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We walk past a guy wearing a sailor hat, with short shorts and a striped tank. He gives me a nod and a wink.
With a grimace, I wave back. Did I unknowingly dress for comicon?
“Mae, is this a costume party you forgot to tell me about?”
“I had no idea Isabel and I were coming to represent the sailor sector of comic-book heroes.” I should have known. The company throwing the party is Fawlen Studio, and they sell all kinds of movie props and costumes.
“Another missed opportunity to strut my stuff in my Princess Leia bikini.”
I almost choke. “That would have been a sight. I’m glad I didn’t tell you. You would have burned the corneas of women everywhere.” My hand flies over my loose lips.
Remi cackles like an obnoxious goose.
“Miranda, you made it.” Corissa Fawlen, the owner, comes over with a couple of other women I’ve never met. “This is Kelly and Pandee. Girls, this is Miranda. She and her partner are our digital marketing mavens.”
We all exchange pleasantries, and the women fawn all over Isabel.
“She is just precious,” Pandee gushes. “You must be the daddy.” She twirls her dark hair and blinks at Remington.
His cheeks flame. “The nanny, actually,” he says softly.
“That is just wonderful,” Corissa chimes in.
Pandee inches closer to Remi, and Kelly licks her lips. It takes all the power in me to not laugh. Remi is clearly uncomfortable to have these women overtly ogling him, but he’s too good-natured to snub them off.
“A-ah…” he stammers, pulling Isabel’s stroller in front of him like it’s a pheromone shield. “Let’s go find something to drink, Isabel.” He turns to me. “Can I get you anything?”
The women lay their hands on their chest, swooning.
I suppress a smile. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay.” He sighs. “Let’s see if there are any IPAs I can drink and complain about.”
When he’s out of hearing range, three sets of bugging eyes pin me in my spot.
I step back. “What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me, woman,” Corissa huffs. “Where did you find him? I might need his services.”
Kelly smacks her friend’s shoulder. “He’s a nanny, not a sex worker, Corissa.”
“So?”
Pandee throws her friend under a fast-moving bus. “You don’t have any kids.”
Corissa looks at me. “Can I borrow yours?”
We all crack up.
“Can we not objectify my daughter’s caregiver?” I interject because A: I don’t want them looking at him like that; and B: I don’t want them to know I objectify him on the regular. This is a professional outing.
“Oh, shut it, Miranda,” Corissa snaps at me playfully. “You can’t tell me that you have that walking around your house, carrying your baby all day, and not think about what he’d look like making his own.”
A coughing fit overwhelms me because … yeah, I do.
“I knew it,” Pandee accuses.
The light atmosphere darkens when the creepy-crawly feeling that someone is watching me skitters down my spine. Why do I get paranoid so suddenly? Looking around, I don’t recognize anyone and nothing looks out of place, so I shrug it off.
