Page 16

MY LIFE AS A LANDLORD

Tyler

Just to prove the guys wrong, I call Sabrina the second I leave the gym. She answers right away in a breathless voice that scrambles my brain. “Hi, Tyler.” She sounds upbeat but slightly distracted. “Nope, that one. In the milk crate,” she says, not to me.

Jealousy flares. Is a guy helping her move? Is she seeing someone new? And if so, why the hell did I agree to this arrangement? If she’s dating another guy while living under my roof, I’ll personally smack myself with a wet, smelly sock.

“Just calling to see if you need any help,” I say, sliding into my car and turning it on.

She laughs lightly. “I’m all good. I hardly have anything,” she says, still sounding like she’s half-focused on someone else.

“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.”

“When you’ve lived above a garlic hot dog place, you definitely seek it out.” She waves in the direction of the place she used to live.

“I hate garlic,” I say.

“What do you know? Me too,” she says, playfully. “But that wasn’t the worst part of the Garlic Palace,” she says, and I’m about to ask what was, but she keeps talking, sort of like how she did in the hotel room that night. S haring . “The worst part was I had to stop fostering kittens. ”

“That sucks,” I say, remembering her affection for fostering.

“But I still volunteer at the rescue so I get my kitten fix that way,” she says, and I learn something key about Sabrina—she definitely looks on the bright side.

I admire that about her, even though it doesn’t quite sit right with me that she had to stop.

As she sets the code, I look away.

She gasps when she walks inside, a hopeful, delighted sound.

The apartment is small but inviting, with plush beige carpet and a cozy sofa in the living room.

The queen-size bed in the bedroom is topped with a quilt from my mom, adding a homey touch, atop the sheets.

Still, there’s not much here, and I hope she doesn’t hate it. But she says, “It’s incredible.”

Sounds like she hasn’t had a lot of that lately. She sounds, too, like she’s excited about this new chapter in her life.

Trevyn and Barbara-dor follow us, and he whistles as he takes it in. “Better than our tiny cruise ship rooms.”

Gesturing to her friend, she quickly explains, “He was my skating partner in some of the shows. And we bonded over our hatred of shrimp. They served it all the time. I don’t ever eat it, or any fish.”

“I stopped eating it. Shrimp is the worst,” Trevyn says with a shudder.

They’re just friends. Close friends, sure, and I feel a little foolish for letting jealousy get the best of me earlier. There’s something nice—warm even—about seeing Sabrina with her friends.

Friends she’s clearly chosen. Rather than at her wedding , which seemed like it was chosen for her.

I relax a little more, letting go not only of my jealousy, but maybe some of my frustration over the complicated situation I’ve got myself into.

It doesn’t have to be complicated at all.

It can be easy, and it can be businesslike.

As long as I don’t let my feelings twist me up. And I won’t.

“Let me show you around,” I say, moving into boss mode.

The dog whimpers and that’s Trevyn’s cue to excuse himself.

As he takes the dog for a walk, I give Sabrina a quick tour.

Even though she could obviously figure it out on her own, I want to be a good host. Wait—a good…

landlord, even though I’m not charging her rent.

Thinking of myself as Sabrina’s landlord is an adjustment given all the things I once wanted to be for her.

“This is obviously the living room,” I say. “There’s the TV,” I add and immediately want to smack myself.

Of course, it’s the TV, you dipshit. She knows what a TV looks like.

She gives me a playful smile as her gaze dips to the blue sofa, and she pats the cushion on it. “And this is the sofa?”

“You know, I believe it is,” I deadpan then move toward the kitchenette, though, honestly, it’s more of a micro-kitchenette. There are two burners on a stove and a tiny fridge. “This is the kitchen area,” I say, showing her around. “But it’s not much, honestly.”

Her blue eyes are thoughtful, curious as she taps the little fridge, the kind you’d find in a hotel room. “And this thing that looks like a fridge is a fridge, right?”

“Pretty sure. But you never know. You should test it,” I say as I meet her gaze again.

She’s wearing shiny lip gloss and eyelashes—fake I think—that make her pretty eyes even harder to look away from.

She has on a sky-blue tank top that covers most of her stomach.

Most being the operative word. She’s paired it with leggings.

It’s the perfect moving attire, but it’s also a perfect distraction, with the way the material hugs her curves and shows off the tight, toned muscles in her arms.