Page 25 of Worst Nanny Ever
I rub my eyes, feeling very tired indeed, and text her.
Are you free for an hour or so? I have to meet up with Rob for an important discussion.
This is just like you, Travis, to ice me out for a month and then ask me to jump and expect me to ask how high.
Six inches.
Disappointing.
I swear under my breath, then write:I wasn’t talking about my dick. You definitely wouldn’t be able to jump that high.
Okay, not sending that. I delete the message, then write:
Can you come?
How much coffee do you have?
I’ll make a pot just for you.
Now you’re speaking my language.
Does this mean you want to hire me? Should I buy myself a Mary Poppins bag?
Maybe, if you’re still up for it. But there’s something you should know.
She doesn’t reply, but ten minutes later, there’s a knock on the front door.
I open it to Hannah.
She’s wearing a loose long-sleeved shirt, paired with gym shorts and a headband that’s doing fuck all to tame her hair.
“Don’t look at my hair,” she practically growls. “It’s way too early for this.”
“It’s ten.”
“Exactly. I didn’t get to bed until past four last night.”
I nod in the direction of the kitchen—and the coffee scent emanating from it.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she says, striding in that direction.
I follow her, wondering how she spent the two hours after she left my house. Did she head straight over to some guy’s house for a booty call?
It’s none of my damn business, but I’d still like to know.
Once we’re in the kitchen, I fill a mug with coffee for her. She takes it, then dilutes it with cream from the fridge, pouring until it’s barely coffee colored. Then she finds my sugar pot and dumps in two spoonfuls.
She snorts without looking up. “I can feel the judgment emanating from you. I’m guessing there’s a proper way to make coffee, and this isn’t it?”
I laugh, although I’m not sure if it’s at her or at myself. “No. I don’t care how you drink your coffee. I mean, it’s an abomination, but I had every intention of keeping that to myself.”
She glances up at me, and I realize her eyelashes are a golden red when she’s not wearing makeup. It’s hard to look away now that I’ve noticed. It’s like I’ve been let in on a secret.
“No one actually likes the taste of coffee,” she says. “It tastes like dirt soaked in water.”
“You have a lot of experience drinking dirt?”
“I swallow lots of things,” she says with a smirk.
