“Sure,” I reply, hopping up and going to grab the small bag I use for carrying an emergency stash of Oliver’s needs on our walks. I grab my camera too, my trusty old Nikon, and slip the strap around my neck. By the time I’m out front, Mack has Oliver in the stroller and they’re ready to go.
We walk through the neighborhood, waving at an older couple who lives three houses down. I keep glancing at Mack, at the powerful forearms pushing the stroller and his incredibly toned and tanned legs. My foot catches on a crack in the sidewalk, almost causing me to take a tumble. I blush a horrible shade of red when my eyes meet Mack’s. He knows my attention was not in front of me, but to the side. To the sexy man pushing a baby stroller down the sidewalk.
I lift my camera up, snapping picture after picture of Oliver and Mack together. I make sure to take a few of the landscaping around us so it doesn’t appear I’m just photographing the hot dad and his baby, but I’m pretty sure he’s on to my game.
When we reach home—his home—we work together to bathe and play with Oliver. We watch television and snuggle on the couch until it’s time for the little one’s last bottle before bedtime. Mack rocks him to sleep in the chair, and I capture it all on film. These are memories I’m probably going to look back on whenever I start to feel lonely.
There’s no doubt about it: the loneliness is coming.
The moment I get home.
After we each shower and prepare for bed, we curl up together, as we’ve done these last few nights. Mack is sleeping before me, his soft snore filling the bedroom. My heart is breaking as the minutes tick by, slowly leading us to the end.
It’s a sadness I’m not sure I’ll ever overcome.
***
I hate her.
I know that’s wrong on so many levels, but only three minutes after meeting Alison Norris, I’m leaning toward a strong dislike.
No, there’s nothing wrong with her, per se. Her resume is flawless. She wears a bright, eager smile, and coos at Oliver as if he hung the moon, without getting into that baby-talk bullshit. She’s professional and gives off a Mary Poppins vibe almost immediately.
She’d be perfect.
For Oliver.
For Mack.
And that’s why I hate her.
“So, just to confirm, you don’t mind the travel, and the thought of sleeping in a bunk in a camper doesn’t freak you out?”
Alison giggles, but not in that annoying way. Dammit. “My family used to camp every summer four to five times a year, and I shared a single cabin tent with three siblings. I’m not worried about that. And you said I have a little privacy in the bunk, which is nice. I don’t want to impede on Mack or his alone time with Oliver,” she insists.
I look back down at the résumé in my hand, though I’ve already been over it a million times. I called her references over the weekend, and they all gave glowing reviews, especially the family she took care of all last year until they relocated out of state. A lump forms in my throat with realization this is the right step for Oliver.
“Well, if you have a little bit of time, I’d like you to meet Mack. He’s in the garage shop.”
“I’d appreciate the opportunity to meet with him. He can ask me any questions he wants,” Alison replies, standing up from the couch and smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her knee-length skirt.
I scoop Oliver up out of the swing and head for the back door. Alison is behind me and smiles up at the sun when we step outside. I lead her to the large garage, the shop out back. Mack is wearing a pair of well-worn jeans that hug his ass beautifully, but when I look back at Alison, she doesn’t seem to notice.
Huh.
Maybe she’s okay after all.
We step through the open door, a classic country radio station playing from the stereo on the bench. Mack is leaning over his old truck engine, tinkering with something. “Hey, Mack?”
When his eyes meet mine, they brighten with his smile. He glances to my side and sees Alison, his grin faltering just a bit. “Oh, hey,” he says, grabbing a rag and wiping off his hands.
“This is Alison Norris,” I say cheerfully, my own cheeks starting to hurt from my too-wide grin. “Alison, this is Mack Cruz.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cruz,” Alison says, stepping forward and extending her hand. There’s not an ounce of flirting in her voice, which I find odd. I mean, I’ve seen grown, married women drool and practically pass out at the opportunity to meet him, so that’s why her response is so strange.
Professional.
“Likewise, and it’s Mack,” he says, placing his hand in hers and giving it a gentle shake. He slips a quick look my way. “How’d it go?”
“Very well. Alison comes highly recommended,” I tell him, the burn of what I’m about to say moving up my throat like acid. “I think she’d make a wonderful nanny for Oliver.”
I want to cry.
“Really?” Alison asks, overcome with elation. “I’m so honored you’d choose me. I know the agency has a ton of qualified individuals. I’m grateful to have this opportunity,” she says to me, reaching out her manicured hand. When I place my palm against hers and glance down, I see a smear of grease on her thumb.
The sight sends that acid back down my throat, settling in my stomach like a pit of lava.
“Mack can discuss the terms of your employment with you,” I find myself saying, as if on autopilot. I end up walking away, taking Oliver back outside. The sky is overcast, a gray haze of
