Page 4 of Worst Nanny Ever (Babes of Brewing #2)

CHAPTER THREE

TRAVIS

A knock lands on the front door. I take a in a slow, deep breath and let it ease out. That’s got to be Rachel, right on time for her interview.

“If you scare this one off, no Hannah tonight,” I tell Ollie, feeling like a jackass for negotiating with my son like he’s a terrorist. But desperate times call for bribery.

He wants Hannah to be his nanny, but I had to beg to get her to babysit tonight.

This isn’t a job she’ll want permanently, and I need someone who’s actually a trained childcare professional.

The nanny who raised me had a degree from Norland College, which my mother liked to tell her friends was the “gold standard.” Nanny Grace was kind of frosty and a stickler for rules, but there was no denying she knew her shit.

I managed to schedule three interviews for this weekend—one today, two tomorrow—with people who can start on Monday.

I’m a bit concerned that anyone who’d be available to start within a couple of days won’t be the best and brightest, but hopefully one of the three will be responsible and have references who actually like them.

Rachel works at a daycare but said she’d “leave them in a heartbeat” for fifty an hour. Her attitude suggests a lack of loyalty, but at least she has childcare experience.

“Hannah’s the one who should be my nanny,” Ollie says sullenly. He’s standing by the couch, staring at the door with open hostility while he picks at the blanket splayed across the back of the sofa—a gift from my sister. “I’m going to ask her tonight.”

“You’re not the one who’d be hiring her,” I tell him, moving his hand. “That would be me.”

“Yes, we all know you’re the one with the power, Travis, and I’m your prisoner.”

“Oh, Ollie,” I groan. Is this what a seven-year-old is supposed to sound like?

I realize he’s several grade levels more academically advanced than his classmates, but he’s still a kid.

Half the time he sounds like a grumpy old man.

I said as much to Rob, who laughed and told me the apple doesn’t fall far.

“Behave yourself,” I say one final time, then rake my hands through my hair before taking a step toward the door.

“Your birthmark’s showing.”

Pausing, I give him an incredulous look. “Really, man?”

“I’m not saying it to be mean,” he tells me, his face surprisingly earnest. “I just know you don’t like strangers seeing it.”

I nod stiffly, feeling a tightness in my throat, and adjust my hair. I head into the foyer and open the front door.

It takes me a solid five seconds to square the woman in front of me with the professional headshot Rachel Lynn has on LinkedIn.

She has long blonde hair like the woman in the photo, but everything else about her is different. Instead of wearing a sweater set and pearls, she has on full-on glamour makeup and a very short red summer dress with spiky heels.

“You must be Travis,” she says, her voice low and throaty. “I’m Rachel. ”

It’s a mark of my desperation that I wave her inside instead of pretending to be someone else. I know when a woman’s done her research, and she’s obviously done hers. The greater concern is how she found out who I am—and whether she’s going to tell anyone else.

“Here’s Ollie,” I say, leading her into the living room and gesturing to my son, who’s still standing by the couch. He looks unfazed. Then again, Lilah’s the kind of woman who wears clothes like this to the grocery store. Maybe he thinks nothing of it.

She plants her hands on her thighs and leans down to talk to Ollie, giving us both an unwanted view of her cleavage. “Well, aren’t you just the sweetest little thing. We’re going to be the very best of friends. I can tell.”

She glances up at me, giving me an overdramatic wink before shifting her attention back to him.

Ollie watches her clinically for a moment, then says, “I don’t think so. You don’t have to pay your friends, and Travis isn’t looking for a friend for me. He wants to keep me out of trouble. I don’t think you could.”

She looks pissed for half a second, but then she forces a laugh. “Oh, how funny. Isn’t he funny?” she asks me, still leaning down with her cleavage on display. As if I could have still failed to notice she has C or maybe D cup breasts.

“Why are you crouched over like that?” Ollie asks.

She stands but crosses her arms just under her chest, pushing her breasts up.

“What a nice house you two have,” she comments, glancing around.

“We’re gonna have such a good time in here, Ollie.

What do you like to do? Do you enjoy playing music like your dad does?

You’re so lucky to live with a professional musician. ”

Ollie glances up at me as if to say, Really, Travis? Is this the best you can do ?

Then he turns to face her and says flatly, “I don’t know.”

Her grin is as sweet as saccharin. “Well, you know what, Ollie? It just so happens that I have a fun little music set I can bring over here, and we can make our own music together.”

“Are you talking about one of those plastic kids’ sets?” he asks with withering contempt. “I’m a little old for that.”

“I have recorders,” she says tightly. “Lots of grown-ups play recorders.”

Ollie and I exchange a quick glance—he’d complained about the recorders used in music class at school, and I admitted I still have nightmares about the shrill plastic recorders handed out at my private school when I was a kid.

He gives me a half smile, and I return it, feeling a surge of affection for him.

“No, thanks,” he says. “Do you like doing science experiments? I love chemical reactions. The messier, the better.”

“Um, like baking soda and vinegar?” She looks down at her dress in quiet dismay and dusts off the skirt with her hands. “Sure. I’ve done that before.”

“And making gooey things. I love gooey things. We could get into a goo fight. That might be fun. Would you like that? Playing catch with goo?”

She gives him a simpering smile. “I’m not much for playing catch, but you can throw it to yourself or your dad. We could read together, though. Do you know how to read?”

“I’m seven,” he says flatly. Without missing a beat, he looks up at me with a gaze that’s all innocence. “Hey, Travis, can I please go read quietly in my room by myself?”

I nearly laugh.

Instead, I nod. “Sure. Thanks for asking.”

No point in having him hang around. I’ve already decided this one is a no-go.

I watch him head to his room. Before entering, he casts a pointed look at me and mouths, No! —which Rachel must notice.

She wraps her fingers around my arm, stroking my bicep, and I barely resist the impulse to pull away.

“You poor thing,” she says, batting her lashes up at me. “It’s not easy being a single father, but I’ll take care of both of you, you’ll see. Do you need a live-in nanny?”

I remove her hand. “No.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone get little Paulie ready and out the door in the mornings?”

Yes, dammit.

“Ollie,” I correct.

“Of course. Well, I’d be happy to live here if you change your mind. We could be true partners in Ollie’s care.”

The sad thing is that it’s tempting. It would be so easy to hand over the reins to someone else—and if Rachel’s after my father’s fortune, she’d be more likely to put up with Ollie’s antics than Nannys One, Two, or Three.

But I don’t want her to be nice to my kid because she thinks she can get something from it. Screw that.

“No,” I say tightly. “I don’t want a stranger living in my home.”

She looks taken aback. “But we wouldn’t be strangers for long. We’d have plenty of time to get to know each other while Ollie’s sleeping?—”

“He doesn’t sleep much.”

“I can help with that.”

I shudder at the thought of her force-feeding him melatonin like Nurse Ratched so she can make an unwanted pass at me in my living room.

Sure, she’s hot, and I haven’t been with a woman for months, but nothing turns me off more than a woman who’d use Ollie to get to my father’s money. I don’t like being used either, but this is many orders of magnitude worse.

“No, that’s okay,” I say. “In fact, I don’t think this is going to work out.”

She pushes her bottom lip out, which isn’t as sexy as she probably thinks it is. “He’d like me if he got to know me better.” Her fingers wrap around my bicep again. “You’d really like me.”

I make a show of removing her hand. “I don’t think I would. How’d you find out?”

“Find out what?” she asks, suddenly all innocence.

“About my father. It’s obvious you know who he is.”

I have his last name, sure, but it’s a common enough last name.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, lifting her eyebrows in a mockery of innocence.

“I think you do.”

Her expression hardens. “The only thing I know about you is that you’re in that band with the awful name and your son’s a horrible little brat.”

“Nice,” I say with a pissed-off nod. “The truth comes out. He’s a good kid, actually, and very talented at seeing through artificial people. Speaking of…would you have worn that outfit for your interview at the daycare?”

She gasps in outrage. “How dare you comment on my clothing!”

“Yeah, that was kind of a crappy thing to do, but I guess I take offense at people walking into my house and insulting my son. Have the day you deserve, Rachel.”

Rage flashes in her eyes, and she grabs a bouncy ball off the side table next to the couch—there are hundreds stowed all around the house now—and hurls it at me. I catch it easily, my reflexes honed by years of drumming .

“See, you can play catch!” Ollie says, swinging open his door, which must’ve been slightly ajar this whole time.

She grabs another ball, but before she can even aim it at him, I wrap my fingers around her wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but no, she will not be throwing a ball at my son.

“Go,” I say firmly.

“You’re an asshole .”

“And you shouldn’t be swearing in front of children.”