Page 10 of Worst Nanny Ever (Babes of Brewing #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

TRAVIS

I withdraw my candidacy.

Shame on you.

Text conversation with Rose, applicant #3

I won’t be available to watch your son.

This is a small community, you jerk. You burn one of us, you burn us all.

“Fuuuuuuck,” I say with feeling, setting my phone down hard on the coffee table.

At least Ollie’s in his room. Still, I should probably still stick a buck in the swear jar I bought for myself.

I haven’t told anyone about said swear jar. I know Bixby, for one, would have a field day.

Both of my candidates cancelled their interviews, and I just discovered why. Rachel has smeared me on every single nanny board I can find on social media?—

WARNING: Travis Thomas is a disgusting, sexist jerk who commented on my outfit and tried to make unwanted advances on me. IN FRONT OF HIS SON. And his little boy is an absolute nightmare, too. A chip off the ole sexist block. He THREW something at me.

DO NOT INTERVIEW.

Bullshit, obviously, but at least she didn’t mention my father. I want to reply and defend myself, but if I do, it’ll only get messier.

The comments are already thirsty for my blood.

I tap my fingers against the side of the table, my anxiety spinning up. Before long, people will be saying they should cancel my band. Maybe even my after-school program.

Fuck…I need to play the drums.

Hannah would say I have to “bang it out,” and she’d be right. The need is thrumming through me like a low-level electrical current. I’ve felt it constantly, for weeks now, but more so this morning.

I also need to do some major damage control.

I text Rob and Bixby, sending the link for the post, and ask them to meet up. They probably won’t get back to me for a while. I figure Bixby, at least, was up late celebrating.

Last night, we had a casual meeting with Frank, the producer who came to hear us play.

He was impressed with what he saw, and he’s coming to our Saturday afternoon show at New Belgium Brewery in a couple of weeks.

But he gave us a to-do list to finish in the meantime.

Number one is finding a rhythm guitarist. We were told to get on that stat, preferably before the New Belgium show, which is ridiculous.

A little less than two weeks won’t be enough time for us to find someone, given we’ve already been looking sporadically for months.

Rob seems to be all for working with this guy, and Bixby’s definitely a fame whore. He’s already been blowing up our group chat, blathering on about famous bass players, saying he’s going to be the next Roger Waters or Flea.

Me? I want to play my music. I want to run my after-school program with Rob. I want to figure out how to be a parent. My life might not be big, the way my parents always wanted their lives to be, but it’s mine, and I won’t let anyone take it from me.

At the same time, I don’t want to ruin things for my buddies.

Rob’s like a brother to me, and I know how much he struggled after losing his place in Bad Magic.

It took him years to find himself again.

And Bixby…he burns for this. He didn’t grow up with wealthy parents like Rob and I did—he was raised poor in rural North Carolina. Money means something to him.

So, yeah, I can’t just say no thanks.

Maybe I don’t want to, either.

I had a dream once, too. It fell apart the summer before I moved to Asheville, but it never fully left me. I still hear the call of the music. The songs that want to be heard.

The spiral inside of me needs to be vented, so I head to the music room, pausing on the way to knock on Ollie’s door. “I’m gonna play for a minute.”

“Okay,” he says after a long pause.

I linger there, wanting to say something else. Wondering if I should invite him to listen. But I feel wrong-footed, so after another second, I leave.

I play.

I pound.

I sweat.

I think about Hannah touching my arm.

Hannah, asleep on my couch .

I play louder, faster, and when I feel better, I set down my drumsticks and head to my room and take a quick shower.

Only then do I pick my phone back up. I’m not surprised Rob is the only one who responded. Bixby is probably still asleep.

Want me to hop into those nanny boards and defend your good name?

Wouldn’t they question why you’re in a nanny group?

We got this. Let’s meet at Tea of Fortune. Thirty minutes.

I don’t have a babysitter for Ollie…for obvious reasons.

What about Hannah?

My mind skips back to last night as if it’s one of the grooves in my best-loved records. To Hannah, asleep on my couch, her legs tucked up, her cheek pressed to the cushion, her hair a riot of red curls.

I’d felt something when I saw her like that.

Something I’d probably be better at putting into music than into words.

Maybe what I’d felt was simple relief. Because even though I’m not sure I trust Hannah to make the best decisions, I do believe she cares about Ollie’s welfare.

Or maybe I was moved by the innocence of her asleep, all her sarcasm and hard edges blurred away. I like her hard edges, but I liked her like that too—the smooth expanse of her cheeks, her eyelashes brushing the skin, and the sweet sounds she made as she changed her position to be more comfortable.

Truthfully, part of my resistance to the idea of Hannah taking care of Ollie is that I’m attracted to her—fiercely attracted, the way a man only can be to a woman who has the power to destroy him.

So maybe I should hire her, if only to make her completely off-limits.

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.

“Christ,” I mutter. “Am I wearing a sign asking nannies to hit on me? ”

Her hand finds the swell of her hip. “Who else flirted inappropriately, and why are they doing my job for me?”

I didn’t intend to tell her about the Rachel disaster, but the words come flying out. I explain what went down yesterday and then about the cancelled interviews, the nanny boards, and my emergency meeting with Rob.

Within seconds, she’s shaking her head. “Nope. We are not letting this go.”

“It’s a shared problem now?” I ask, amused.

“Yes. I’m going to take care of this, and then I’m going to do the kindest thing in my life and accept the job no one else wants now that you’ve been blackballed.”

“But if you solve my problem, other people will be willing to take the job,” I point out.

“And you’ll have to tell them you’ve already hired the baddest bitch you know.”

I can’t help but smile as I take in her fierce expression. “You are, you know.”

“Of course I am.” She raises her eyebrows and then lifts the abomination coffee for a sip. “So you don’t need me to babysit today anymore, I guess.”

“Why not?”

She sets the coffee cup down on the counter with enough force for it to splash.

“Keep up. The Rachel problem is in the bag. You can’t play any part in fixing it.

If you try to respond, it’ll make things a whole lot worse.

Same goes for Rob and Bixby, because they’re connected to you, and Sophie, because everyone knows she’s with Rob.

But this situation definitely requires a woman’s touch. ”

“Yes, because you handle everything with such delicacy.”

She rolls her eyes. “Who said women are delicate? Honestly, you and your stereotypes, Travis. You should be ashamed of yourself. ”

I grin at her, enjoying myself. Not even caring that there’s a growing circle of coffee around the spot on the counter where she sat her cup. “All right. I’ll give you that. I also shouldn’t have lost my temper yesterday, but?—”

“Oh, you definitely should have lost your temper.” She lifts her mug up and toasts me with it. “But, like I said, the situation is going to be handled.”