Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Also, important to note that the door swung open before I hit the bell. Yes, the doorman called up, but it looks like the Grim Reaper is on a hair trigger today. His eyebrows are in a super slanty V and he’s showing a modicum of emotion. This is big for him.
“Is it?” is his response to my greeting.
Needless to say, the name suits him. What else do you call someone who only wears dark colors and possesses two emotions: none or irritated.
What’s with all the black and grey clothes anyway? Today is another uninspired choice: black button-down shirt, dark gray graphite slacks. I shouldn’t be taking note, but it’s hard not to when he seems to be making a statement…sending a message…whatever.
“Are you going to stand there all day or are you coming in?”
Caught musing, my cheeks flare.
Because I’m a stickler for punctuality myself, I cast a sneaky glance at the phone in my hand. Two minutes late.
“Sorry, it won’t happen again. I promise. The subway––”
West turns and walks away, headed for the kitchen while I’m in the middle of my clumsy excuse.
“No more subway,” he announces. “You’ll take a car service.”
“I can’t––” I start to explain, chasing after him, a theme developing between us.
“I’m paying for it.”
“Well, in that case…”
In the kitchen, Maisie is in a pen entertaining herself with a set of soft blocks. She’s wearing the helmet. This can’t be healthy.
When she hears us enter, she glances up and smiles at us.
“Pick up,” the little one commands.
Glancing sideways, I find West’s expression blank. I can’t tell if he’s trying to figure out what that means, or how to go about it.
“Can I take the helmet off? Why is she wearing it anyway?”
Maisie is playing in her pen. Is that really necessary?
“No,” is his singular and confusing reply.
“Please?” I stare at my new boss with a softly hopeful look on my face. Nothing on YouTube said anything about helmets. Not anywhere online to be honest.
He gets that resolute look about him that says I would have an easier time moving a mountain. “She walks. She could hurt herself.”
He can’t be serious. Then again he may know less about kids than I do and wants to play it safe. That must be it.
I glance around. The entire apartment has an open floor plan and very few doors. You can see from one end to the other in some cases. There’s a noteworthy lack of furniture in the living room across the way. Like someone removed all the hard objects out of the room and all that’s left are the soft couches and chairs. Which sums up the situation neatly: he’s safety obsessed.
“There’s nothing on YouTube about helmets on toddlers. I looked everywhere.”
“YouTube?” he says, genuinely confused.
“Yes, YouTube.”
“You get your information from YouTube?” Confusion has switched to mild amusement…for a cadaver that is.
“Have you been on it lately?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
Like any toddler Maisie has an issue with patience. She doesn’t have the time for West to make up his mind, so she takes matters into her own tiny pudgy hands. Grabbing the side of the pen, she hoists herself onto her little pink feet and lifts her arms in the air, her dark almond-shaped eyes full of hope. “Pick up.”
“I think she means you,” I say, tone more than a little tentative. I don’t want to be giving my new boss orders, but that baby has an on-the-verge-of-screaming look on her pretty face.
“Not now, Maisie. Riley needs to pay attention to what I have to tell her. It’s important for your welfare.”
Lord Jesus, he’s talking to a two-year-old like she’s an employee.
His attention shifts over to me. “I have to get you up to speed.”
“Hmm,” I say keeping a close watch on the baby. Her eyes are getting glassy, and she’s making soft agitated noises. Not good.
“Riley, are you listening?”
Then the unthinkable happens, that little chin of hers starts to tremble like she’s about to blow. Time to jump in.
It’s not a conscious decision. I’m operating on pure gut instinct. I mean, I’m new at this babysitting thing. I take the baby in my arms and she comes willingly, hooking her little legs around me as if she’s done it a thousand times before. Maisie smiles, then I smile and a reserve of warmth unfurls in my chest. West does what he does, which is look distant with a touch of constipation, emotional and otherwise.
“I’ve got a meeting in an hour.”
“You can go. We’re good here,” I tell him, smiling at Maisie.
“No, we are not good here. We have a list of rules to go over––Riley, are you paying attention?”
“Yes, boss.”
He sighs. “Phone. Have this one on you at all times and keep it on. You are to answer when I call.” He pulls a brand-new iPhone out of the cash drawer––the newest model––and slides it across the kitchen counter. “There’s a code for the house,” he continues. “It’s automated. Your personal one to get into the elevator and the house are programmed in the phone under my name. Keep the phone locked for obvious reasons.”