Page 5 of Knocking up his Nanny

He nearly drops a bottle, but catches it, and pretends it was part of the show. I try to suppress a giggle as he shakes the silver mixer over both of his shoulders, with great gusto. Finally, he retrieves a martini glass, and uses a bottle of hot fudge to create a chocolate rim around the top. He pours the drink into the glass before handing it to me.

“Your drink, madam. Adult chocolate milk, as requested.”

Taking the glass from him, I shake my head with amazement. “That was very smooth. Have you done this before?”

“Yes, I pick up chicks at that vending machine all the time. These are my moves—Cheetos and chocolate milk are the best way to get laid around here. No, of course not,” he says with a laugh. “And try the drink before you start thinking I’m an expert.”

I place the glass to my lips and take a sip—damn. It’s heavenly. It’s creamy and rich and chocolatey, and far better than anything I ever expected to taste on a random fake hospital date. “Wow,” I say softly, staring at him with surprise. It’s the best chocolate milk I’ve ever tasted in my life, but I feel like it wouldn’t be classy to say that out loud.

I can tell that he’s satisfied with my response anyway, as he grins smugly and begins to put all the bottles away. I can’t help but stare at his body when he moves—his broad, muscled shoulders rippling beneath his shirt. Maybe it’s just the calming sound of the R & B music that has begun playing in the room that makes his every motion seem so suave. There’s a vibe around this man that feels a bit like magic.

I’m sure it’s just the music creating a weirdly relaxing and romantic atmosphere. And I am sure he meant it all as a joke a first, but it’s definitely working. I take another sip of the delicious beverage he created as I watch him pour himself a drink.

“What are you having?” I ask.

“Just a bit of cognac,” he tells me, turning the bottle so I can see the label: Hennessy XO.

I can’t stop staring at his beautiful hands. They look so strong and capable, yet elegant. Finely muscled arms with teal veins running up to his wrists where he has rolled up the cuffs of his white shirt—wait, is that a Rolex?

I mean, it could be a knockoff. Or it could be a cheap, second-hand Rolex. But it doesn’t look very cheap. It probably costs more than mycar.

I suddenly realize that I don’t know anything about this man. I don’t even know his name. Does he work here at the hospital? How else would he know a doctor well enough to just walk into his office and drink his liquor? A twinge of fear and insecurity begins in my gut.

“Why does a doctor have so much booze in his office? He doesn’t practice medicine drunk, does he?” I ask.

“I certainly hope not. No, I think it’s just for the evenings, when he’s upset about his wife. But I’m sure we’d be doing him a favor if we drank it all,” my date answers.

This has all been a bit fairytale-like. What are the chances that a man like this is even single? What if this isn’t his friend’s office, and it’s actuallyhisoffice? What if he’s the one who has problems with his wife?

This abruptly breaks the spell of relaxing romance that had washed over me. Even if he is being honest, even if he is single—why would he ever be interested in me? He surely wouldn’t be if he knew what a failure I am.

Looking down at the Cheetos I am still holding, which I purchased with my literal last dollar, all my stress comes rushing back to me. The images of my mother receiving chemo, the pressure of going over the hospital bills with my elderly father, giving everything I can to keep us from going under and losing the family inn. Digging in the back of the couch to try find a few extra coins so that I can afford a snack at the gas station. But then needing to sacrifice the snack so I can afford gas.

Meanwhile, that guy is wearing a Rolex and drinking liquor that costs who-knows-how-much. We are from entirely different worlds. This date was doomed to failure before it begun. And that’s why I don’t date. If he knew what a disaster my life was, he would run.

“Hey,” he says, coming over with his drink. “Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”

“I just...” I don’t really know what to say. I can’t force the words out without getting emotional.

“Come sit down and eat your Cheetos,” he says, gently placing a hand on my back and guiding me over to the soft couch. “I’m sure you’re going through a lot right now. Do you want to talk about it? Get it off your chest.”

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