Page 20 of Worst Nanny Ever (Babes of Brewing #2)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

TRAVIS

After Hannah leaves, I sit on the couch for a long time, watching the door. Remembering how good she felt against me—how right.

I’d take a cold shower to forget it, but the knowledge of what she feels like isn’t something a cold shower can cure. It’s in my bones. In the flesh that’s aching for her.

I grab one of the beers she left in the fridge last week and sit back down, sighing. Trying to decide if I want to jerk off or if that would only make me feel worse.

Worse.

Definitely worse.

So instead, I do something that’s rare for me. I grab a pencil and a pad and sit down and write a song. I consider sending it to Rob when I’m finished, but I hold back. I knew Rob was crazy about Sophie because of the music he was writing. Each song was like falling in love.

If he knew I was writing again, something I haven’t done for years, he’d know I’m having feelings about Hannah that no man should have for his nanny.

That’s not something I’m ready to admit.

For one thing, Ollie needs her. If I mess things up and she decides she can’t be around me—or Ollie—anymore, he’d never forgive me, and I’d never forgive myself.

For another, I’m in no place to start something with a woman.

I’m still trying to find a balance with Ollie, and for all I know, I might end up in an ugly court battle with Lilah.

I don’t sleep much. In the morning, I get up early and spend at least an hour vacuuming the house to try to suck up all the glitter.

“There’s still a lot of glitter around,” Ollie observes as he eats his whole wheat toast at the breakfast table.

“It’ll probably be around rest of our lives,” I say with a sigh.

“That’s okay,” he says, munching on his toast. “I like glitter.”

His innocence makes me smile. Then it hits me that I should probably tell him something about Lilah, and the smile drops like a stone. “Your mom called last night.”

“After I was in bed?” he asks through a mouthful of toast.

“Yeah. She was sorry to miss you. Sounds like she’s heading to a part of the country that doesn’t get much cell service. So she’s not sure when she’ll be able to call again.”

He sets the toast down. “Oh.”

“She sent some photos of koalas,” I say with forced cheer. “Do you want to see them?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m not really hungry anymore. Do I have to finish this?”

“No,” I say, feeling another wave of fury on his behalf. “Maybe we can go to the zoo or something this weekend. See some real koalas.”

“I don’t really care about koalas,” he says seriously. “Hey, Hannah said if it’s okay with you, Sophie and Briar might come over during your concert on Saturday so we can have a spa day party. She got a box of animal face masks and everything. Can we do it? ”

“Yeah, buddy,” I say, still feeling heated. “Save me a face mask, will you?”

“Do you want a koala mask? You seem to really like them.”

I can’t decide whether he’s messing with me, but given how much time he’s been spending with Hannah, all signs point to yes.

The day passes in an exhausted blur, and by the time our last kid gets picked up from The Missing Beat, Rob has asked me at least three times what’s wrong with me.

Probably because I snapped at two of our students, a pair of twins, when they swapped places to trick us—a game they still think is hilarious after doing it a hundred times.

I get him off my back by telling him that I had a video chat with Lilah last night and she accused me of some crazy shit.

Rob lifts his hands. “Say no more.”

Which is a convenient invitation because I have no interest in telling him why I’m really on edge. The truth is, my mood has very little to do with Lilah. It’s the natural consequence of knowing Hannah wants me to touch her but not being able to do anything about it.

When I get back home from The Missing Beat, Hannah and Ollie are playing a complicated tag game where they spray water at each other.

I’m obviously not a player, but that doesn’t prevent them from joining forces and spraying me with their water bottles at the same time, forming two enormous wet spots on my shirt.

“I look like I’m lactating,” I say with a sigh.

Hannah laughs so hard her nose wrinkles.

“Are you going to stay for dinner, Hannah?” Ollie asks, jumping up and down with his spray bottle still in his hand. “Thursday is Chinese takeout.”

She gives a surprised laugh, seeking out my gaze with those dancing eyes of hers, and I know it’s at my expense. “Each day of the week has an assigned meal?”

“There’s nothing weird about meal planning. Lots of people meal-plan.”

“I’ll stay if we don’t have Chinese,” she says, waggling her brows. “What do you say, Travis? Want to live dangerously?”

Not really. I was looking forward to Kung Pao chicken, but I want her to stay, God help me, even if it would be smarter to avoid her. “What’ll we have instead?”

“I’m going to make dinner.”

“I’ll just go get the fire extinguisher,” I say, taking a step toward my room.

She shoves a hand at my arm, her fingers curling around it for just a second before she pulls away. We exchange a loaded look.

“We could all cook together?” I suggest.

“Really?” Ollie says, more excited than I thought he’d be. “You’ll let me use a knife?”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “But you can rinse off the vegetables.”

“And what will we be making with those vegetables, pray tell?” Hannah asks.

I grin at her. “Stir-fry.”

She pokes me in the chest, her touch sending a sizzle through me. “You, Mr. Sir , are a hopeless case.”

Probably for the best if she thinks so, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t fun cooking together. With all three of us crowding the kitchen, it feels lived-in. This big house is a home in a way it never was with just me and my drum kit.

We sit down to dinner. Ollie’s way more talkative than he ever is when it’s just the two of us, and tells us all about Mickey’s latest crimes and the evaluation tests Mrs. Applebaum’s been giving him. He’s not a fan of those, but he is excited about bringing the donuts to class tomorrow.

After we eat, Hannah and I deal with the dishes while Ollie reads in his room.

“You know he’s probably playing on his iPad in there,” she says as she hands me the last fork to put in the dishwasher.

I shrug. “Maybe. Let’s let him feel like he’s getting away with something. I always make sure it’s out of his room at night.”

“Good thinking. I’d better head home. I promised Briar I’d watch Matchmaking Small Town America with her.”

“The French kissing show?” I ask, shutting the dishwasher so I have something to do with my hands.

“Yes.” She grins. “You must have really enjoyed that part. You’ve mentioned it twice now.”

I glance at the exit to the back hallway, and seeing no signs of Ollie, I say in an undertone, “No, I just liked the kissing part.”

“I’ll let you watch it with me sometime if you’re lucky.”

“Then I’ll be sure to never get lucky.”

She laughs, her eyes dancing with humor. “Why don’t you circle back and consider what you just said there.”

“I’m going to pretend I did it on purpose to make you laugh.”

She smiles and surprises me by leaning in for a hug. I hug her back tentatively, drawing in her scent, and she whispers in my ear, “Good luck with the donuts tomorrow.”

I pull back with an impressive force of will. “Thanks. I’m pretty sure I’ll need it. This morning Mrs. Applebottom—Jesus, you’ve got me doing it. Anyway, she told me that I have very interesting parenting methods.” I pause. “I’m going to want to hear all about your meeting with Eugene, obviously.”

She smiles at me. “I was hoping you’d say that. Text me when you’re ready to go shopping. ”

Look at that. She just gave me permission to text her socially again. Something tells me I’ll be abusing that.

On Friday morning, Ollie and I pick up the goods at Vortex Donuts, and I drive him to school, the sweet scent filling the car. When I park in the lot, he stays put, gazing out of the window.

“Actually, this might be a bad idea, Travis. It’s probably only going to make things worse with Mickey. What if he hates donuts?”

“It’ll be great. Even if he hates donuts, this little Mickey—” I swallow the word asshole , “—kid will realize you’ve got people in your court.” I pause. “What’s he look like anyway?”

“He has brown hair, and he wears a lot of T-shirts.”

“So he looks like you.”

He glowers at me. “That’s not very nice, Travis.”

I lift my hands. “Sorry. I’m just not getting a good mental picture.”

“How about I say a code word when I see him? They do that on that show Odd Squad .”

“Okay, what about…” My mind’s sluggish, but I plug in Mickey and it comes up with, “Mouse.”

He nods. “Okay.” Then he glances at me, taking in my button-down shirt and jeans. “You don’t look very tough. You should have worn one of your band T-shirts.”

“Excuse me if I didn’t want to come into your classroom wearing a shirt that says ‘Garbage Fire.’”

“Maybe your old leather jacket, then. It makes you look like you have big arms. ”

“I do have big arms, but it’s not like I’m going to beat this kid up, Ollie,” I say, frustrated. “He’s seven years old.”

“Would you beat him up if he were eighteen?”

“If an eighteen-year-old were following you around and messing with you? Yeah, he’d definitely regret it.”

“Really?” he asks, sounding excited about the prospect. “What would you do to him?”

I tap the wheel with two fingers, hesitating, then turn off the ignition. “You don’t need to physically intimidate people to get them to leave you alone. You’re smarter than this kid is. Intelligence is a strength.”

He gives a world-weary sigh. “My mom told me people don’t really like you when you’re smart.”

“Other smart people do,” I say tightly.

I can practically hear Hannah saying, and what would you want with stupid friends anyway?

The thought would probably have made me smile if I weren’t so pissed at Lilah. How dare she make Ollie feel like being smart is something to be ashamed of?

Ollie sighs again. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

“ Everyone likes donuts,” I say, making eye contact in the rearview mirror and holding it. “You’ll be the class hero.” Because I’m weak, I add, “You know, Hannah thinks this is a good idea too.”

“Really?” he asks, leaning forward to look at me from his booster seat in the back. “I wish she were coming.”

It feels a bit shitty hearing him say that.

Clearly he thinks coming through those doors with Hannah and the donuts would gain him more social currency than going with me.

But I can’t deny he’s probably right. She’d step through those doors and within five minutes she’d be friends with the custodian, half the kids, most of the teachers, and maybe even sour-faced Mrs. Applebaum.

Hannah has a gift for drawing people in. For dazzling them.

If I’d had that same gift, maybe I’d have wanted to be the front man instead of the drummer.

Maybe my son would be more impressed by me.

“I wish she were here too, bud,” I admit.

We leave the car together, the bribery donuts in hand, and enter the school.

The building’s neither new nor old, with whitewashed walls and the slight unwashed funk all schools seem to have.

Some of the teachers give us wistful looks as we pass them, and Ollie seems to notice.

I can tell from the new pep in his steps that he’s realizing the donuts are their own form of gold.

We step into his classroom and are immediately mobbed by kids and questions?—

“Are those donuts?” one kid asks.

“Is this your dad?” another wants to know.

I feel Ollie looking at me, and I prepare myself for another long explanation like the one he gave the clerk at the bookstore a couple of weeks ago. Biologically, but we barely know each other. I thought someone else was my dad up until a couple of months ago.

But he nods, his eyes still on me. “Yeah, he’s the drummer in a band.”

My heart swells and feels stretched.

Mrs. Applebaum, who was waiting behind her desk at the front of the class, heaves a heavy sigh to let me know I’m inconveniencing her.

She’s a stout woman who could be sixty or six hundred.

She has a rounded ageless face but iron gray hair bound into a low, tight bun and a pair of spectacles so small it’s impossible they could actually improve her eyesight.

Her sweater, covered in little knit pumpkins, is the only cheerful thing about her .

I privately suspect she chose those glasses just so she could deliver that perfect withering stare. She’s doing it now, and I smile broadly at her, pretending I don’t notice.

“You might as well set them down on my desk,” she grouses. “Children. Line up if you’d like one of these don?—”

But the box is already being attacked. Two children go for the same donut at the same time, ripping it in half, and then get into an argument about it, even though there are plenty of other whole donuts.

I glance at Mrs. Applebaum, who studies me with another of her masterful withering stares.

“Thank you, Mr. Thomas. What a treat .”

“Travis,” Ollie whispers in a very audible undertone, standing behind the two kids who are each holding half of a mangled donut, glaring at each other.

When I turn to look at him, he says, “Mouse” pointedly, nodding at one of the kids, a dark-haired boy wearing a T-shirt.

As soon as the boy—presumably Mickey—hears the word “mouse,” he shrieks.