More Than I Could (18)

“Why? Why would someone like that want to come here and deal with a teenager?”

Mom shrugs. “I know she got laid off. Iyala is a smaller business, from what I understand, and they had to restructure to stay afloat. Megan moved from Los Angeles to Dallas while she figured out her next move. Nail polish designers aren’t in high demand.”

The fact that this all makes sense is even more frustrating. Why couldn’t she have some massive flaw that makes it easy to justify not wanting her here? Why does she have to be perfect on paper?

And probably fucking everywhere else …

I have enough problems on my hands. There’s zero doubt that Megan would be another. It’s not hard to imagine the thirty days ending, and Kennedy has fallen in love with her and then acting out even more because Megan leaves.

Nor is it difficult to imagine that I would struggle to keep my hands off her if we shared the same living space …

But I have to do something.

I have to stop being selfish and do what’s right for my family. And, right now, that’s the little minx that has me tied up.

I grin. Things that I wish were true.

“Chase, honey,” Mom says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a good daddy—”

“Hey, everybody …” Luke stops on the threshold and looks at Mom, then at me. He grimaces. “I’ll come back later.”

I motion toward the table. “No. Sit. Stay.”

“Yeah, see … this looks like one of those conversations where Mom is about to let you have it,” Luke says. “I’m familiar with the lead-up. While it would bring me joy to watch someone else get reamed for once, I’m afraid that sticking around might change the focus to me, and I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life today.”

Mom snorts and kisses my brother on the cheek. “You act like I’m always … what did you say? Reaming you?”

“Um, you are,” Luke says, ducking to avoid her swat. “I came to your house on Monday, and what happened? Oh, that’s right—you yelled at me.”

“You brought your dirty laundry to my house and shoved half of a load in the washer.”

“Isn’t that where it goes?”

“Not when there’s already washed laundry in there that needs to go in the dryer.”

Luke cringes.

“Really, Luke?” I ask.

“I didn’t see it.”

“How could you not?” Mom asks, her voice rising. “Lucas, I love you. I’ve loved you since the day you were born. But you’ll have to grow up at some point.” She looks at me. “Where did I go wrong with him?”

Luke gasps. “Excuse me, Mrs. Marshall?”

“You call me Mrs. Marshall again, little boy, and see what happens—”

“Hey, Uncle Luke!” Kennedy comes in from the mudroom and taps my brother on the back as she walks by. “Pap and I are going fishing.” She lowers her voice. “It’s not what I want to do today, but he’s acting like he’s never going to see me again after tomorrow, and I feel bad.”

We all laugh.

“Wanna come?” Kennedy asks, taking three water bottles from the refrigerator.

“Yeah, I’ll come down there. Gavin tried getting me to go dirt biking with him this afternoon. Maybe I can talk him into fishing instead.”

Kennedy grabs another water bottle. “Cool.” She looks at me with a little grin as she walks toward the door. “I can’t wait to tell you about my new babysitter.”

My stomach drops. I fire her a look to be careful, but she ignores the warning in typical Kennedy fashion.

“Oh, that’s right,” Luke says, suddenly interested in my parenting decisions. “She was starting today. Is she here?”

“Nope,” Kennedy says. “She just left. You should ask my dad about her. She’s hot.”

“Ken …”

She ducks out of the room, laughing. “See you at the lake, Uncle Luke! I’ll tell you all about it. Love you, Gram!”

“That kid,” Mom says, chuckling.

That kid, all right. I heave a breath.

Discussing this with Luke was not on my agenda today—or ever. But now that he’s been clued in on a hot nanny, there’s no way to avoid the conversation.

“Okay,” Luke says, smirking like the bastard he is. “Let’s talk about this nanny.”

“Yes, let’s,” Mom chimes in.

“Let’s not.”

“She’s hot?” he asks, taunting me. “She must be smokin’ hot to elicit this kind of a response.”

“You’re wrong, Luke. She’s not hot—she’s beautiful.” Mom’s mocking tone is as irritating as my brother’s. “You should see her. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Built like a … what do they say? A shit house? A brick house?”

Luke snickers.

“Mom,” I say, exasperated. “Please don’t do this.”

She turns to me. “Don’t do what? Tell your brother how delightful the woman is? The same woman you ran off from here, for some reason unbeknownst to me?”

“You ran her off?” Luke asks, his eyes bugging out. “I can’t wait to hear this.”