Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I am a shameless dropper of eaves right now and I don’t even care. Who is this spoiler? How can anyone sound so put out after listening to that upbeat song?
“Mom, you can’t do this again. I was waiting downstairs for an hour before you answered my text. I thought you’d been in an accident.”
Okay. That explains a lot.
“I don’t like texting.”
“You didn’t answer the phone either. We had plans.”
“And your sister’s doctor had an opening that couldn’t be rescheduled. Forgive me if I thought my grandchildren would enjoy spending one more night together instead. You said you wanted them to get to know each other.”
“I do.” I can practically hear his teeth grinding. “If Joan had called me, I could have taken Adria with us tonight.”
I shift to take a step back, because the song was one thing, but I definitely shouldn’t be listening to this.
“So they could sleep at some stranger’s trashy apartment on the docks? I doubt your sister would have agreed to that.”
“He’s not a stranger and this penthouse is bigger than Joan’s place. A fact you’d know if you’d agreed to come over for dinner.”
“You’ve been so mule-headed since you got back. You aren’t talking to your manager. You aren’t staying here, when I have more than enough roo—”
“We’ve been through this.” He takes an audible breath. “You’re right, it’s late. Enjoy your grandchildren and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“E—”
He hangs up and I swear for a moment he’s about to throw his phone over the railing. I don’t blame him. His day was obviously worse than mine.
I’m about to leave him to it, but because my life is a tragic farce, this is the exact moment he realizes he isn’t alone, and some asshole clutching an orange soda just watched him singing to his daughter and arguing with his mom.
Men love revealing their vulnerable underbellies in public.
“Hi, neighbor.”
With that greeting, I deserve my blue balls and the cardigan Tani will send me after reading that lifestyle article.
Recognition lights his eyes. That’s right. It’s me. I’m the man whose shoulder you nearly dislocated with your hard, glorious body.
Getting another PDE would be a bad decision so soon after the eavesdropping. Just putting that out there in case the god of Cockhalla is listening and wants to take pity on me.
Instead of noticing my dilemma or telling me to fuck right off, he lowers himself back onto the stool and rubs a hand over his face. “Redmond, right? You want to hear something funny? Just this morning I promised Mr. G I’d stay out of your way and let you settle in.” He chuckles into his palm. “So far I’m 0 for 2.”
Well shit. He feels bad? Now I can’t go back inside without being a first-class jerk. “Whatever just happened, blame it on the pig.”
Confused green eyes find mine over his thick, blunt fingers. “Say again?”
I make a motion toward his guitar. “My favorite song? That’s a quote from the same movie.”
“Ah.”
A single syllable can convey so much. Things like,
How many times has this grown man seen Moana?
or
The new neighbor is crazy.
or
Alexa? Remind me to look up restraining orders.
Any one of them would be appropriate for this situation, considering adult males rarely quote animated musicals to each other in the dark.
No wonder I’m alone.
“Was I too loud?” he asks into the uncomfortable silence. “I promised we’d go to the park for the sing-along, but as you no doubt heard, the plan changed. She said I should come out here to play the one song I knew since—” he waves his hand toward the water by way of explanation.
“It makes perfect sense to me. How old is she?”
“Five.”
“That’s a good year. It’s two and six you really need to watch out for.” I’m joking, but I’m not lying. I have the scars to prove it.
“I missed two. But thanks for the heads up on six.” He squints at me thoughtfully, gaze drifting toward my apartment. “You’ve got kids?”
“Hundreds.” I do some mental math. “At this exact moment, three hundred and forty-five. Wait. Forty-six. Billy showed up three weeks ago.”
His lips quirk. “Either you have amazing stamina and a harem in every town, or you’re pulling my leg.”
I do have amazing stamina and I’d rather stroke his leg than pull it, but I wisely keep that to myself.
“It’s what I do for a living. Nannies not harems,” I clarify at his questioning glance. “I wrangle nannies. And they are currently responsible for the care and well-being of three hundred and forty-six children of varying ages and emotional needs. I sometimes forget that I don’t have any of my own.”
I never forget. I don’t forget the names, birthdays, or special requirements of our client’s children either.
Stress? Who me?
I didn’t used to be this OCD about it. I’ve always cared. I’ve always felt responsible. But this last year it’s become more of an issue. Matilda and Tani were the only people who’d noticed I was working too hard and not eating or sleeping as well. They’re the ones who forced me to get that checkup.