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I check behind his shoulder, thinking this must be a misunderstanding. “I was told you were a college graduate.”
Is anyone else coming? An aging, balding anyone else?
“A double bachelor’s in elementary education and music with a master’s in child psychology, University of Illinois,” he says. “Go, Fighting Illini!” He pumps his fist with a smile but then clears his throat, reading my unimpressed face.
He can’t be older than twenty-one. Maybe he has one of those high IQs with a membership to Mensa. No, he can’t be that attractive using more than three percent of his brain. The universe doesn’t work like that. It just isn’t fair to the rest of us.
But if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that the universe isn’t fair and never claimed to be.
“I’m Remington Arison from Child Care Connection.” He raises his hand for a shake. His long fingers are giving me images of him behind a grand piano or strumming a Les Paul guitar. Either fantasy makes me shiver. Wonder if he could get me to sing.
My detour from these thoughts is sharp and swift.
Usually, my meetings start with me charming high-profile executives of Fortune 500 companies. It’s never the other way around. Yet here I stand, stupefied, staring at his offering instead of shaking it. If his voice sent me in a tailspin, I can only imagine the horrific belly swoop of actually touching him.
He straightens his boyish angular face, drops his hand, and clears his throat. “The agency told me you were seeking a child caregiver.” As if he can’t help himself, he smirks. “A male, specifically.”
My gut punches. I swear that twinkle in his eye has a laser aimed right between my thighs. It’s been so long since anyone looked at me like that. The thing I usually get glinting in a man’s eye is contempt. Most likely because I have his balls in a vise, but I digress.
I can almost hear B.O.B. vibrating in excitement on my nightstand drawer, down the hall past the screaming child, inside my bedroom. I may be someone’s mother, but shit, I still have needs. And I’m lonely. It’s tough being a dictator all day and mommy at night. I long for deep connections with other people, like anyone else. There’s just not enough time.
Oh God, this is so fucking cliché, isn’t it? He’s a child, for chrissakes.
Well, not a child.
My eyes can’t help but sweep down his front, the fit of his shirt molding around his lean but cut frame. A child doesn’t have a body like that. But he is someone’s kid, right? With wild sex hair. And a mouth meant for sucking. Don’t even get me started on those long fingers and what they could do. The places they could reach.
I clench. And then self-flagellate.
I’m old enough to be his … what? Older sister? My age slaps me in the face before gripping my arm and yelling, you still have a pulse!
Is it so bad that I crave male company? Most healthy thirty-something heterosexual women do. No matter, I am a mother and I might become his employer.
So I straighten my spine and square my shoulders, holding my invisible crown high. I am still the queen of this castle. “I see. I misunderstood. Accept my apologies. You have a very young face.” Her Royal Highness can shut her trap about now.
Isabel’s cries for mommy become the equivalent of a sonic boom. My shoulders hitch as the sound blasts my eardrums. Here I am, standing before this … nice-looking man-boy, with sweat beading from my temple and yogurt crusting on my blouse. A tantrum of epic proportions going on behind me.
Pre-kid me wouldn’t be this rattled, this wound tight. The Mae of three years ago didn’t sweat in uncomfortable situations. She didn’t blink an eye at pursuing someone. But it’s not just about me anymore. I have a responsibility to my daughter, and being reckless would be detrimental to that obligation.
I’m sure he’s about to politely get the fuck out of Dodge when he peeks over my shoulder toward the wailing banshee child.
“May I?”
I want to reply, No, you may not, but all I want is my child’s happiness. So I should at least give him a chance, right?
I stand aside.
His mouth tips a lopsided smile as he waltzes past me. Without a glance, Remington picks up Mr. Snuffles among the sea of toys littering the living room floor. The stuffed dog has certainly seen better days—quite literally since I excised his marble eyes, stitching him up with the finesse of a drunk surgeon.
How does this stranger know it’s her favorite stuffy? I’m positive Isabel’s father wouldn’t have paid enough attention to even care. Brad was only concerned with one thing—Brad.
“Arf, arf, arf.” The sexy man-boy gets on all fours and approaches a tear-streaked but cute ticking time bomb.
Holy mother of God, I was not prepared for this new visual.
A lump forms in my throat watching Remington’s thoughtful tactics with my baby. It’s like he knows exactly what she needs. He crawls over to my daughter, the plump of his ass on full display.
I’m aware that objectifying him is wrong, yet my deprived body betrays me. Redirecting my thoughts, I crack a smile at the nanny’s antics.
