Page 24 of Worst Nanny Ever (Babes of Brewing #2)

“I don’t know how I can help,” I say. “If I invited Mrs. Applebaum over for tea, she’d probably file a restraining order. The mouse thing really put it over the edge for her.”

She reaches over and idly pets a huge stuffed animal—a fluffy yellow dog. I reach for it and toss it into the cart.

“You think Ollie will like it?” she asks.

“It’s for you.”

Her lips part as if she’s going to object, or maybe make a big deal out of it, so I change the subject, saying, “I don’t know how we’d even get them in the same room.”

Her brow furrows as she considers the challenge. “What if we ask Eugene to intervene on Ollie’s behalf?”

“Would he?” I move the cart along. “He doesn’t even know Ollie.”

“So, maybe he can tutor him or something first.”

I give her a pointed look. “Ollie doesn’t need tutoring, and from what I can tell, Eugene doesn’t have the manners or social skills to help him with what he does need.”

She sighs dramatically. “All right, twist my arm. We’re going to have to Parent Trap Eugene and Mrs. Applebaum.”

“This is important to you.” I come to a stop so I can get a better look at her.

“It is,” she says.

“Will you tell me why?”

“I don’t know, Travis,” she says with a frustrated laugh. “It just is. I mean, what are the odds that you’d be having trouble with a grumpy teacher today while I’m having a meet and greet with that teacher’s grumpy former principal, who quite clearly had a thing for her. It feels like…”

I grin at her. “Well, well, were you about to say that setting them up feels like fate?”

She blushes. I didn’t know Hannah could blush. “Take that back.” She nudges my shoulder. “You’re going to ruin my reputation as a hard-ass.”

“I’m not so sure you have one.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

Against my better judgment, I nod. To do anything else would disappoint her, and it seems very important not to disappoint her. “Okay, sure. You tell me how to help with your ill-advised plan, and I’m there.”

A tired-looking brunette woman with a basket slung over her arm passes us, giving me a strange sidelong look. I could have sworn she’s already passed us, so maybe we’re standing in front of some must-have toy she wants for her kid.

I start moving the cart again. “Now, what are we going to get?”

“What kind of budget are we working with?” Hannah asks.

“An I-didn’t-even-know-my-kid-existed-until-he-was-seven kind of budget.”

“Then we’re getting everything,” Hannah says with a grin. “Can you imagine what his face is going to look like when he gets home?”

I smile back at her, but I’m not convinced Ollie’s going to be so easy to please after Mousegate.

In fact, I’m pretty worried about what the rest of his day is going to look like.

Will the other kids blame him? Will Mickey be humbled after screaming like a baby and pulling a runner, or does he now have a deep-seated grudge against my son that’ll last through high school?

“You’re worrying,” Hannah says. “You get this really distinct expression on your face when you do. There’s a tiny crease right there.” She reaches out and rubs the pad of one finger between my eyebrows, and I instantly feel the furrow she mentioned being smoothed away.

“Does my face look like that all the time?” I ask. “Because I’ve done nothing but worry since Lilah dropped Ollie off in September.”

She shocks me by layering her hand over mine on the handle of the shopping cart.

I meet her eyes, feeling a fresh burst of awareness.

Her eyelashes have been blackened with mascara today, and she’s perfectly made up, with bright red lipstick.

She looks good like this too, but in some ways I prefer the Hannah who’s undone—the one only Ollie and I and a few other lucky people are allowed to see.

She comes over like that because she wants you to keep your distance, dumbass, a voice in my head whispers.

“You’re staring at my lips,” she says with her typical candor.

“I’m waiting for whatever wise thing you’re about to say next,” I tell her, because I’m not ready to confront the elephant following us around on a tether.

I’m attracted to her, which is a problem. I really enjoy spending time with her, which is problem number two. I can’t stop thinking about that kiss the other night, which is worst of all.

“If you want wisdom, then you’re really in for a treat,” she says with a knowing look, as if she sees right through me. “Because I was going to give you some truly excellent advice.”

“I’m waiting with bated breath.”

She smiles at me, grabs a science experiment kit from the shelves full of DIY and crafting kits, and adds it to the cart. “Buy him a ton of shit.”

“Retail therapy?”

She picks up a solar system crafting kit, gives it a cursory glance, and tosses it into the cart. “We have to try something, and you won’t let me make beer with him.”

I laugh as I check out a painting set that comes with an easel. “You think he’d like this? Sometimes my sister and I painted together when we were kids.”

“Who knows, but if he doesn’t want it, you can use it.”

I give her a skeptical look. “I’m an adult, Hannah.”

“Who gave you the crazy idea that adults aren’t allowed to have fun?”

She picks up the paint set and holds it out to me expectantly. I feel like I should make more of a rebuttal, but anything I could say would feel like a schoolyard argument.

I do so have fun.

Or I always have fun when I’m playing with the band or at The Missing Beat.

“I won’t let you become Eugene, Travis,” she insists, staring me down. “I’m going to set you down a divergent path if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Let’s hope it’s not the last thing you do,” I say, accepting the painting set and adding it to the growing pile in the cart.

“Although I’m sure you’d take comfort in knowing the Wise Women have all planned their own funerals and would probably be happy to help your surviving friends and relatives with yours. ”

“Ha. Ha.”

We move through the aisles, accruing a chemistry set, a telescope, some Lego sets, a few STEM toys, and posters from a couple of the shows Ollie likes.

While we’re shopping, I catch sight of the woman from earlier a couple more times, giving us interested glances, peeking around aisles, meeting my gaze, and then swiftly turning around .

Maybe my anxiety’s working overtime, but it feels like she’s watching us, maybe even following us.

I’m about to say something about it to Hannah, but then we turn a corner into a music section arranged in a cozy nook in the back of the shop. There are a variety of instruments, including a small drum kit.

Hannah turns to me, her eyes sparkling. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I don’t think I am,” I say, feeling an uncomfortable burning sensation spread across my chest. “We’ve got what we need.” I start to turn the cart away from it. But she doesn’t budge, so I only make it a couple of steps before I step away from the cart and turn back toward her.

“You won’t let Ollie play your drums,” she accuses, her gaze turning fierce. “Why won’t you let him get his own set?”

“He said that?” I ask.

Ollie did ask if he could play them once, but it hadn’t seemed like a big deal, and I’d thought he’d forgotten all about it.

“He said that,” she says tightly. “More than once.”

I consider this, my heart thumping faster and harder in my chest. “Look, I heard you the other night when you said I should teach him, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to do that yet. He’s too young.”

Hannah bristles. “Why wouldn’t you want to teach your son how to do something you love? Something you need?”

She might as well have blown fire in my face.

I lift a hand in a halting motion. “Whoa, Hannah. That’s not your place.”

I’m not surprised when she lashes out. “You asked me to be his nanny. It is my place to advocate for him, even with you.”

“Sure,” I say, getting worked up too. “But I’m his father. I want that to mean something, dammit.”

She holds my gaze, unflinching. “I think you have to ask yourself why you won’t give him the part of yourself you love the most, when you give it to other people’s children every weekday afternoon. How do you think that makes him feel?”

Fuck, that’s harsh.

I feel like my head is going to explode.

I’m tempted to walk away so I can cool off, which is my usual way of dealing with anger when my drum kit’s not around, but I’m guessing she’d follow me. Besides, I can’t let this lie.

I don’t like the way she’s looking at me right now, like I’ve disappointed her in some vital way there’s no coming back from.

“Look, Hannah,” I say. “My father didn’t give a shit that I wasn’t interested in his movies or in acting.

He and my mom dressed me up in their little outfits and paraded me around and made me practice what to say like I was a trained parrot.

It fucked me up. There’s no way I’m going to pressure Ollie into liking the drums. If he wants to learn to play when he’s older, I’ll teach him then.

But I won’t influence him to be another Ships Junior.

” I gather my thoughts before adding, “And what if…what if he rejects music, the way he has everything else I’ve tried to engage him with?

That’s a major part of my life, of me . I’m worried I’ll be disappointed, the way my father was. I don’t want to take it out on him.”

The look in her eyes changes, some of the anger leeching out. “I’m sorry, Travis. Of course I don’t want you to force him into anything. That’s not what I meant. And I’m guessing you’re nothing like your father.”

She takes a step toward me, accidentally stepping on a floor piano, which squeaks out a note.

Her eyes widen, but I abandon the cart and step onto the key next to hers, and she steps back onto the original key, and suddenly we’re playing “Hot Cross Buns” and laughing.

She smiles at me, her curls sweeping around her cheeks as she jumps on her final note with both feet. And isn’t it just like Hannah to jump in with both feet?

She makes me want to do it too.

Damn, I want to kiss her again so badly. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything for a long, long time. The need is burning through my veins. Painful and sweet. Inevitable.

She reaches up and grabs the collar of my shirt, pulling me down toward her.

Shocking me. Because I’ve been trying to convince myself I made an unwanted advance toward her, but there’s nothing ambivalent about this.

Our lips are inches apart, the musical notes are still curling through the air, and I lift my hands to her cheeks, tipping her face up toward mine.

I need to taste her again, to have a sip of sin like I took the other night.

Then someone says, “Bless my soul. It is you.”

It’s the brunette woman, whom I’d never seen before we entered the store.

“Who are you ?” I ask.