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I made sure to bring my son in for this meeting partly because I didn’t have anyone else to watch him and partly because I knew Monty was going to be pissed I fired another nanny, but would be less furious with Max’s chubby-cheeked smile staring back at him.
“You think this is funny, kid? Your dad is making me go gray.” “I think that’s all you, old man.”
Emmett Montgomery, or Monty as we call him, is not only the field manager of the Windy City Warriors, Chicago’s MLB team, but he’s also a single dad. He’s never told me the details of how his family came to be, but I would be shocked if his situation were anywhere as absurd as mine. That is, unless he also had a past fling fly across the country almost a year since he last saw her, only to drop the bomb that he’s a dad and she wants no involvement before leaving him as a single parent to a six-month-old baby boy.
I’ve already rotated through five nannies. And the reason for that is because, well… I’m not sure I want to make it work. I’m not sure I want to play baseball anymore.
A game that I once loved, that I thought of as my entire existence, I now view as time away from my family.
When I met Monty, I instantly liked him, but our working relationship became more like family when Max came into my life last fall. I can’t thank him enough for what he’s done for me. It’s because of him, understanding the kinds of sacrifice it takes to be a single parent, that made this situation work.
He needs someone constant and stable in his life, and I won’t let something as trivial as a game be the reason my son doesn’t have that.
Pretty girls tend to make him stupid. And this one is real pretty.
Eyes are jade green and thoroughly confused, a tiny gold septum ring shines just under the bridge of her nose, and now I get why my brother turned into a dumbstruck teenage boy because suddenly I am too.
Out of my periphery, I catch her looking at Max with a little smile. “You’ve got a cute kid.” You’ve got a cute everything, is what I want to say in response.
“Does he speak?” she asks. “Him?” She laughs to herself. “I was referring to you. So, you just make it a habit of ignoring people who talk to you?”
All I know is my kid won’t stop trying to throw his body off mine to get to her. Which is weird, because in general, Max isn’t big into strangers and even more so, he isn’t all that comfortable with women.
“Come on, Max,” I exhale, readjusting him. “You’ve gotta stop squirming.” “I know it’s weird to offer, but I can hold him if you wa—” “No,” I snap. “Geez.” “I mean, no, thank you. He doesn’t do well with women.” “Wonder where he got that from.”
“Maybe he should loosen up every once in a while. He’s got a cute-ass kid and an even cuter smile when he shows it.” She lifts her Corona to me before chugging the rest and exiting the elevator. “Thanks for the ride, Baby Daddy. It was…interesting.” That it was.
I love butter. Imagine being the person who created God’s greatest gift to mankind. I could kiss them for their discovery. With bread? Perfection. Melted onto a baked potato? Heaven sent. Or my personal favorite, baked into my famous chocolate chip cookies.
But the classic recipes, the ones I’ve honed for the last fifteen years, the ones that make your body melt into a sigh as soon as the sugar touches your tongue, reminding you of home, those are mine.
“I’m going to assume you forgot my title is Chef,” I say over my shoulder. “Sweetie. You just bake cakes. I’m not calling you Chef.”
So yes, I’ve earned the title of Chef.
“I know something else sweet and pink that I wouldn’t mind a taste of.”
I should be grateful and humbled that I won an award most chefs strive for their entire lives, but the only thing I’ve felt since winning is a crippling pressure that’s caused my mind to go blank, rendering me unable to create anything new. I haven’t told anyone I’m struggling. I’m too embarrassed to admit it. All eyes are on me more than ever before and I’m flailing.
a hand lands on my waist, every hair on my neck standing up in alarm. “You’ve got two more months here, Montgomery, and I know a good way to pass the time. A way to get the staff here to like you.” The line cook’s hot breath brushes the back of my neck. “Get your hand off me,” I say coolly. His fingertips dig into my waist, and they feel like my breaking point. I need to get away from this man and this kitchen. I need to get away from every kitchen. “You’ve got to be lonely, traveling around the country the way you do. I bet you find a friend to keep you warm in that little van of yours in
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“I think I’m done here.”
Curtis is still on the floor, so I offer him a simple middle finger as I make my exit because yes, I’m an awarded pastry chef who sometimes still acts like a child.
My career is impressive. I know this. I’ve worked endless hours to be impressive, to reach these borderline unattainable goals. But now that I’ve achieved most of them, I’m floating without direction, looking for the next checkmark to chase.
“Violet, I haven’t been able to create a new dessert in three weeks.” “You mean you haven’t had the time?” she assumes. “Because if you’re needing more time to perfect the recipes for the article, I could understand that.” “No. I mean I haven’t made something that didn’t fall apart in the process or burn to shit in the oven. It’d be comical how bad I am at my job if I weren’t on the brink of a mental breakdown because of it.” She laughs. “You’re fucking with me, right?” “Violet, a five-year-old with an Easy Bake Oven could make a better dessert than me right now.”
He’s one of the good ones. In fact, I’d argue he’s the very best.
It’s been just the two of us most of my life, and though you’d think I left home at eighteen to spread my wings, I really did it so he could. I knew then, just as I know now, that the moment I stop moving, he’ll tie himself to whatever city I settle in to be close to me. So, for his sake, I haven’t stopped running since I left home at eighteen, and I have no plans to. He’s given up everything for me. The least I can do is make sure he doesn’t give up any more.
I lit up whenever I impressed him with a new recipe, which, let’s be honest, was every single time. He’s easily my biggest fan.
He’s got a backwards hat on, dark-rimmed glasses, and a toddler in his arms with a matching cap for goodness’ sake. I try my hardest not to look too closely, but I can see the dark hair spilling out around the edges, ice-blue eyes framed by those glasses. Scruff slopes over his jawline, screaming “older man,” and that alone is my kryptonite. Then you add the cute-ass kid he’s got slung on his hip and he’s almost begging to be drooled over.
“I suck at my job. I don’t even enjoy baking right now because I’m so bad at it. When have you ever heard me say I don’t enjoy baking?”
“Come on the road with me. We haven’t been in the same place for more than a few days since you were eighteen and I miss my girl.”
“There is one family member who’s allowed to travel with the team this season.” A sly smile slides across his lips. “I have an idea.”
“I’m just that good, and you’re going to hire her because you clearly have shit taste in nannies since you won’t stop firing them all, so I’m taking over.” “Her?” “My daughter.”
“She’s free for the summer and I want her to travel with us,” he continues. Makes sense, she’s out of school for the summer.
“You.” The word comes out part seething, part shock. She sighs, her shoulders dropping. “I had a feeling it was going to be you.”
“Ace, meet my daughter, Miller Montgomery. Max’s new nanny.” My head whips back in his direction. “You’re kidding me.” “Miller, Kai Rhodes. You’ll be taking care of his son this summer.” “Absolutely not,”
“I had a beer to celebrate me quitting my job this morning. You’re acting like I was doing lines of coke off the handrails in the elevator, which yeah, now that I’m saying that out loud, I realize sounds oddly specific, but I promise I’ve never done that.” I turn back to Monty. “This your kid?” “The one and only,” he says with pride. “How old are you?” “Twenty-five.” I didn’t realize Monty became a dad at such a young age. That’d put him at…twenty years old when she was born? Damn. I thought this was hard at thirty-two. “How old are you?” she asks. “I’m asking the questions here. I’m trying
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“I’m gonna give you a word of advice, son. Knowing her, she’ll make sure you have the time of your life this summer, both you and Max, but don’t even think about getting attached to her.”
“And Ace,” he calls out. “Keep your dick in your pants. We all know how fucking fertile you are, and I’m too young and too goddamn attractive for someone to be calling me Grandpa.”
He still only has a handful of words in his vocabulary, but it’s wild when I get to hear them. It’s even wild to watch him feed himself though he’s been doing it for months. It might sound pathetic, but the small changes I see in him as he learns and grows are the most exciting moments of my everyday life.
“She’s not not hot.” “Oh my God,” my brother says, accusatorially. “You’re gonna bang the new nanny, aren’t you? So cliché, my guy.”
I’m just tired. Tired of doing it all alone. Tired of feeling like I’m not doing enough.
In my twenties I was a massive flirt, and I did my fair share of fucking around, but responsibilities crept into my life again, shifting my priorities. The flirty side pops out occasionally, when I’m out at work events alone, but then the reminder of who’s waiting for me at home brings me back to reality and I squash my former self.
I’m not quite sure what’s so fascinating to me about her thighs, but they’re thick and muscular, the kind you get from years of playing softball. And I can’t stop imagining how blissfully constricting they’d feel around my waist. Or even better—my face.
She’s borderline certifiable.
It’s a me thing, thinking others are judging my parenting skills or my son’s progression. He’s fifteen months old. Maybe he should be walking. Maybe he should have more words in his vocabulary. I don’t fucking know. To be honest, I don’t want to know because I’m doing my best. Am I failing as a parent? Possibly. But he’s healthy and I’m trying.
“He’s a hell of a crawler though.” Letting go of his hands, Max immediately folds onto the ground before he takes off crawling. “He’ll be on his hands and knees most of the time.” “As all men should be.” Isaiah makes his presence known with a childish squeak of a laugh. “I like her,” he says. “Well at least one of the Rhodes boys does.” “Two,” I interject. A flash of confusion and maybe a bit of hope washes over her face. “Max.”
“Sounds like you keep yourself plenty busy then. No need to try for your coach’s daughter, right? Don’t think he’d like that all too much.” Miller tilts her head. Isaiah stiffens, his voice dipping to a whisper. “Please don’t tell your dad.” “Then please don’t make it awkward for me while I’m watching your nephew.” Okay, maybe there are three Rhodeses that like her.
“Hi, Bug.” Max smiles and I lean against the wall, watching them. “What do you say? Wanna hang out with me while your dad is working? We can watch his game and make fun of how tight his pants are.” “You’ll be watching?” “The game? Or your ass?” “Both.”
Right on cue, as that disapproving thought passes through my mind, Max reaches his hands up for Miller to hold him. She takes him with ease, and he buries himself into her shoulder, something he never does with strangers, least of all a random woman. My son looks over to me, a little grin on his lips as if he were silently telling me that, despite my best efforts, she’s staying.
