“Something I can help you with?”
“Aren't you going to invite me in?” she asks as I bite back a sigh and step aside, watching as my aunt's eyes narrow on the sparsely decorated house. I want to scream that none of this is my fault, but I know she won't listen to me. The frustrating thing about her disapproval is that she knows Ingrid's whole story. How my sister graduated with an accounting degree, got a decent job at the bank, how she took a hefty portion of my parent's retirement savings to buy a house, promising to pay them back.
How she got addicted and lost the house to foreclosure.
How my mom went to pick the girls up from school and found they'd never gone, came over here and discovered my sister's note.
She knows all of that and yet, here she is, judging me.
Monica squeezes her red coat tighter around herself and pauses next to Zayden. They look weirdly opposite, one of them old and conservative and closed off, and the other young and wild and outgoing.
“Zayden Roth,” he says, extending the hand with the book on it, taking my aunt's and shaking it firmly. He grins nice and wide. “I'm Brooke's nan—”
“Boyfriend,” I insert because God, if Monica finds out about the nanny thing or the stripping thing or just, well, any of it then she'll definitely call my mom up and demand she fly home. I don't want to deal with the drama. “From Berkeley. He's up visiting,” I say because, again, I don't want to be judged for picking up a guy two weeks after arriving in town. Although that's really none of her business anyway.
Monica looks at Zayden like she recognizes his picture from some FBI most wanted list.
“Oh.” That's it. No nice to meet you or hi, I'm Brooke's aunt, Monica, just … oh. When her eyes swing over to the folding crib on the other side of the room, her dark brows soar. “I just came over to see if you needed any help with the girls—” several days after my parents leave town when she knows I've been struggling to find a job “—but I don't see them anywhere? Are they upstairs?”
“They're at school,” I say, trying not to sound frustrated as she makes her way over to the sleeping baby. “That's Zayden's—” My mind scrambles for a way to describe his relationship to the baby. His charge? His steward? I don't know what nannies call the kids they watch.
“That's my niece,” he says, sliding his hands into his front pockets in a way that draws my attention, sticks it to him like glue. The way he moves is so … fluid, like nothing really matters, like any problem can be solved with a wink and a smile. I'm envious, even though I don't think an attitude like that really works in life. Not for long anyway and not successfully. “Brooke isn't the only one who got strapped with babysitting duties.”
“Oh?” Monica asks, pausing and curling her long fake nails over the side of the crib. She always gets these crazy long acrylics that used to scare me as a child. When I was ten, I was always refused to open Christmas gifts from her because I was convinced she was going to wrap up a spinning wheel for me to prick my finger on. “Your sister doesn't mind you taking her baby out of town? A child this young?” I try not to roll my eyes, but I think I do anyway. Who the hell does this woman think she is?
“Brother, actually. And no. He's in South Africa with his wife. Her parents were in a pretty horrific car accident.” Monica stands up and lets go of the crib, moving away and reaching up to play with the gold cross around her neck. I've always hated this, but I definitely look more like her than I do my own mother. Like Bella, Monica also takes after our grandmother.
Zay and I exchange a quick look, and I try to tell him with my eyes that I appreciate his coming up with a quick story. A weirdly specific story though … unless of course it's true? I've never asked where the kids came from or how he got involved with them.
Holy crap.
And I was just going to sleep with this man again? Am I losing my mind?
“I didn't know they had cars in Africa,” Monica says and I feel my brows shoot up. She waves her hand in the air. “I thought it was all lions and zebras and safari grass.”
“Um. Nope. There's, like, several million people that live in Joburg alone.” Zayden smiles as he says this, but his pierced brow is quirked up.
“When do you pick the girls up? I was hoping to take them to get their nails done.”
See what I mean? Grace is four. You don't take four year olds to get their nails done.
“I don't think that's going to happen today, Aunt Monica,” I say, trying to be as nice as possible so I can get rid of the woman. “Maybe if you give me a call sometime later this week, we could work something out?” She nods, but I can tell she's not ready to leave yet. God, I hate busybodies.