If You Give a Single Dad a Nanny: a single dad, grumpy sunshine, small town romance
If You Give a Single Dad a Nanny: Chapter 5

TODAY HAS BEEN A DISASTER.

Kendra was running late this morning, so I had to get Lola ready for school. She wanted her hair done in fishtail braids, but it’s the one hairstyle I’ve never mastered. When I broke the news she had to settle for pigtails, I distracted her with a set of pink, glittery bows that matched her outfit to avoid a complete meltdown.

Then, while preparing breakfast, I accidentally melted the plastic unicorn pancake mold, and Lola burst into tears when I served her a plate of banana oat pancakes shaped like circles instead of unicorns.

As if that wasn’t enough, Kendra called me fifteen minutes before school was out for the day to tell me she wasn’t able to pick up Lola and had to quit—immediately. She said her dad has been sick for a couple of months and has progressively gotten worse, so she decided to move home with her parents to help take care of him.

Kendra has been a part of our lives for over two years, and Lola will miss her. I sent her a year’s salary to help with her father’s medical expenses and encouraged her to reach out if she needs further support. Given everything she and her family are going through, it’s the least I can do. Despite my irritable disposition, I make it a point to ensure my employees are well taken care of.

The nanny agency that helped me hire Kendra has been no help in replaceing a replacement. They don’t have anyone else currently available to move to a small town for a part-time position, even though I’m willing to pay a full-time salary.

The one silver lining is that dinner and Lola’s bedtime routine have gone off without a hitch tonight.

Once I finish reading her bedtime story, I rise from the bed and set the copy of Madeline on Lola’s bedside table. It’s her favorite book, and she constantly asks when I’m going to take her to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower so she can be like Madeline.

“Hey, Daddy?” Lola sits up in bed, pushing back her unicorn and rainbow comforter.

“Yes, ladybug?”

“I have an idea.” Her face lights up in anticipation.

“What is it?”

“I want Marlow to be my new nanny,” she declares.

Her unexpected request leaves me dumbfounded, because I’m not sure where this is coming from. When we ran into Marlow and Waffles on our way home from school today, I told her that Kendra quit, but the discussion ended there. It’s not her problem to fix.

“Sweetheart, Marlow’s not a nanny.” I try to break the news as gently as I can. “Actually, I’m not really sure what her job is,” I murmur to myself.

“She’s a painter,” Lola says, leaving no room for doubt.

“Yes, she paints as a hobby, but I don’t think that’s her job,” I say.

“It is. She told me so.”

“I’m sure you’re right, ladybug,” I offer to appease her.

“So, can Marlow be my nanny? Pretty please?” Lola gives her best puppy dog eyes.

I take a deep breath. “Like you said, Marlow already has a job. But we’ll replace someone that you’ll like just as much, I promise.” I pull up the covers around her and tuck her in. “How does that sound?”

“I guess that’s okay.” Her voice carries a hint of disappointment as she frowns. “But they have to be able to do fishtail braids.”

“I’ll do my best, but fishtail braids are a complex hairstyle. Even I can’t do that one,” I say as I run a hand over her hair.

When Lola was a baby, my sister Presley was adamant that I learn how to do various hairstyles, so when the time came, Lola wouldn’t go to school with a lopsided ponytail every day.

Mom and Presley were my guinea pigs, and when Lola finally had hair long enough to style, I was proficient in most hairstyles. Except fishtail braids, much to Lola’s dismay. No matter how many times I’ve practiced that style, it always turns into a tangled mess.

She smirks. “Marlow can do them.”

I chuckle at her attempt to redirect the conversation. “You’re right, but I’m sure there are plenty of nannies who can too. We just have to replace one.”

Something tells me that it wouldn’t be a good idea to be that close to Marlow every day, especially not after the incident earlier this afternoon. I glance down at the smudge of red paint still on my finger. I should have scrubbed it off while washing up for dinner, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Being around her has been messing with my head lately, solidifying my decision to avoid a situation where we’d see each other more than we already do.

“Daddy?”

Lola’s muffled voice sounds like it’s coming from a tunnel. The faint sound of an alarm goes off in the distance, and there’s an odd pressure against my forehead.

“Daddy, are you awake?”

Lola’s voice is louder this time. I slowly pry one eye open and replace her standing next to me with her hand pressed against my forehead and her face scrunched into a serious expression.

“Ladybug, what are you doing?” I ask in a groggy tone.

“I’m checking your temperature.”

I chuckle at her intense concentration. “Why?”

“I thought you might be sick since you’re still in bed.”

I jolt upright, the sound of my alarm finally registering. Panic sets in as I snatch my phone off the nightstand and see that it’s already 8:00 a.m.

“Shi—crap on a cracker.” One unexpected challenge of being a parent is that no one tells you how difficult it is not to swear in front of your kid. I usually catch myself, but occasionally, an accidental curse word slips out when I’m distracted.

Just last month, Lola’s principal called me into her office and asked me to explain why my daughter shouted dammit when she bumped her knee on a table during playtime. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a good excuse, but I assured her I’d talk with Lola about it and would do my best to make sure it didn’t happen again.

I jump out of bed and sprint to my walk-in closet, grabbing the first pair of sweatpants within reach and throw on a black hoodie I replace on a nearby shelf.

“Daddy, why aren’t you wearing a suit today?” Lola asks when I come back into the bedroom.

I smile, amused at her observation, given that I rarely leave the house in anything other than a three-piece suit. “Since we’re running late, I’m going to drop you off at school first, and then I’ll come home and get ready for work.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea.” She gives me a thumbs up. “Ms. Thornberry gets mad when we’re late.”

“We wouldn’t want to upset Ms. Thornberry now, would we?”

“Nope.” She rapidly shakes her head.

Thankfully, she’s already dressed for school—a perk of raising a self-sufficient six-year-old who insists on choosing her own outfits.

I shoot my brothers a text, telling them I’ll be late logging on this morning. Harrison won’t be happy, considering we have an urgent matter to discuss related to the Vanburen project, but he knows Lola comes first.

“Let’s do your hair, and then we’ll head out. Sound like a plan?”

Lola nods in agreement, running to the bathroom, and I follow her.

I’m relieved she doesn’t complain when I pull her long blonde hair into a high ponytail.

“Don’t forget a bow,” she reminds me. “I want my red one.”

“Sure thing, ladybug.”

I reach over and grab her favorite sparkly red bow from one of the ribbons attached to the woven rainbow hanging on the wall, holding dozens of other bows and hair clips. Lola’s love for glittery and shiny things has no limits.

That must be why she’s so captivated by Marlow. The woman lives in a pink house, wears glittery sneakers, and has a wardrobe full of colorful clothes. Add in her sunny disposition, and any little girl would be in love, particularly mine.

I’m concerned that Lola’s fascination toward our eccentric neighbor might be contagious.

I secure the bow in Lola’s hair, pleased with the final result.

“You’re all set. Now, let’s hurry and get you off to school.” She’s off like a shot. “No running,” I call after her.

“I’m just hurrying like you told me to,” she sasses back.

Considering the size of her attitude, it’s a miracle I don’t have a head full of gray hair yet. I can’t imagine what life will be like living with a teenage Lola. God, give me patience when the time comes.

“Well, hurry a little slower,” I shout after her.

Once I put away the hair supplies, I head to the kitchen, grab Lola’s lunch from the fridge, and slip it inside her backpack. When I get to the entryway, the front door is wide open, and she’s waiting for me on the porch, impatiently tapping her foot.

“Come on, Daddy.”

“I’ll be right there.” I quickly throw on a pair of tennis shoes and we head toward the school.

Until Lola stops in front of the pink house next door.

I glance up to replace Marlow standing at her studio window. Even from this distance I notice spatters of blue paint on her face. Soon enough, Waffles appears by her side, barking enthusiastically.

“Hi, Waffles. Hi, Marlow,” Lola shouts, waving with both hands.

Marlow waves back with a vibrant smile on her face.

God, why is she so damn pretty all the time? Even with paint on her face, she’s stunning…

I dismiss the thought with a shake of my head. Happy. I meant, why is she so damn happy all the time?

I usher Lola along. “Come on, ladybug. We have to hurry or we’re going to be late.”

Against my better judgment, I turn back to give Marlow a second glance. She’s still at her window, and when she catches my gaze, she gives me a wave of my own. Unsure what else to do, I wave back.

There I go again.

The one drawback to living in my neighborhood is the houses are uncomfortably close to each other, which means if your neighbors are loud, you’ll hear it. Luckily, my house is at the end of the block, so I only have one next-door neighbor. The downside? That neighbor is Marlow Taylor, and she blasts ’80s pop music at the most inconvenient times.

Both our houses have lofts—I’ve transformed mine into an office and she uses hers for some sort of art studio. I have no idea what she does over there all day, aside from listening to loud music and painting flowers. Whatever that means.

I log into my conference call to replace Harrison already waiting. His arms are folded across his chest, and his face remains in a permanent scowl. It’s rare to see him smile these days. His black hair is styled in a tapered fade, and his muscular arms fill out the sleeves of his light gray dress shirt. He played professional hockey when he was younger and has maintained his athletic build. I clench my teeth in frustration as the chorus of “Material Girl” filters into my office. Every time I think Marlow’s going to take a break, another song starts.

I lean back in my chair to get a better view through the window that faces her loft.

She’s at it again.

Marlow is dancing around the room with a giant paintbrush in hand, belting out the lyrics to the second verse. She bends down to where Waffles is seated on his haunches, watching her impromptu performance. From this angle, I have the perfect view of her backside, and those tight mint green yoga pants do nothing to hide the toned shape of her ass. She usually paints in her overalls, but I much prefer the yoga pants. God, I sound like such a creep.

“Dylan, are you listening?”

I snap my attention to the computer screen and receive a disapproving glare from Harrison. Cash, who has since joined the call, covers his mouth in an attempt to suppress a snicker.

“Sorry, can you repeat that last part?” I ask Harrison.

He gives an irritated sigh. “What’s up with you today? You’re never this distracted.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. “My neighbor is having another one of her impromptu concerts for one in her loft, and it’s very distracting.”

In more ways than one.

“You’re talking about the hot one that Mom invited over for Christmas Eve last year, Marlow, right?” Cash pipes up.

“Yeah.”

For some reason, it bothers me that Cash called Marlow hot, despite it being true.

He’s the fun-loving, carefree brother and the life of any party. When we were kids, he was in an accident that left him with a jagged scar on the left of his face, spanning from his ear to his chin. My mom was worried it would affect his confidence. Spoiler alert—it had the opposite effect. Turns out women have a thing for men with scars, and they flock to him in droves.

“It was nice of Mom to invite your neighbor over for the holidays last year,” he says with a twinkle in his hazel eyes.

“Why did you have to remind me about that?” I groan.

My mom had the brilliant idea to invite Marlow over for our family Christmas Eve celebration. She knows Lola likes Marlow, and now Mom has gotten it into her head that Marlow and I would make a cute couple. The problem is that she’s oblivious to the fact that Marlow and I are polar opposites. And that I’m far too busy juggling the roles of two parents to even consider dating right now.

Over the past five years, I’ve had a few dates and the occasional hookup, but I’ve made it clear I’m not interested in committing to a long-term relationship. I won’t introduce someone new into our lives, knowing it could be temporary, and risk breaking Lola’s heart, given how easily she gets attached.

That’s one reason I’m glad Maddie hasn’t come around since the day she left. I don’t think I could handle explaining to Lola why someone who’s supposed to love her unconditionally only visits when it suits them best. Her tender, loving heart wouldn’t be able to accept that. It’s much easier to avoid talking about an absentee parent altogether than to explain the behavior of a flaky one, who shows up sporadically.

Now, if only my mother would respect my decision not to date.

“If you two are done gossiping like a couple of schoolgirls, I’d appreciate it if we could get back to work,” Harrison says tersely.

“Yes, boss,” I taunt him.

He scowls at me, unimpressed by my jab.

A few years ago, he would have cracked a joke about our overly enthusiastic mom or my loud, quirky neighbor, but I rarely see that side of him anymore. His entire personality changed when he took on the role of CEO. He hardly smiles and spends most of his time at the office, reluctant to share his burdens with anyone.

With Stafford Holdings’ recent expansion into Europe and the Vanburen project underway, I’ve shouldered more responsibilities to lighten his load. Still, he’s as stubborn as they come, and it’s like pulling teeth to get him to delegate anything of significance.

I have a natural inclination to take care of people. My mom calls me “the fixer” in our family. When there’s a problem, I have to address it quickly and efficiently. It’s not always the best solution, given the bind I’m in right now, taking on too many responsibilities at work while my personal life is imploding. Nevertheless, I’m doing the best I can, given the circumstances.

“Dylan, can you go over the cost-benefit analysis again for the Vanburen project?” Harrison asks.

“Yeah, sure thing.” I bring up the presentation on my computer and share my screen.

Cash shuts his eyes, mimicking the sound of snoring. “Do I have to be here for this?”

My brothers might get a kick out of teasing me for being a nerd, but it’s all in good fun. My knack for crunching numbers is one reason Stafford Holdings is growing so rapidly.

“If you want a paycheck, you do.” Harrison’s mouth curves up into a slight smile.

“Fine, but it’s on you if I pass out from boredom,” Cash mocks playfully.

I spend the rest of the meeting walking Harrison and Cash through the cost-benefit analysis while attempting to tune out Marlow’s never-ending ’80s pop hits playlist.

Not only is she distracting me with her loud music, now she’s added those damn yoga pants into the equation, diverting me from work with her perfect ass.

Once I’m finally finished with my call, almost two hours later, my body is stiff from sitting so long, and I have a splitting headache. I stand up to stretch and take a moment to massage my temples to ease the tension. That’s when I notice the silence.

She finally turned her music off.

The distant sound of a door catches my attention, and I rush to the window to replace Marlow walking outside with Waffles in tow.

I jog down the stairs, not wanting to miss the chance to speak my mind without Lola around.

When I get outside, Marlow is standing in front of her mailbox, sifting through a handful of envelopes, while Waffles rolls around in the nearby snow. He tilts his head toward me as I approach and looks disappointed when he doesn’t see Lola with me.

I march toward Marlow, preparing to unleash my frustrations. Not only was she playing her music too loud, but she was distracting me as she swayed to the beat in those goddamn yoga pants. My thinking is irrational considering she has no control over my wayward thoughts, but it doesn’t prevent my annoyance that being near her causes my pulse to race.

I stop short when I glance up and am met with her unique blue and green gaze. She gives me a tentative smile and any inclination to reprimand her evaporates.

Damn, that smile of hers gets me every time.

How am I supposed to lecture her when she’s being so damn nice without saying anything at all?

“Hi there, neighbor.” Her tone is hesitant.

I clear my throat. “Hey, Marlow.”

A look of astonishment crosses her face, seemingly confused by my uncharacteristic greeting.

“Someone’s in a chipper mood today.” She closes the mailbox. “Tell me, Dylan, do you make it a habit of dressing up when you check your mail?” She gestures to my three-piece charcoal-gray suit.

“This is what I wear to work,” I say, feeling the need to defend my choice of clothing.

“Yeah, but you’re home.” The sunlight bounces off her golden hair. “Isn’t the whole purpose of working remotely so you can wear comfy clothes, at least from the waist down?” A blush rises to her cheeks, and she laughs awkwardly when I don’t respond. “Actually, never mind. I think that trend is more common with Gen Zers, not Millennials.”

I’m not sure what she’s talking about, but it occurs to me that until now, we’ve never had a normal conversation with just the two of us.

Waffles lets out a discontented bark, displeased that he’s being left out. An idea pops into my head on how to best approach this awkward confrontation. I squat down so I’m on his level, and he runs over, practically jumping into my lap.

“Listen, Waffles, we need to have a little chat.” I focus my attention on the slobbering canine, not daring to look at Marlow. “I don’t want to cramp your style, but I use my loft as an office, and when I’m working from home, it’s hard to concentrate when you play your music so loud. Is there any chance you could turn it down when I’m working from home?”

Bored with this conversation, Waffles plops down on the ground.

I click my tongue in disapproval. “I’m disappointed in you, Waffles. I thought you’d take this more seriously.”

Marlow bursts out laughing, and when I glance up at her, she’s quick to cover her mouth to stifle her reaction. And I replace myself wishing she wouldn’t.

That’s a beautiful sound.

“Is something funny?” I maintain a serious tone.

She shakes her head, unable to speak in between another laughing fit.

“Honestly, Marlow? You shouldn’t be encouraging his poor behavior.”

She takes a moment to compose herself before crouching next to Waffles, cupping her hand against her ear, like he’s sharing a secret. She glances in my direction a couple of times for effect, a grin threatening to pass her lips.

Unable to maintain my stern demeanor any longer, I crack a smile and play along. “Are you going to tell me what he said? The suspense is killing me.”

When I glance at Marlow, her mouth is slightly agape.

Confused by her reaction, I furrow my brow, and a blush stealing over the apple of her cheeks when she notices me watching. She clears her throat as she rises to her feet. I follow suit, bringing us face-to-face.

“Waffles says he’s sorry about his music being too loud. He zones out while he’s working,” she says as she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “From now on, he promises to wear headphones when you’re home during the day.”

My throat is suddenly dry. “Tell him I appreciate it. My schedule is all out of sorts since Kendra quit yesterday, and I’m working from home until I can replace a new nanny.” Marlow bites down on her plump lower lip like she’s refraining from saying something she shouldn’t, and I force myself not to stare at her mouth. “I hope using headphones doesn’t mess with whatever project Waffles has going on up there.” I nod to her loft.

“Painting.”

“What?”

“Waffles is…I’m an artist,” she corrects herself. “I paint textured flowers and sell them online. I figured you should know, just in case you assumed I spent my days hanging around my house with my dog and watching soap operas.”

“I didn’t think that.”

Although I have been curious about what she does for a living.

“Well, I better get back inside; it’s freezing out here.” Marlow wraps her arms around herself.

I hadn’t noticed until now that she wasn’t wearing a coat.

“Yeah, I’ve got to get back to work,” I rush out.

I grab a lone bill out of my mailbox before heading toward my house.

“Dylan?” Marlow calls out after me.

I pivot in her direction. “Yeah?”

“In the spirit of being honest, please tell me if you don’t want to shovel my driveway anymore.” She gives me a reassuring smile. “I’m sure Rick can replace someone else.”

I furrow my brow. “What does your landlord have to do with it?”

“When I moved in, he agreed to replace someone to do the yard work. I’m sure he only asked you because you live next door. But I can tell him to get someone else to do it if you’d prefer not to anymore.”

I’ve never met Rick in person, but I’ve heard about him. He lives out of state but owns several houses in Aspen Grove. From the stories I’ve heard from his tenants, he’s a total flake and does a poor job of maintaining his properties. It turns out Marlow’s been dealing with the same problem as the others, without even realizing it.

As soon as I get Rick’s phone number, we’re going to have a nice little chat about what it means to be a property owner and the responsibilities that come with it.

I’m flooded with a rush of guilt when I realize I’ve spent the past year judging Marlow, calling her irresponsible, because she didn’t take care of her yard. In reality, she was under the assumption I had been asked to take care of it for her. That explains why she comes to the window to thank me when I’m shoveling outside.

“I don’t mind doing it,” I reassure her.

And for the first time, I mean it.

I’ve had all these preconceived notions about Marlow Taylor, and I’m beginning to wonder what others might be wrong.