Finally, a normal one. I quickly peruse the notifications from Heels and Wheels, Doughnuts and Babies, Educational Mamas, Working Mamas, Single Mamas and Papas, Lonely Hearts Club, Singles and Mingles, ugh…the list goes on. I join one more normal-sounding local moms’ group but delete the rest. Note to self, never sign up for a meetup group while drunk and lonely.
I check my other emails and see a response to my inquiry about the office manager job. Finally, some good news! I have an interview tomorrow afternoon at four. I excitedly twirl Enzo around the kitchen and his eyes light up with delight. He squeals and Vader starts jumping around my legs barking in excitement. Enzo fists a handful of my hair and yells, but I don’t mind, because it feels like things are finally going in the right direction.
Chapter 4
Andie
“Okay Mrs. Miller, are you sure you’re okay to watch him? It should only be for like an hour, two max if traffic is insane. The puppy should be fine. He’s in his crate, but if I’m not back in two hours can you let him out in the backyard?”
“Honey, it’s fine. He’ll be fine.” My sweet sixty-year-old neighbor gingerly takes Enzo from my arms. I hand her his diaper bag and wipe my sweaty palms on my slacks.
“I’m so sorry again. My babysitter has become so unreliable lately. But I really need this job, so you’re doing me a huge favor. Oh! I forgot, the pediatrician, vet, and poison control numbers are written on the fridge—”
“Ssh, ssh. It’s alright, honey. We’ll be fine. You better get going before he wakes up.”
“Oh, okay, okay, you’re right. Thank you again!”
I scurry down my front steps and get into my car. I can’t believe Becky canceled on me again. She said her mom changed her mind and wanted her to study instead of babysit, but I know she’s probably going to hang out with her friends. I was a teenager once. It’s so damn hard to find babysitters these days. No one wants to work for ten dollars an hour. They want fifteen to twenty. Who can afford that?
I check my reflection before I pull away from the curb. At least my makeup isn’t smudged and my hair is still pretty tame. I check the address one more time and put it into my phone. I can’t believe I left a sleeping Enzo with Mrs. Miller, but I was desperate. She’s never watched him before. She has three grandkids, so at least I know she has some experience. Right? Oh Jesus, maybe I should call her just to go over everything again.
No Andie, he’ll be fine. Babies are pliable at that age. If she drops him, he’ll be okay. I mean she wouldn’t let him put things in the electrical sockets and walk away, right? Right? If she accidentally shakes him…I start to sweat. Maybe I should text her a link on shaking babies. No, just calm the fuck down. Fourteen-year-old Becky watches him. Becky who has braces and an iPhone glued to her eyeball all the time. She got chewing gum stuck in his hair the last time she watched him and the time before that I walked in to find her doing TikTok videos while Enzo was on the floor chewing on one of Vader’s dog bones. Mrs. Miller will not drop him or shake him, and I can’t see her doing some cheer routine to Lizzo. She’s a grandma for fuck’s sake.
What really has me on edge causing a multitude of insecurities is this job interview. I need this job as if my life depends on it, because let’s face it, it does. My savings are depleted. I need to pay rent on my house, bills are piling up, I need to put gas in the car, buy some sufficient food besides mac and cheese, and find an infant daycare to help with Enzo. Oh, and I can’t forget Darth Vader, the puppy Mandy begged me to take when her foster dog surprisingly gave birth to four puppies one afternoon. He needs food too. If it were just me, I could survive on crackers and peanut butter, but as it stands, I have two other mouths to feed.
I’m in my current predicament because of Mason. Just thinking about him makes me want to punch the steering wheel. My parents have been helping me out, but things are tight for them since my dad retired and my mom is only working part-time at the preschool. I’ve been making ends meet by cleaning the Millers’ house, but they’re an older couple who live alone with no pets. They don’t need me every week, and to be honest it’s not something I enjoy doing. I can barely keep my own place clean.
I saw this job posted online and I immediately called. Office manager for a busy stylist? If I could manage Dr. Shiller’s dentistry practice for the town of Inkdale, I can easily handle a stylist. And it’s right in the heart of Nashville, so a short drive from my house.
I pull into a small parking lot next to a brick building that houses a bar called The Social Hour. Huh, did I get the address wrong? I double-check my email and sure enough, this is the address. I grab my purse, my coffee, and lock my car. I take a deep breath and check my silk blouse to make sure Enzo didn’t leave any spit-up or gooey marks on it. I roll my shoulders back and pull open the front door. I walk down a concrete hallway with brick walls and see an elevator to my left and the glass doors to the bar on my right. I decide to check with the bar first before going up into an elevator to what could be someone’s private apartment.
I enter the cool dark entryway and take in the bar. It’s beautiful and fancy if industrial can be fancy. It’s like modern industrial-chic. Is that even a thing? It should be, because this place is amazing.
It’s small, but cozy with polished concrete floors and exposed brick walls. Behind the shiny bar is a wall of glass door coolers that hold every beer and wine imaginable. The Social Hour is spelled out in metal script across the back wall. To the side of the bar is a door leading to outside stairs and a patio. Wood beams across the ceiling hold steel light fixtures that cast an amber glow. My heels click on the concrete floor as I look around for someone to help me. I tuck my clutch under my arm and timidly step toward the glossy mahogany bar.
“Hello?”
“We’re closed!” a man’s voice bellows from one of the back rooms.
“Oh um, I know. I’m here for the interview?”
I hear a cuss word before a door slams making me jump. This is not what I was expecting. At all. I’m about to turn around and run the hell out of here as fast as I can in four-inch heels when a tall well-built man walks from the back hallway wiping his hands on a dish towel. He’s wearing nice dress slacks, a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up and his shirt unbuttoned where his tie should be. His skin holds a deep golden tan like he just went on a beach vacation—somewhere exotic and expensive, because this guy looks like he doesn’t settle for anything less.
He looks up at me and I’m speechless. The dim lights in the bar cast shadows over his eyes, so I can’t read them, but his sinful mouth tilts down in a frown as he stares at me. His sharp jaw juts out a little as he sets his hands on his hips in a casual stance that’s anything but casual. His dark chocolate-brown hair looks mussed as if he’d been tugging at it. He glances at an expensive-looking watch on his wrist before returning his attention to me.
“Can I help you?” He throws the dish rag on the bar.
My coffee tumbler slides out of my hand and crashes to the ground splattering all over my pants and shoes. I snap out of the trance he’s put me under as I quickly regain my wits. Shit, shit, shit. I lunge for the cocktail napkins sitting on the bar top and throw them over the coffee pooling around the cup.