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

CHAPTER TWO

HANNAH

Being unemployed is fantastic. Seriously! I get to do whatever I want, whenever I want. Today, I’m doing special event makeup for Tallulah, who’s getting hitched to two dudes who run a goat farm.

Yes, she’s marrying both of them. (Well, symbolically.)

Tallulah used to come to Big Catch—the brewery where I worked as the evening floor manager—to buy the occasional keg for events at the goat farm.

Goat yoga with microbrews is their big moneymaker.

We got to talking, and I mentioned that I was a professionally trained makeup artist. So she reached out to me a few weeks ago and offered me a trade: all the goat milk soap and cheese I could possibly want in exchange for doing her bridal makeup.

I’m lactose intolerant and iffy about goat soap, but you can bet your butt I said yes. I mean, I had questions .

For one, why would a woman bother getting symbolically married to two men? Isn’t one man enough of a burden?

It looks like I’m about to get my big chance to interrogate her, because event makeup takes time, and we just finished cleansing and moisturizing her face in one of the bathrooms in the delightful cottage on the goat farm.

The farm is between Asheville and Black Mountain, and it looks like it was plucked out of one of those German cautionary fairy tales my dad used to read to us, where someone always loses a hand or an eye.

It’s especially lovely at this time of year, with the leaves on its many trees turning gold and orange and red.

Even the bathroom is delightful. There’s a deep copper tub and plenty of room for a chair in front of the sink and mirror, which is making my job a lot easier.

“Sooo,” I say as I start to apply primer on her smooth cheeks. “Isn’t it a bit hard to juggle two men? Men are so …” I make a face to indicate I don’t even have words for them.

“Oh, they’re both lovely,” Tallulah replies with a pitying look. “Very in touch with their emotional selves. I love them, and they love each other. There’s a lot of hate in the world, but there’s so much love to go around.”

I have to snort. Literally have to.

“Sorry,” I say, continuing with the application. “I was just thinking about my ex, Jonah. He had plenty of love to go around too. He was seeing four of us at the same time, but none of us knew.”

“Really?” she asks hungrily. So at least I’m not the only nosy bitch in the house. (I say this with the utmost respect.)

“Yeah, but we flipped the script,” I tell her. “Three of us got together, and we became best friends, because screw him. We hang out all the time.”

I feel a warm fondness bloom in my chest whenever I talk about Sophie and Briar. They’d walked into my life at a time when I’d needed a friend, badly. I found two. Losing Jonah had barely been a blip on my radar.

“What about the fourth woman?” Tallulah asks, souring me on her the slightest bit.

“She doesn’t seem too interested in our girl gang.” I pause to dot some color corrector beneath her eyes. “But I haven’t given up. I reached out to her again last week.”

Truthfully: I don’t give up. I’ve been compared unfavorably to a bulldog by more than one person. When I was a kid, my father drilled a no one left behind philosophy into my brothers and me, and it’s stayed with me.

“What about the bed?” I ask, ready to change the subject. “Doesn’t it feel crowded with all three of you?”

She gave me a tour of the cottage before we got started, and it’s a double bed. A DOUBLE. Unthinkable with three people.

“Sometimes. When the goats sleep with us,” she says with a careless shrug.

“The goats sleep with you?”

“Oh, sure,” she says. “But they’re not housebroken, so it can get rough.”

Damn. I wish I’d thought to bring a notebook. I’m not sure what I’d be cataloguing the information for, but I kind of like the thought of being a modern cultural anthropologist. Self-taught and self-appointed, obviously.

I desperately want to ask if one of her grooms is better at sex, and if that is a subject of embarrassment and sensitivity to everyone, but even I know better than to ask that.

I’m kind of hoping she’ll just offer up the information.

“You’re very good at this,” she says dreamily, staring in the mirror as I move on to the foundation. I’ve barely done anything yet, but she already has a bridal glow.

I smile at her reflection. “You’re beautiful. You make it easy. Just wait until I’m finished. They’ll both want to get into your pants at once.”

This is what I love about makeup—bringing out people’s natural beauty. Everyone has beauty. Everyone.

The proper use of makeup is to highlight what makes a person special. To give it a crown .

That’s what I’m doing with Tallulah.

“I’m going to send you home with some of our goat cheese ice cream too,” she says, beaming at me.

Well, I’ll certainly be giving that away.

The service is held outside on a well-shaded corner of the farm. The officiant is a woman named Stella—a fellow goat enthusiast and the godmother of one of the goat farmers—and her husband is sitting in the front row weeping. From joy, everyone insists, patting him on the back.

It’s bizarre but kind of sweet, and I can’t deny there’s something compelling about the adoring way both of Tallulah’s husbands-to-be are watching her. It’s been a while since anyone’s looked at me like that.

My car is constantly just on this side of being junkyard ready, so I hitched a ride to the farm with someone I know on the catering staff.

I opt against riding home with her after the ceremony, deciding instead to stay for the after-party.

I’m hoping to witness some weird shit: a tantric sex party, some cultist chanting, dancing around a bonfire, that kind of thing.

Now, don’t judge me. I’ve known Tallulah for long enough that I can reasonably expect not to be murdered—and if anyone tries, I have pepper spray and brass knuckles on my person. I’d like to think I’d take my killer down with me or at least leave them with a bloody nose to remember me by.

To be honest, though, the party ends up being a bit of a disappointment. The dancing only lasts until dark, and everyone left funnels inside to play Settlers of Catan. We divide into three separate groups .

I suggest strip Catan for my group, and a guy lectures me on how I don’t understand the “true spirit of the game.”

I also, apparently, don’t understand the “true spirit” of marriage, because shouldn’t the happy throuple be having wild sex, or at least dancing to mellow eighties songs?

I’ll admit, after a few too many hard kombuchas, I flat out ask Tallulah why she isn’t getting freaky with her husbands.

She gives me a pitying look and says, “This is foreplay.”

I don’t see it. Nothing about trading for grain or rice makes me feel hot and bothered. And the gaming goes on for hours. Hours .

By the time my phone buzzes at two in the morning, I’m more than ready for the distraction.

“Oops, so sorry, gotta answer this,” I say, lifting it up to show everyone at my table.

“That’s a text alert,” says the player sitting next to me, a guy whose name I didn’t catch. “You can’t answer it.”

“It’s probably super important,” I respond, already on my feet. “You can skip me this round.”

I’m guessing most of the people at my table are happy to get rid of me, probably because I don’t actually know how to play Settlers of Catan, even though three separate people have given me long-winded explanations.

I shut myself in the bathroom with my latest bottle of hard kombucha before checking my phone—and then do a double take.

The texts are from Travis.

Hi Hannah.

I was wondering whether you’re busy tomorrow night.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me .

After my friend Sophie started dating his friend Rob, Travis and I exchanged a few fun, flirty texts. Okay, several. Mostly about our friends. But our enjoyable back-and-forth exchange ended abruptly after I babysat for his son.

The poor kid had just gotten dropped off by his mother as if he were a mis-delivered package.

My own mother had abandoned me at around the same age, so I knew exactly what he was going through.

He was terrified. He needed a distraction, some fun…

so I’d pulled out the only game that looked remotely fun in Travis’s cabinet.

And, sure, it isn’t precisely meant for children, but what kid doesn’t love being allowed to do something they shouldn’t?

Travis made it very clear he doesn’t approve of my parenting skills. I don’t approve of the drumstick he has firmly wedged up his ass. Nor do I want lectures on “proper behavior” from someone who’s my age.

It’s incredibly amusing that Travis would try to sidle into my phone using such a casual approach when we’ve barely spoken all month.

Based on his opening, there are only two things he could want. Option A: a booty call. Or option B: a favor.

It’s not hard to figure out which one he’s after.

Travis is a good-looking guy in a popular local band. He has a very nice house and an attitude that suggests he grew up rich, which is appealing for some women. In other words, he’s not the kind of man who needs to plan ahead to cinch a booty call.

I also happen to know that his band, Garbage Fire, is playing at Big Catch Brewing, my former place of employment, tomorrow night.

Which means we’re definitely dealing with option B.

The guy’s got cojones , I’ll give him that. It’s almost admirable .

I shake my head at my phone for a solid five seconds before responding:

Ohhh, are you asking me out?

Because sorry, not interested.

You’re not my type.

As I wait for his response, I catch a glimpse of myself grinning in the mirror across from me.

No getting around it, messing with Travis is way more fun than Catan.

He doesn’t keep me waiting long.

Very funny, Hannah.

I thought so too.

I also think it’s very funny that you’re texting me at two in the morning.

I didn’t think you’d answer.

A fantastic reason for getting in touch.