“Sounds like a lot of work.” She reaches her hand across the table and places her palm on my arm. “Are you burning the candle at both ends again?”
Like I said, Kristy was created with 100 hundred percent big-sister ingredients.
“I’m fine,” I say, taking a drink of my water as I gesture for the check.
“Fine? You said you were fine when you were working on Wall Street, too. But you weren’t. You were working too much. It was killing you.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “And I left when Hayden was young, so it’s all good. I get to spend a lot of time with her now that I’ve rearranged my schedule and workload,” I say, though she may have a point.
Finding the right balance has always been my biggest challenge. It’s still one, because work has been my steady companion since my marriage cratered. The new job in restaurant investing helped me through the divorce. It gave me a focus. It was reliable, regular, and it didn’t screw someone else behind my back. But lately, this new restaurant deal has started to consume more of me.
“Okay,” my sister says, but her tone makes it clear she doesn’t believe me. “Suppose this is all true. Why are you so out of sorts today? Is it just work, sweetie?” She takes a drink of her tea then sets it down on the table. “Or something else?”
I shake my head, bemused. “You’re too astute.”
She smirks. “I am. It’s vexing to you, isn’t it? My uncanny ability to read you?”
“Vexing is precisely what you are.” I shift gears, answering her, but admitting nothing. “And yes, I’ve got something on my mind. But it won’t be on my mind much longer. I promise. Okay?”
She raises one eyebrow. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “I don’t. But it’s nothing to worry about.”
“I can’t not worry about my baby brother.”
For a moment, I wonder if Abby feels the same about her three brothers. If she worries about their hearts, their lives, their choices.
The waiter arrives with the bill, and I’m thankful for the distraction. I don’t want to tread on why I’m out of sorts, because it’s stupid and pointless, and I wish I hadn’t felt like such a dirty old man when we’d pulled up to Abby’s home yesterday.
Seeing her friends waiting for her was a smack of reality. She has a whole life that’s entirely different from mine, and that’s not just because of the years between us. On the one hand, an eight-year age difference is hardly anything in the grand scheme of things. On the other, this isn’t about the years that separate us. It’s about the situation. I was so damn tempted to say yes to her offer to hang out and play pool on Friday night, but had we gone out together, it would have been painfully clear that I was the odd man out. The single dad. The divorced dude. The employer crushing on the nanny. The one-of-these-things-just-doesn’t-belong.
Sure, Abby likes working with children, and she’s great with them. But there’s a difference between working with kids and being responsible for one.
I don’t want to drag Abby down with all my baggage when her future is bright and amazingly free of luggage, except the kind she’d take on a trip to Prague, or Vienna, or Tokyo. I can picture her perfectly with her adventuresome spirit, exploring all those cities. That’s what she should be free to do. I want her to have that unencumbered life.
I tuck my credit card into my wallet, say goodbye to my sister, and head to my office. Once there, though, I’m pretty sure I set a new record for my own distraction. Because . . . That. Fucking. Kiss.
Her taste. Her sweet breath. The scent of her skin. I’ve dreamed of it. Now I’ve had it, and it’s better than all those dirty moments in my head. Her scent like coconut. Her breasts crushed against my chest. The way her hands explored my hair, my shoulders, my arms. The sexy little murmurs she made.
I whimper.
I’m ashamed that I’m a grown man whimpering.
I drop my forehead to my desk and bang it lightly a few times. I don’t know why I even thought I could pretend it never happened. Tell that lie to the heart. Tell that fable to my dick. The rebellious bastard doesn’t like the fact that Abby is off-limits. I’m fucking aroused at my desk on a Saturday evening, and the temptation is strong to take care of this persistent wood right now.
But even though I want to scoop up Abby into my arms, carry her to my bedroom, and strip off all her clothes so I can fuck her and make love to her at the same damn time, I can’t go down this path. I might have stepped over a line yesterday, but that doesn’t give me permission to do it again. That’s the thing about lines. We make them, we break them, and we keep them.
This is a line I need to maintain.
My precious, sweet Hayden is the reason I need to behave.
I looked long and hard for a nanny so I could balance work and parenting. Last fall, I scoured the top Manhattan agencies, searched online, and asked for recommendations from other parents. Honestly, it wasn’t until I thought to ask Harper for coffee and advice when she was helping me plan Hayden’s birthday party that I was able to find the person I wanted for my girl. Harper made the perfect match. Abby’s amazing with my daughter, and Hayden adores her.She’s not a mom replacement and has never tried to be. She’s simply fantastic at her job as a caretaker. I need her in my life in that role, not as a lover.
Which means . . .
Dick, stand down.
Brain, you’re at bat.
I don’t give into temptation that night. Not when I’m home alone, my mind tripping back to the cab, my body wanting her, my hand ready to take on its reliable job of steering a solo flight. Hell, getting off while imagining her has become a habit. Maybe that makes me a horny guy. But if the shoe fits . . .
Tonight, though, I’m going to be good.
I grab the remote and flick the channel to some military battle show. Ah, men in wool is a grade-A, top-choice turn-off, and this D-Day reenactment does the deflation trick quite nicely.
The rest of the evening is smooth sailing. I practice some of the French phrases I need for business. I text my buddy Tyler about our meet-up tomorrow morning. And I catch up on the latest business news.
There. Piece of cake. Getting Abby out of my system is easy.
But the next day when I check out the Eagle Cam and see the baby birds testing their wings, my resistance flies the coop. My heart skips a beat, knowing she’ll love this. I can’t not share this with her. I snap a screengrab and text it to Abby.
* * *
Simon: They’ll be doing flight practice in no time . . . and before we know it, they’ll be sleeping with one eye open.
* * *
She responds with a simple note.
* * *
Abby: Cute! Still on for French on Monday? I thought I could work with you while Hayden does the jungle coloring book I’m bringing her.
* * *
My heart craters.
And that, folks, is the other reason why I need to put on blinders.
She already has.
13
Simon
* * *
The basketball sails through the air, bouncing on the rim and spinning, then it drops through the net. I raise my arms victoriously.
“And that’s another one in the can for this guy.” I point my thumbs at myself, only because it drives Tyler crazy.
My friend shakes his head begrudgingly. “Lucky bastard,” he says as he grabs the ball on the rebound and dribbles.
I raise my eyebrows and smirk. “It’s not luck if I can do it again.” I’ve already landed two in a row in our three-point session after our one-on-one.
It’s seven on Sunday morning at the basketball court in Central Park where we shoot hoops once or twice a week.
Bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet, Tyler raises his chin. “I’ve got a hundred dollars that says you can’t do it a third time.”
“I love your bets. It’s like . . . wait.” I pause, stroking my chin as he narrows his dark eyes at me. I hold up a
finger. “I’ve got it. I know what it’s like.”
“What is it like?” he asks, exaggerated annoyance in his tone.
I mime tugging something off a branch. “It’s like plucking money off a tree.”
He tosses his head back and laughs. “You wish. There’s no fucking way you’re sinking another three-pointer. LeBron James you are not.”
I scoff. “But I don’t need to be the king.” I return to the three-point line, and Tyler spreads his feet and gets in my face as he tries to defend. But I outmaneuver him, thanks to longer arms and natural skills at the game. When I release the ball, it arcs through the air and swooshes into the net. “All I have to do is get it past you.”
“Fuck me,” Tyler says, watching the ball bounce on the concrete as he drags a hand through his dark brown hair.
Tyler’s a couple of years younger than me, and works in entertainment law. The man is known for his daring approach to deals, and his willingness to chase risks for his clients. Trouble is, he should know by now that betting against me on the court is a mistake. Basketball is just something that comes easily to me. Like languages do for—
“What do you say we go double or nothing on the Yankees going all the way this year?” I’m not a big gambler, but I’ve got to keep my mind on anything but that woman.
He mimes stabbing his chest. “Hit me in the heart, why don’t you? You know I’m a Dodgers man. I would never take a bet on that New York team winning everything. Or anything,” he says with a derision he reserves only for the boys in pinstripes.
I rub my thumb and forefinger together. “Then hand over a crisp Benjamin Franklin. Feel free to add a side of humble pie and then some crow for you to eat, too.”
“You’re such a fucker, Travers. You’ll probably use it at a strip club.” He grabs the ball and tucks it under his arm as we walk off the court.
I laugh and shake my head. “Now, you know there’s a one hundred percent chance of that not happening, right?”
He claps me on the back. “That I know is a safe bet.”
“There’s this thing that happens when you have a daughter. You can pretty much never set foot in a strip club again. Unless it’s to take a long trench coat inside and, I don’t know, rescue a friend’s kid or something,” I say with a shrug. Fact is, I was never into that scene before my marriage, and it’s certainly not something I’m eager to partake of now. I’ve been invited to a few for bachelor parties lately. I’ve declined the strip club portion of the boys’ nights out.
“I hear ya on that one. I guess you can just put it in your piggybank then,” he says, taking out his wallet and rifling through it for a bill. He hands me one.
I take it and hold it up. “You want it back?”
He laughs. “Course I do.”
I fold it and stuff it inside my boxer briefs underneath my gym shorts. “Want it now?”
He cringes. “If you gave it to me I would burn it.”
I laugh. “Excellent. I know exactly which bill I’ll be using to buy drinks next time I see your sorry ass,” I tell him, since we never use our winnings for anything but drinks or dinner the next time we connect.
As we near the path at the edge of Central Park, Tyler clears his throat. “So what’s the latest? You met anyone?”
I shoot him a look as if he’s crazy. “It’s not as if I’ve been looking.”
“But you’re not not looking?”
“Such a lawyer,” I say, laughing. “Always turning language around.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “All I did was make a double negative. But do feel free to answer the question, unless you want a ruthless cross-examination. Have you met anyone during your not not looking?”
We weave past early morning joggers and cyclists on the loop. As we near Fifth Avenue, I take a breath and decide what the hell? If I told my sister, she’d want to comfort me, advise me, and guide me through the Abby situation. But Bungee Jump Tyler, as his cousin calls him? Considering the guy’s got his sights set on winning back the woman he was once crazy for, and he stands such a minute chance of succeeding, it’s a sure bet he’ll get my impossible romantic situation.
“There is someone. But I can’t have her. Tell me, what do you do when you want someone you can’t have?”
He nods sagely and taps his temple. “I got your answer right here.”
“Knew I could count on you. Tell me your secret.”
He holds up his right hand and makes the international symbol for self-love. “You spend a lot of nights reading your fortune.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously? That’s your trick?”
He peers at his hand and pretends to study it. “My lifeline is going to be nice and long, on account of regular use of the hand brake.” As a bus rumbles along the avenue, he adopts a more serious tone. “Who is she? This untouchable?”
I stop at the crosswalk and turn to face him. No point hemming and hawing. “The nanny.”
His jaw drops. His eyes widen. And he blows out a long stream of air. “Didn’t see that coming. Damn. You and Ben Affleck.”
I protest indignantly. “No. Not at all like Ben Affleck. Seeing as he cheated on his wife.”
“True that.” Tyler snaps his fingers. “The Sound of Music. The father and the nanny. Well, technically she was the governess.”
“And didn’t he have eight kids or something? Are you just trying to kill me now?”
“One. Eight. What’s the difference?”
“Sanity, man. Sanity is the difference. Besides, since when do you know the storyline of The Sound of Music so well?”
“I represent the director of the Broadway revival, asshole,” Tyler says, laughing at me. “Besides, even if I didn’t, there’s nothing wrong with being culturally literate.”
“Never said there was.”
“Are you two . . .?” he asks as we cross the street.
I shake my head, answering his unfinished question. “We had a brief . . . moment.” Though that hardly does the cab ride justice. That was the culmination of a million moments.
“Impressive. Didn’t think you had it in you, Simon.”
“Nor did I.”
“But you’re going to stay the fuck away from that?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I take a deep breath. “But is what I’ve done so far really that bad?” I ask, and this time there’s no trash talking, no giving each other a hard time. I ask him frankly, needing his honest appraisal. At his core, Tyler is an upfront kind of friend.
“You’re fine. Considering you’re not in Affleck’s situation, it’s not that bad. If you want to keep her as your employee, then it wouldn’t be your wisest choice to have any more . . . moments.” He slows his pace as we reach the block where I live. “But you knew that.”
I nod. “I do know that.”
When Miriam arrives on Monday morning, she issues a curt hello. She’s suited up, her dark hair slicked into a bun, ready for business. Then, as if she just remembered our post-split vow to not be assholes, she flashes a smile. “How was your weekend?”
What a loaded fucking question. Only she has no idea, so I keep the answer simple. “Great. I got a lot of work done. Did you two have fun together?”
Hayden gazes up at her mother and answers for both of them. “Yes! We always do. And there’s something I have to find right now, but it’s a secret.” She takes off for her room like a tornado.
Miriam fiddles with her purse clasp, clearly ready to go. “I’ll be back in a week. I’m meeting with lawmakers upstate, and we have a lot of ground to cover, but I should be home in time to have her Saturday night.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“See you then. Have a good week.” She turns to leave, then pauses. “Oh. She sneezed a few times this weekend.” She gestures to the couch and living room. “You might want to get your maid here more often. All this dust will only make Hayden’s allergies worse.”
I rub a hand across the back of my neck. For starters, my home isn’t dir
ty. But that’s beside the point. “Hayden does not have allergies.”
Miriam raises her chin. “Well, she could.” She taps her chest. “I have allergies.”
“Then it’s a good thing you don’t live here,” I say, plastering on a tight grin.
“You don’t have to be like that.”
“If you feel the need to criticize my clean home, then I do need to be like that.” I heave a sigh. “Please. Let’s just be civil.”
“I was civil. I said to have a good week.”
“Civil also means no unnecessary insults about my home.”
She huffs, then nods. “Fine. I was simply worried about her. Allergies are no fun, and I don’t want her to have any.”
“And I will continue to be on a full allergy alert,” I say, even though Hayden’s never once shown a sign of them.
“Thank you. Have a good week,” she says, and then leaves.
I shut the door behind her, the click of the lock a satisfying sound, separating her from me. I make my way to Hayden’s room, where she’s curled over her toy chest, searching it. A true smile spreads on my face as I watch her hunt. She’s victorious when she finds a wooden sword, pops up, and challenges me to a duel. “En garde!”
Immediately, I grab the matching sword, adopt a Three Musketeers stance, and proceed to fence with my daughter for the next five minutes.
When she stabs me in the belly, I crumple to the ground and clutch at my wound.
“Oh no! We have to save you,” she says, kneeling.
“Help, help,” I call out, clasping my chest.
“Don’t worry. I have a Band-Aid.”
“Hurry, nurse. Please hurry.”
She rushes to her toy chest, grabs a white plastic first-aid kit for kids, and procures a Hello Kitty Band-Aid. “It’s my secret supply,” she whispers, then opens the Band-Aid and presses it on my shirt.
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