Page 50 of Worst Nanny Ever (Babes of Brewing #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

HANNAH

Travis is quiet as we get into my car.

I insisted on driving both of us. He protested and said it was stupid because he’d have to come back and get his car later, and I said I didn’t care if it was stupid, I was damn well driving him.

Then he just shrugged and got into the passenger seat like he didn’t care about anything, which made me think that maybe I should have let him drive after all.

Before Rob left, he told Travis that they were going to take a breather but they’d work something out. But from the look on Travis’s face, he doesn’t believe it.

“Do you wish you were driving?” I ask.

“I don’t care, Hannah,” he says, but he layers his hand over my thigh. So at least he’s not pissed at me for being the bearer of bad news.

Before I can turn on the ignition, he asks, “Do you think Dottie could watch Ollie for a little longer? I don’t think… I need a little time to process this.”

“On it,” I say, already hopping onto my cell phone.

Dottie responds immediately:

I sensed some trouble in the air, my dear.

Yeah, right. More like Eugene texted her the intel. I’ve seen their super active chat window. Honestly, I don’t know how Dottie finds the time.

You take the time you need. Bear and I would be delighted to have him stay with us tonight—what a treat! If that would be acceptable, let me know, and I’ll plan on it. We have some pajamas we keep here for my grandchildren’s visits.

I ask Travis, and he nods. “Yeah, that would probably be best.”

I fill Dottie in on the situation, and she sends back a photo of some crystals. I’m not sure whether they’re supposed to be inspiring to Travis in his time of emotional upheaval, or if she’s doing some craft with them, so I send back a thumbs-up.

“Sounds like they’re having fun,” I say to Travis.

“Good,” he says. Then, as I turn on the ignition, he says, “Let’s go to your apartment. I want to see it.”

“Uh, it’s a bit messy.”

He smiles at me. “I had every expectation it would be messy.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to bring you to a doctor? What if you have internal bleeding?”

“I don’t have internal bleeding,” he says tightly. “He didn’t hit me hard enough.”

“It sure looked like he did,” I say, feeling the righteous burn of anger.

“He threw weak punches on purpose,” he insists. “I hit him harder.”

I’ll have to take his word for it. It looked like Bixby hit him pretty damn hard .

I drive to my apartment, feeling my nerves prickle, because I honestly don’t remember what it looked like before I left this morning.

At least the glitter bomb didn’t go off in my place, but I’m pretty sure there are some clothes strewn across the floor, and a half-finished fashion project on my mannequin.

Not that Travis is going to care. He’s obviously in the middle of a mind storm. I know what it’s like to have someone you love turn on you. Margaret and I were close before things went south between her and Liam. I’d thought it was the kind of friendship that would stick.

I keep stealing glances at him as I drive, and finally he cracks a smile and says, “I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d keep your eyes on the road, Hannah. Every time you do that, the car veers.”

At least he’s making jokes.

I park in the lot in front of my building, feeling a little ashamed, because I’ll be honest, the place is a total dump.

“It’s not quite what you’re used to,” I say wryly.

He sits back, not getting out yet. “I forget sometimes,” he says thoughtfully. “A lot of things haven’t been great for me, but I’ve never had to worry about money. I should have been more understanding with Bixby. Maybe it wouldn’t have come to this if I had been.”

I give him a look of pure disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You don’t need to be understanding. He’s a tool. He?—”

“He’s right. I started The Missing Beat because I thought it would give Rob and me purpose. I told Rob I got some grants that never came through. I paid for a lot of it myself.”

“How dare you,” I say, deadpan.

He smiles, shaking his head. “But I didn’t do anything like that for Bixby. I could have. We’ve been friends for years.”

“The only thing he wants is to be famous. You can’t make him famous. If you guys did the whole dumb sailor suit thing, you’d be a joke. It would make the news for a week or two, but then no one would care.”

He nods, but his jaw is still tense. “He called you a bitch. I’m not going to forgive him for that.”

“How about not forgiving him for stabbing you in the back?”

“Yeah. That too.”

“He’s a total shithead. Who cares if he doesn’t have a lot of money? I don’t have a lot of money, and I’m not a total shithead.”

“You’re not a shithead at all,” he says, smiling softly at me, but with eyes so sad I almost tear up myself.

I force a return smile. “You’re so romantic.”

“Show me your apartment, Hannah,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt and taking my hand. “You already showed me the place where you loved to work. I want to see your home.”

Tension coils in my chest, because even though I know he cares about me and wants to be with me, I’m worried he’ll reject this side of me. The full manifestation of my chaos.

He must see it in my eyes—the fear that I might be both too much and not enough—because he says, “I want it all.”

Then he leans in and kisses me so sweetly it lessens my worry.

When he pulls back, eyes on me, I nod. “I want to show you. But it’s a mess.”

“I love your messes. Every time I find slime on a pillow, or a balled-up piece of paper, or one of your abandoned art projects, it’s like you’ve laid your claim on me. Declared that I’m yours.”

I gasp, because that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Lifting my hand to cup his face, I trace my fingers over the heart on his forehead. “You are mine, dammit. I’m glad you finally admitted it.”

He leans in and kisses my neck, the press of his lips leaving a mark on my soul. “And will you be mine, Hannah?”

“I already am,” I say, feeling tears in my eyes, as I pull away to meet his gaze again. “But you should really come in and see my apartment. You might change your mind.”

“Why?” he asks. “Is there a dead body in there? I’ll help you bury it.”

I laugh. “What if I’m a hoarder?”

He makes a disgusted face but shrugs. “No one’s perfect.”

I laugh harder, shoving his arm. “You’re lying. You would totally dump my ass if I were a hoarder.”

“No, I’m sure there’s a crystal for that.

Dottie would help me rehabilitate your hoarding ways.

And Eugene would pitch in. That man looks like he’d enjoy a good purging.

” He pauses and tucks my hair behind my ear.

“Nothing up there could change my mind about you. I know this is early, and you’re probably going to laugh at me, but I love you, Hannah. ”

Shock barrels through me, but I know he means it. He’s a man who says what he means. I take a second to study my own heart—and know what should have been obvious.

“Ugh. I can’t make fun of you for that. I love you too,” I say. Then I’m laughing and crying as I kiss him, and he kisses me back like my mouth is his only available source of oxygen.

When we pull apart, I’m still crying a little, and I say, “I’ll never forgive you for making me cry twice in one week. It’s like I’m a leaky faucet.”

“You’re not a leaky faucet.” He leans in and kisses my cheek, my mouth. “You’re my beautiful, sexy girlfriend. Don’t think I missed the way you were ready to step into battle on my behalf.”

I feel myself flushing. “I totally could’ve gotten him in the balls. Rob should have let me try.”

“Rob did what any good friend would. He protected my girl.”

He leans in and kisses me again, his lips soft and reverent. For a moment, I let myself get lost in the soft press of his lips and his hand against the side of my face. But he wants to come upstairs and see the parts of me that I usually hide, and I’m surprised by how much I want to show him.

“Come inside before we get arrested for indecent exposure,” I say.

“Sounds fun.”

I poke his arm. “You don’t get to be the crazy one. I’m the crazy one.”

He just smiles and gets out of the car, then comes around to meet me, as if he’s going to escort me into some fancy dinner and not my rundown, messy apartment.

His shirt is untucked, and there are a few flecks of blood on the collar. It must be Bixby’s, from his busted nose, or maybe Travis’s, from his abraded knuckles. There’s probably a special place in hell waiting for me, because I think it’s sexy.

I’m worried about his injuries, though, about the future of the band, and about Lilah too. But I can tell Travis doesn’t want to talk about any of that. He’d prefer to escape into this connection between us for a while, and I’m letting him, because I want that too.

I guide him into the building, and then up to my third-floor apartment, which is third down a long hallway of identical warped doors, the carpet an always-damp maroon.

I pause when we reach the door, giving him an uneasy look.

“Should I close my eyes to make the most of the surprise?” he asks dryly.

I nudge him with my shoulder, then nearly have a heart attack when he flinches. “You’re bruised. ”

“That’s what happens when you get into a fight,” he says with a lopsided smile that’s not that convincing.

“Well, this should take your mind off it.” I unlock the door and swing it open.

He smiles more genuinely as he walks inside, stepping over a blouse I considered wearing this morning and then tossed over the back of a chair. Or at least I meant to toss it over the back of a chair.

“Will you give me the grand tour?” he asks.

“Yes.” I follow him in and shut the door. “And it’s going to take all of a minute, because there are only three rooms in this apartment. This beauty.” I gesture around to the combo living/dining/kitchen area. “My bedroom, and a bathroom that you probably won’t even fit in.”