just…I should have thought about that. I didn’t even ask follow-up questions about his old nanny. I’m so bad at this.”
There’s something earnest and sad in his eyes, and I think about that marked-up book sitting on his bedside table. A surge of affection has me reaching for his hand and squeezing it.
“You care about him. You’retrying. That means more than you think.”
“Oh shit,” he says, giving me a slow smile that’s frankly a bit devastating, “you’re being nice to me. I must seem more pathetic than I thought.”
I pat his hand, and he turns it around to clasp mine for a brief squeeze. The gentleness of his touch shocks me. This is a man who can slam those drums. I know. I’ve watched. I’ve noticed every flexing muscle.
