Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“You sure?”
“Positive. Trevyn is helping me.”
I hate Trevyn on principle. “Who’s that?” I ask, or maybe I bark it.
“A friend,” she says, laughing.
Hmm. What’s so funny about friendship? If he is just a friend. And why didn’t I offer to help sooner? Oh, right—because I was still reeling from being blindsided by my mom. “I’m nearby if you need help lifting things.” I realize I have no clue where she lives. But I can be nearby if she needs someone who can carry heavy things. Heavier things than Trevyn can.
“I think we’re good,” Sabrina says.
“I’ll help you unload when you arrive then.”
There. Take that, Trevyn. Two can play at the “help Sabrina” game.
“See you soon.”
I’m home in ten minutes, showered a few minutes later. I refuse to be still debating what shirt to wear when Sabrina and her guy inevitably arrive.
I pull on a pair of jeans and a Sea Dogs T-shirt, totally not flexing that I play pro sports.
I head downstairs just as she pulls into the driveway in her little orange Mini Cooper. Yup. Trevyn is with her. At least, someone is, and I presume it’s him. He gets out of the car first…wearing silver eyeshadow and some kind of blush on his amber cheeks.
Okay. Cool. To each his own.
He’s lean and lanky and gives me a bright wave. “You must be the hot dad,” he says.
My first reaction is hell yes. I like the way Sabrina has described me to her friend. I like it a lot. My second is relief—since I’m pretty sure Trevyn’s not her boyfriend after all.
But before I can say a word—what does one say to being called a hot dad—Sabrina steps out and rolls her eyes his way. “Those are his words,” she says to me, like she needs to apologize for her friend.
I wither a little inside, wishing they were her words. Though, really, it’s for the best that they’re not. Since getting it on with the nanny would be a very bad idea. Something I’ll have to remind myself every day since my brain seems to keep forgetting. “Okay,” I say coolly, since I’m not sure what I should be responding to—the hot dad comment or the he-said-it-not-me comment.
Trevyn, oblivious, says, “I brought Barbara-dor too! Can she come in?” He points to a blonde Lab mix in the backseat.
“Sure,” I say, stepping back as Sabrina opens the door to let the dog out. And maybe Trevyn isn’t her guy after all, but I’m still going to carry all her things.
Because she’s my kids’ nanny.
But mostly because…I can.
I grab her duffel bag, hoist it onto a shoulder, then haul out a couple of boxes along with a milk crate, and lift her roller suitcase out of the car.
Trevyn whistles. “Well, hello there, Mister Muscles.”
“Trevyn,” Sabrina chides again.
He shoots her an innocent look. “What? That wasn’t me. That was Barbara-dor. She likes a hunky guy with a beard.”
“Right, of course. It was the dog,” Sabrina says, then catches up as I’m heading to the stairs, lined with flowerpots that Agatha planted. Shit. Something else I need to deal with. Taking care of flowers. I’ll add that to the never-ending to-do list.
“Wait. Hold on. Did you actually grab everything?” Sabrina asks, pretty blue eyes roaming over all the cargo in my arms, as if she’s counting her things.
I flash her a small smile. “Pretty much.”
She shakes her head, like she’s surprised, then says, “Wow. And thank you.” She takes a beat and says it a second time, softer this time. “Also, thank you again for the job.”
We already talked about the job on the phone, but it was mostly perfunctory, going over details and being as businesslike as possible.
Her expression is heartfelt—dangerously so. The look in her eyes is full of gratitude and warmth. And I can’t take a chance of letting it melt my heart. My life is too busy. I don’t have time for this. And I don’t have room to nurture a going-nowhere crush on the nanny.
“This is going to be great,” I say, then I lead her up the steps, to the main door, into the foyer, and show her the staircase down to the garden-level apartment attached to my home here on California Street in Pacific Heights. I rented this place a year ago when I joined the team, figuring I’d find a place to buy. But I haven’t gotten around to buying yet. Life is too busy. I should though. My agent-slash-financial advisor would tell me to get moving. For now though, I set down Sabrina’s things, then gesture to the gleaming white door with the silver keypad. “You can set your own code. It has its own entrance and everything,” I say. “Plenty of privacy.”
She’s practically bouncing. “And I bet it doesn’t smell like garlic.”
I shoot her a curious look. “Didn’t realize that was something you specifically sought out.”