Page 5 of One Hot Daddy

The Honda Civic I'm renting smells like vanilla air freshener.I sit behind the wheel for a moment, watching a woman in yoga pants chase a toddler across the parking lot.The kid's shrieking with laughter, arms pumping like he's training for the Olympics.

Four kids.Ages eight to fifteen.

Maybe this time I'll find my forever family.Or else I'll merely survive another season.

Either way, it beats Manhattan.

Chapter Three

Fletcher

I'm supposed to be working, but instead I find myself staring at the front door, hoping the next stranger I let into my home isn't going to tie-dye my children or burn sage in the crawlspace.The last one left a salt circle around my mailbox and tried to convince my youngest that gnomes were real.Henry's still afraid of pointy hats.

All right, that's my latest tall tale.

If the agency brings me another hippy, I'm going to start interviewing ex-military women.There must be a middle ground between Shamanic Mary Poppins and General Patton, but apparently nobody at "Millbrook Valley Nanny Solutions" got the memo.

I pace the hallway, phone in hand, waiting for the inevitable text.On the kitchen counter is a printed schedule from the agency, with a yellow sticky note that says, "She's a real go-getter!"The words are underlined three times.All that tells me is that she's either chronically optimistic or she once ran a triathlon in the rain.

My phone vibrates.I glance down, bracing myself."Ms.Jennifer Cordell will arrive at your home within ten minutes.Please provide her with the usual orientation packet.Thank you and have a delightful day!"

Delightful?That must be the agency's little joke.

I allow myself precisely five seconds to prepare for what might await me.Then I approach the coat closet and yank the door open.A shoe avalanche greets me---Henry's sneakers, Charlotte's muddy soccer cleats, one of Amelia's sparkly sandals, and Joshua's slippers.I shove everything back in there and slam the door shut.Then, I check the hallway mirror and try to smooth my hair.I look like a man who hasn't slept since 2018.

Sighing again, I lean against the wall and try to remember the last time I engaged in something resembling adult life.I'm thirty-seven years old.My ex-wife abandoned me and our four children years ago.That's not the sort of CV a nanny might look for in a client.Our house constantly smells of either bleach or cheese for some strange reason.I've taken the morning off from my general-manager position at the hotel strictly to ensure this nanny won't flee at cheetah speed.

Does a single father in need of childcare CV?No, you imbecile.She needs to impress you, not the other way around.

The doorbell rings, two sharp chimes.It's precisely 9:00.I blink, surprised by the punctuality, then march to the entryway.I take a breath, square my shoulders.Then I open the door.

And freeze.This charming woman is no crone.She's not a hippie either.She is...Well, not what I expected.She stands about six inches below my eye line, wearing a tidy skirt and a navy blue sweater that I imagine has survived at least two previous families.Her auburn hair is pulled into a ponytail, but a few strands have gone rogue, framing her face.She gazes up at me with the sort of polite determination usually reserved for flight attendants or social workers.

I freeze.She looks young.Might she have lied about her age to get this job?Or perhaps I'm simply old in comparison.Her green eyes draw me in, and I suddenly realize I'm blocking the doorway.

The beautiful woman gazes at me with confusion in her yes."Mr.Fletcher?"

"Uh...yes?"I clear my throat and attempt a casual smile."Hello, I---I'm Fletcher Murgatroyd."

She smiles, extending her hand, and for some reason I shake it.She has a solid, businesslike grip."I'm Jennifer Cordell.The agency sent me to you.I hope it's all right that I'm a few minutes early."

I blink several times."That's fine.The children are at school."

"Yes, I figured they would be."She peers past me, craning her neck."Maybe we should sit on the sofa to discuss things."

"All right."

I step aside to let her in, and she moves past me with a confident stride that suggests she's used to dealing with panicky parents.Jennifer swings her gaze to the hallway and the scuff marks on the walls, the backpacks hanging from hooks, the faint aroma of this morning's burnt toast still lingering in the air.

"You have a lovely home," she says.

I can't tell whether she's being polite or if she genuinely means it.I lead Jennifer into the living room, gesturing to the sofa.She sits on the edge, back straight, hands folded on her lap the picture of professionalism.I take the armchair across from her and immediately regret it when I realize how far apart we are.Am l conducting a job interview?I suppose I am.

"So," I begin, but then stop.How can I explain my lifestyle to her?Welcome to my circus?Please don't run away screaming?

"I read through your file," Jennifer announces, breaking the silence."Four children, ages eight to fifteen.That's quite a handful."

"That's one way to put it."I smile weakly."The agency probably told you I'm desperate."