Falling For Her Manny Read online

  Mel sighed and closed her eyes as the coffee finished brewing. She had ten minutes of solitude, and this was how she chose to spend it?

  “Mommy?”

  Mel blinked her eyes open to a sleepy-eyed Kinsley, pushing her wild curls out of her face.

  “Hey, baby.” Mel smiled. Despite her desire for a moment to herself, she was glad for the interruption. Her thoughts were running crazy today, and she no longer wanted to think about Craig or what it would be like to have a real partner.

  “Is Mr. Blake coming today?”

  “No. Not today. This weekend it’s just us. Is that okay?”

  Kinsley yawned and nodded. “Can I have some cereal?”

  Sure. Mel turned and went about fixing her a bowl of fruity-o’s, when another little hand tapped her on the rump. “Why don’t you take a seat,” she said, “and I’ll get you some cereal.”

  That must’ve appeased the phantom-tapper because when she turned back around, Peter and Kinsley both sat waiting for their breakfast.

  She placed a bowl of cereal in front of each of them, then retrieved the coffee carafe and poured herself a steaming cup when Brady’s voice called from behind. “Mom! Mom, look what I caught. It’s a pet!”

  With a frown, Mel turned around, carafe in hand, and focused her attention in the direction of his voice. In his hands, he held the glass from Mel’s bedside in one hand, and a book sandwiched on top with the other. Inside, there was something dark and small.

  Mel squinted to make out the contents, then screamed. She jumped, whipping her hands up and dropping the carafe, which landed on the kitchen tile in a thunderous crash. The glass shattered, and hot coffee sprayed everywhere, including on her foot. Brady dropped the book, and the giant mouse he had captured skittered across the floor toward her, which only made her scream further. She hopped on one foot away from the vermin, her scalded toes forgotten, and inadvertently stepped on a chunk of glass.

  “Aarrgh!” she screamed and reached for the injured foot just as the mouse made a beeline for the hall closet.

  “No! My pet,” Brady wailed and ran after it.

  “Brady, leave the mouse alone,” Mel pleaded as she pogoed her way to a kitchen chair. With shaking hands, she managed to pluck the piece of glass from her foot, eyeing the small gap beneath the closet the entire time.

  Blood immediately bubbled over the surface of her skin, then trickled down her heel. Limping her way to the paper towels on the counter, she held it to the wound. “Don’t move, guys. Okay? Nobody go near the broken glass until Mommy cleans it up.”

  A sulking Brady made his way back toward the table where he sat, his lower lip trembling as if he might cry.

  “You didn’t get bit, did you?” Mel hurried toward him, her injured foot forgotten, and searched his hands and arms for bites and saw nothing amiss. “Brady, why on earth did you trap that mouse? Where did you even see it?”

  “It was in the corner of your closet, and I trapped him with the cup, but you scared me, and I dropped him.”

  “Well, I’m sure we’ll find him.” And when we do, he’s dead. “But we really shouldn’t trap and keep wild things like that. They’re not meant to be contained and can bite. Mice carry a lot of germs and disease.”

  “So.” His little brows scrunched, his mouth drawn into a deep scowl.

  Mel knew when to pick her battles, and this was one she could drop. If she had anything to do with it, there would be no more mice to catch any time in the near future.

  She stood and assessed the damage on the kitchen floor.

  Great. She’d need a new coffee pot. Another thirty bucks toward something she could use elsewhere.

  With a sigh, she began laying paper towels over the coffee and broken glass. Looks like if she wanted caffeine, she’d have to go out. That’d be another three bucks.

  Then she thought of her last coffee run with the kids and groaned.

  Well, there was a bright side. At least it wasn’t a rat.

  MEL WOULD LIKE TO SAY her day improved after the coffee incident, but it didn’t. In fact, things spiraled, and it soon became clear that she was having “one of those days.”

  After the escaped mouse, she tore the closet apart searching for said rodent and found nothing. What she did gain from the experience was a pounding headache, followed by Kinsley in tears, pronouncing Peter broke her favorite toy during her distraction.

  Once Mel stuck her pony back together with duct tape, she moved onto the toilet that Brady complained wouldn’t flush, only to discover after removing the lid that the guts inside were broken. The little rubber plunger-like device sat askew, and the little chain that held things together had snapped.

  After several phone calls to her landlord, he informed her he’d send someone first thing Monday morning to fix it. So it looked like the four of them were stuck with a toilet that didn’t flush for two whole days. Her annoyance at his inability to fix it same-day or even next-day didn’t matter. That was the thing about New York. For every renter, there was one waiting to take their place, especially in an apartment like Mel’s, which was cheap (for New York) and not entirely terrible. She could argue until she was blue in the face, but she knew from experience that it was useless.

  She clicked off the call, grumbled under her breath, then placed her hands on her hips.

  Maybe she’d take a little trip to the hardware store herself. After all, how hard can fixing a toilet be?

  Apparently, replacing the guts in a toilet was a lot harder than it looked. After an excruciating trip to the store in which her children asked her for five bazillion things, she came home, plunked bowls of mac and cheese in front of them, then proceeded to try and fix the toilet. Her first couple attempts she got wrong. One led to the toilet doing nothing, and the next attempt resulted in tank water spraying her in the eye, which was fun. After over an hour of messing with it, she gave up and decided they’d wait until Monday. For now, they’d use the bucket of water trick and let gravity flush it.

  “Mom!” A shriek pulled Mel from her prone position on the couch, where she was debating on what she’d make for dinner.

  She jumped up and ran toward the sound, finding Peter in the bathroom, eyes wide and frantic, breath puffing from his little chest.

  “What?” she asked, scanning him for injury.

  He pointed to the toilet. “Brady flushed Spider Man.”

  “What?” Mel’s jaw dropped, and she moved to get a closer look. She could just barely make out the red tip of his shoe. “How? It’s not even flushing. How’d he get it stuck?” She groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. I’ll talk to him about it, but first, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Thirty minutes later, she couldn’t manage to remove the toy. His arm must’ve been bent or something. Mel didn’t know what happened, all she knew was that Spider-Man had died a watery death and wasn’t coming out any time soon. And now, the gravity flush method was not working.

  Nine hours later, the toilet was half filled, the bathroom stunk to high heavens, and Mel gave it the night before the smell permeated the entire apartment. Not to mention, Peter was already struggling with going potty, so the last thing she wanted was to encourage them, even for the time being, to use training pants instead.

  As Mel gave them baths, she debated on what to do. They’d be fine until morning, but the smell would be awful tomorrow, and they could only fill the toilet so much. Apparently, three four-year-olds used the potty a lot. The way she saw it, she had only a few choices. She could call up a friend and stay at their place, but taking on the four of them would be a major inconvenience. She could keep the triplets out for part of the day, then once they were home, they’d have to make a run to the nearest public facility with a bathroom, which was probably Tommy’s, a somewhat seedy convenience store. Or she could call someone else who knew what they were doing to help.

  She sighed. The latter option was the obvious choice, so after some debating, she tried Mart
i to see if Logan could help, but she got no answer. The only other person she knew who could probably fix it was Blake.

  Once Kinsley got out of the bath, Mel patted her dry, then glanced down at the phone again. He was her nanny, not her partner or her plumber. Heck, he wasn’t really even her friend. He was her employee. Though she could offer to pay him, fixing things in her apartment was not in his job description. She certainly shouldn’t be calling him on his day off to come and help her.

  And yet . . .

  She bit her lip, debating what to do as Brady burst into the bathroom, declaring he had to “Go bad!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BLAKE

  Classical music tinkled in the background. Pretension filled the air like a choking fog, slowly filling Blake’s lungs until his chest went tight. All of the dinner guests in attendance stood around in gowns and designer suits that could feed a family of five for a month, if not more. The men’s cufflinks glinted under the chandelier as they raised their pre-dinner drinks to their lips, sipping on liquors and wine imported from faraway lands.

  It was like a movie set, with everyone auditioning for a role. Blake’s would most definitely be the out-of-towner or the sore thumb.

  He leaned into Jen’s ear, taking some comfort in the familiar scent of her perfume, and whispered, “Are you sure we can’t head out before dinner? We could get last minute tickets to a show, whatever you want.”

  Jen smiled and spoke through the side of her mouth. “You know my father will have both of our heads if we leave.”

  Blake sighed inwardly and shoved his hands in his pockets. It was worth a shot. There had been a subtle ripple of tension between them since the whole “underprivileged event” at the hotel, whether on his part or hers, he wasn’t entirely sure. Whatever the cause, it seemed to have dissipated over the course of the week, which made the timing of this impromptu dinner party all the more inconvenient. The last thing he wanted was to schmooze her parents. For starters, it never worked. Mr. Garwood wasn’t exactly the schmoozing type, and all Blake really wanted was to spend some time with Jen where he wasn’t on eggshells.

  Though they’d only been dating a year, he had a feeling he’d never gain her parent’s approval. Her father, especially, always had this way of looking at him through narrowed eyes like he was staring at a foreign object under a Petri dish. These dinners they hosted only amplified Blake’s feeling of inadequacy. He’d do almost anything to get out of them, including peel out of his own skin just for an excuse to take a trip to the ER, but Jen wanted him there, and if he was to become her fiancé, her family was a part of the package.

  Clusters of pale pink and white roses decorated nearly every available surface. Soft light dripped from the crystal chandeliers above. Starched, white linens covered the expansive twenty-two-foot table made of solid wood, along with gold candelabras and delicate china. Blake knew from experience, an entire crew had been ensembled in the Garwood’s kitchen—caterers, bartenders, and waitstaff. They spared no expense when hosting a dinner.

  Everything reeked of old money and class—two things Blake felt he’d never have enough of for Jen. He could spend half his life with her and still feel as though he’d never fit in with her family. On nights like these, he hated having to put on an act, to smile, play nice, and pretend he was interested in the banal conversations around him when all he wanted to do was fall asleep in his soup.

  But he did his best to put on a brave face, grin and bear it so to speak. The way he felt wasn’t Jen’s fault. She grew up in this posh environment, so she was used to parties like this. His feelings were his own and not her fault. Still, he hated being dragged to these things. Yet if he wanted to be with Jen, he would spend his life attending dinner such as this, along with galas and formal events, shaking hands and sharing drinks with some of the wealthiest families in the city.

  He could practically hear Grant’s voice in his head, telling him how he and Jen were from two different worlds, how they’d never work, how they wanted different things, were different people, and Blake was merely trying to compensate for something. Worse yet, a part of Blake feared he was right.

  After dinner was announced, everyone headed into the dining room. That’s where the real fun began because dinner conversation always veered into treacherous territory—politics, religion, wealth, you name it, and it was on the table.

  Blake placed his hand on the small of Jen’s back, guiding her into the expansive room. Crystal dripped from a hand-painted mosaic on the cathedral ceiling high above them. Pudgy cherubs swirled and danced among the clouds in a pale blue sky. The huge polished table was overflowing with bouquets of white and pale pink roses. The Garwood’s bone-white china was laid out for their guests, with their golden-plated silverware, and French linen napkins.

  Blake took a seat next to his place card, which was embossed with what he knew without asking were real gold flakes (because the Garwoods never did anything halfway).

  Mr. Garwood sat, predictably, at the end of the table with his wife at the other, while the other guests continued to find their seats. Almost immediately, a waiter appeared, dressed in a penguin suit, rattling off the seven-course meal they were about to experience. Wine glasses and champagne flutes were topped as the people around him oohed and ahhed, and soon the first course was brought out.

  Blake smothered his grimace as the waiter announced the dish—cold-smoked oyster on the half shell with peppercorn granita.

  His gaze flickered to Mr. Garwood. He wore a shrewd smile as he watched the white-gloved waiters serve everyone their dishes, scrupulously ignoring Blake’s gaze. Maybe it was silly, but Blake couldn’t help but feel like the first course was chosen with a very deliberate purpose.

  As he stared down at his tiny plate, it brought him back to that first dinner with Jen and her parents. The one where Mr. Garwood ordered oysters, despite Blake’s polite protest, then insisted he try them until Blake finally caved. Blake almost got sick at the table and spent the next thirty minutes in the bathroom dry-heaving. Much to his dismay, Mr. Garwood thought it was hilarious.

  Blake reached for his oyster and held it between his thumb and index finger. He hated oysters. He may as well eat a giant, slimy booger. How’s that for sophisticated? Regardless, he tried to muster the courage to swallow it down so as not to draw attention to himself, when Jen’s hand curled around his wrist.

  He glanced over at her, and she smiled, then leaned into him, whispering, “You don’t have to eat it.”

  Gratitude washed through him. She knew him, accepted him just the way he was, and that was enough to have him placing it back on the plate. A moment later, Mr. Garwood, having expected Blake to suck it up and eat the oyster, glanced over at him. His eyes sparkled with amusement or something darker, Blake wasn’t sure. “Something wrong, Blake?”

  “No, sir,” Blake said. He didn’t need to offer him an explanation, especially when the man knew darn well what was wrong.

  “Blake doesn’t like oysters, Daddy. Remember?” Jen smiled at him, seemingly oblivious to the fact her father most definitely remembered.

  Blake fought the flicker of irritation that she felt the need to provide an explanation for him like he was a child.

  “Ah, well. I’m sure they have something a little simpler on the menu yet. Although, I don’t think they’ll have boxed mac and cheese.” He snickered, and Blake felt his face grow hot.

  Then Mr. Garwood turned to the man next to him, Robert Frietz. He owned the largest ketchup company in America. “Blake, here, has simpler tastes. But who could blame him? When you grow up on Ramen and fries, it’s an adjustment trying to refine your palate. But we’ve slowly been breaking you in, haven’t we, Blake?”

  Frietz chortled, and Mr. Garwood’s smile spread like a snake.

  Blake offered him an unaffected smile, though laced with tension. “Yes, you have. You’ve been extremely kind in introducing me to your much more refined culinary tastes.”

  Blake happened to
know darn well one of Mr. Garwood’s favorite binge foods was fast food cheeseburgers. His driver once told Blake he hid the McDonalds wrappers in the backseat for him to dispose of.

  The woman next to Blake turned and smiled. “Who doesn’t love a good cheeseburger?” Then she tipped her oyster shell back and downed the slippery chunk of flesh with a wet slurp.

  Blake’s stomach squeezed, but his nausea gave way to the fact Frietz had turned his attention on him.

  “So, Blake, I hear you and Jen are getting pretty serious.”

  “Yes, we are.” Blake glanced over at Jen and squeezed her hand, to which she blushed and offered him one of her gorgeous smiles, and his earlier irritation vanished. This was why he endured her father.

  “And what is it you do for a living?” he asked.

  There it was. The question that came up at every party—the one that always left Blake feeling the need to defend himself, like it was shameful to succeed at starting your own business and work your way from the bottom up. Absurd. The guy on the end of the table made ketchup for heaven’s sake. Was that really more glamorous than custom bikes? Or was it simply the fact his family had been doing it for generations that set them apart? Well, that and billions of dollars, but who was counting?

  “I own and run my own custom motorcycle shop, actually,” Blake said, looking the man square in the eye. He wouldn’t back down from these questions, nor would he feel ashamed of what he did. So he owned a bike shop and got his hands dirty for a living? He was successful, happy, and proud of everything he’d accomplished. If Blake wanted, he’d never need to touch a wrench again and sit behind a desk, handling only logistics and the company’s monetary transactions while supervising. But passion drove him. He opened his business because he loved it, and hoped to turn his passion to profit.