Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Marta and Stanley seem nice, too. A little odd, maybe—Stanley squints at the laptop like he’s never seen a computer, and Marta asked if I was “committed to Gus’s holistic food journey” in a way that suggested feeding my charge won’t be easy—but nice. They just moved into their New Orleans place last week, a few days before they both start demanding jobs.
That’s why they wanted to meet today. This way, they can hand over the keys and go over Gus’s schedule before they’re swept up in the “first day” chaos. Thankfully, Gus doesn’t start kindergarten for another week, so we’ll have time to settle in before adding to our daily schedule.
And I’ll have time to practice driving the Hendersons’ minivan, which they insisted should be “my car” while caring for Gus. I’ve never driven anything that large—and honestly don’t see why I need a minivan for one small boy—but I’m not about to argue about being given a car. Since Mr. Higgins, my Honda Civic, went to the big junkyard in the sky last October, I’ve been at the mercy of the erratic New Orleans bus system, which, frankly, can go suck a troll penis.
My cheeks heat as I wave to Clark, our doorman, and step out into the chilly winter morning.
Must stop thinking about troll penis.
And Dean penis.
And Dean.
The window for fun, games, and frolicking with gorgeous men has passed. Now’s the time to focus on my fresh start and being a wholesome, reliable nanny, without a steamy thought in her head.
No one likes a steamy nanny.
Well, maybe pervy dads do, but I’m not that kind of girl, and the thought of Stanley being romantic makes me want to throw up in my mouth.
Note to self: Add “Stanley trying to be sexy” to the list of things we’re not thinking about.
With my brain firmly—mostly—under wraps, I hurry down the street, determined to seize the day.
Six
CLOVER
Proving things are looking up, I time my arrival at the bus stop perfectly. The French Quarter line is only running ten minutes late, and George, my driver bestie, is on duty.
“Morning, sunshine,” he calls, dropping the hydraulics for me.
“Morning, George, how was your Saturday?” I ask, maneuvering in behind an older woman hunting for her bus pass. “Stay out of trouble?”
He cackles his cartoony laugh, fresh wrinkles blooming around his eyes. “Mostly, mostly. Get yourself a candy, sunshine. Just restocked this morning.”
“Thanks.” I collect a Werther’s from the plastic cup of goodies he keeps strapped to the pole by the censor and suck it as we zoom south, watching the sun cut a path through the clouds.
It’s shaping up to be a nice day. Hopefully, that means the storm is over, and Gus and I will be able to hit the park tomorrow. I pull my phone out to check—refusing to think about Dean or how I teased him about knowing the weather in advance. I’m doing a decent job until the bus stops in front of the arena, where a giant photo of the Voodoo roster looms over the street.
And just like that, Dean is back at the top of my mind.
Even in a team of enormous men, he’s one of the biggest. He stands with his shoulders back and arms crossed in the third row, a look in his eyes that says he’s isn’t here to play. Well, he’s here to play, obviously—hockey is, at the end of the day, a game—but he’s going to leave it all on the ice.
Bet he would have left it all on my mattress, too, but alas…
I shove my phone back in my purse and focus on what matters. Tomorrow will be sunny and mild. Park weather. Frolicking weather. Wholesome-nanny-who-is-no-longer-thinking-about-getting-fingered-in-a-parking-lot weather.
That’s the energy I’m bringing from here on out.
I disembark not far from one of my favorite blues bars and head toward Southern Exposure, the café Marta picked. The second I walk in, it’s obvious this is one of those places where a cup of organic coffee costs nine dollars and an investment in carrot cake would wreck me financially.
So, I settle for an herbal tea—only five dollars, a steal by comparison—and find a table with a view of the door.
I’m twenty minutes early, but could have easily been twenty minutes late if the bus had decided today wasn’t my lucky day. And as my stepmonster used to say, “Early is on time, and on time is late.” Rhonda was a nightmare, but she did instill a few solid habits in me, mixed in with the stress and anxiety.
Luckily for me, it seems the Hendersons are from the same school of thought, and push through the door a few minutes later.
They look different in person. When viewed from the chest up, Marta gave “powerhouse who captains her family’s ship with ease” energy. In real life, she’s tiny, maybe five-two, with a blond bob and posture so perfect, she looks like a former ballerina.