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)
Looks like I won’t need six extra pancakes, after all—Ava will eat leftovers, but she’s not getting through six before they go bad. I suppose I can wrap my morning omelet in a pancake for a day or two. I hate all bananas, no matter what sticker they have on the peel, but I’m an adult. I can force myself to eat foods I despise in the name of avoiding waste.
“Well, I could go for one last coffee before we hit the trail,” Mom says. “There, there, baby, it’s okay. Why don’t I get you some yogurt instead? Or some cereal?”
I turn to see her smoothing Bella’s brown curls from her forehead, before dabbing the tears from her cheeks. “Yes, pweese,” Bella says. “I want pony grahams. The honey kind.”
“Coming right up,” Mom says cheerfully, scooping up the evil-banana contaminated pancakes before breezing my way. “My flight leaves in four hours, honey. Is this new nanny going to be here on time?”
“The agency promised she’d be here promptly at six-thirty.”
“It’s six twenty-five.” Mom clucks her tongue as she fetches a bowl from the cabinet beside the stove, clearly disapproving of how close this new girl is cutting things. “It’s a good forty-five-minute drive.”
“I know, Mom,” I say, covering the pancakes with foil.
“Sometimes more if traffic is bad.”
“Traffic’s not bad.” I pop the plate into the fridge, adding before she can ask, “I checked. The coast is clear, and we’ll have you there in plenty of time. And it’s good the nanny’s not early. I still need to get Ava dressed.”
“Ava’s dressed,” Mom says, delivering Bella’s bowl of pony grahams with no milk because milk is also “bad” and “mean” when mixed with cereal.
Solo milk in a glass—fine.
Milk mixed with cereal—abomination.
I am also confused. And tired. Very tired.
I never should have gone out Saturday night, but damn…I’m glad I did, no matter how things ended. It was nice to get out from under the unrelenting stress for a few hours. And I know I’m never going to forget Clover, no matter where my romantic life goes—or doesn’t—from here.
“She’s in her unicorn sweater, watching Bluey while she brushes her hair like a big girl.” Mom shoots me a narrow look. “Which is more than I can say for her father. Have you run a brush through that tangle, son?”
“Sure did,” I mutter, reaching up to run a hand over my lightly gelled waves.
Yes. Definitely brushed. I couldn’t remember if I’d gotten around to it or not, what with all the banana excitement and artificially inflated airport stress. The TSA is fully operational, and Monday morning is a chill day to fly. Mom will breeze through security with the business travelers and be at her gate an hour ahead of schedule, the way she likes it. No doubt in my mind.
Still, she has a certain way she likes things done, and Bella came by her stubbornness honestly.
Mom continues to eye my head as she pours another cup of coffee. “If you say so, but you could use a haircut. Once you make sure this nanny isn’t a serial killer, you should make an appointment with your barber after practice tomorrow.”
“Shush.” I lower my voice as I add, “Don’t say things like that. You’ll make the girls nervous.”
“Well, maybe they should be nervous,” she mutters, her voice still too loud. Though, to be fair, Bella’s too busy chomping pony grahams at top volume to hear a word from our side of the kitchen. “Are you sure this girl has been properly vetted? Do they check the temps as well as they check the full-time employees?”
“Yes.” I pour myself another cup, too. “Tasha assured me she’s been vetted, is certified in CPR, and has loads of experience.”
Mom grunts. “And what’s her name again? Meredith?”
“Yes. Meredith Cummings,” I say, a part of me certain the universe is tossing reminders of Clover in my path on purpose. First, it was the girl playing bass at the farmer’s market yesterday. Then, the stale popcorn my mother pulled out of the cabinet for a snack after dinner last night. Now, the new nanny’s last name.
But it’s a common last name, a fact my mother proves as she says, “I never met a Cummings I’d trust to flush the toilet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mom shrugs as if what she meant should be obvious. “It means they’re a forgetful people. Forgetful in a way that can have consequences. Gross consequences.”
I hum around my sip of coffee. “I think we’ll be fine.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” she says, before adding in a softer voice, “I can stay a little longer if you want, just until you make sure this girl is going to work out.”
“No, Mom,” I say firmly. “You have clients who need you, and you’ve already taken enough time away from work. You’re getting on that plane, and I’ll make sure you don’t miss it. I promise.”