Chapter 6 Owen
OWEN
I’m not saying I was hoping my manager’s niece named Frankie would be @frankiesayrelax, but I’m not saying I’m disappointed to find a woman who looks an awful lot like @frankiesayrelax’s profile picture standing at my doorstep in jean shorts either.
She’s also wearing a loose vintage Star Wars T-shirt and sneakers with no socks.
They’re probably meant to detract from the blatant white-hot sexiness of her short shorts, but they’re failing miserably because her toned bare legs are slammin’ and I need to stop imagining my head between them before my son joins us downstairs.
I could have let that face with rolling eyes emoji slide—because maybe she really does think I’m an asshat—but the basic guy-math equation that I’m solving in my head is: eye-roll emoji + jean shorts = This Chick Wants My Eggplant Emoji.
Unfortunately, the grown-up dad math equation goes something like this: If I hire her to be my kid’s nanny + she’s my manager’s niece = I Can’t Give It To Her.
Fuck.
“It’s customary to greet an invited human who’s standing on your doorstep with a few words of welcome before ushering her inside to meet your son—which is the only reason I’m here. To meet your son.”
Such a little turd.
“You’re my manager’s niece.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Yes. You’re my uncle’s client.”
“Yes.”
“Fancy that.”
“Indeed. You’re the Tampa heckler. From Twitter.”
“The Tampa Heckler. Wow, I sound like a comic book villain… Small world.”
“Absolutely fucking tiny. What’s your last name again?”
I know what it is and you know I know what it is, but I’m gonna make you tell me anyway.
“Hogan. My last name is Hogan.”
“Right. Not Hancock.”
“Right.”
“Interesting that Martin’s office didn’t give me your full name.”
“It is interesting, isn’t it.”
She blows up at a few strands of hair that have fallen into her face and then carefully pushes them out of the way. Her long dark hair’s pulled up into a ponytail, and fucking hell, I want to tug on that thing when her mouth is on my—nope.
Rein it in, Brodie.
She self-consciously touches the smooth skin of her bare neck and rocks back and forth the tiniest bit.
She’s blushing.
I’m staring.
I should invite her in, but what’s the point?
I can’t hire this woman.
She clears her throat, shoves both hands into the front pockets of her jeans—which pushes her tits out more—and blurts out, “Okay, I’m just going to say it.
The emojis didn’t mean anything. Your emoticons didn’t mean anything.
My emojis meant nothing. Nobody was flirting with anyone.
No one thinks anyone is hot. I’m wearing shorts because it’s warm out.
I need a job. Are you going to invite me in so I can meet your son, or should I just turn around and go home so you can stare at my ass while I walk away? ”
“Well, you could just take it down a notch or twelve, missy.”
She huffs. “You could just not call me missy.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Seriously. Do you want me to leave or not?”
“All right. I mean, no. I don’t want you to leave. Let’s start over.” I hold out my hand to shake hers. “Hi. I’m Owen Brodie. You must be Martin’s niece, Frankie. Thanks for coming. Nice shorts.”
She pulls her hand away and rolls her eyes at me.
“So when you roll your eyes at me in real life, that also doesn’t mean anything, correct?
“Correct.”
“Got it. Please come in.” I stand aside, pushing the front door open more with my back, but not so far that she doesn’t have to brush the side of her arm against my chest when she passes by.
She gives me the side-eye as she crosses the threshold, probably watching to see if I check out her ass.
What am I? A drunk twenty-year-old frat boy? I’m a thirty-year-old formerly married man who has fathered a child and owns a house. I know how to perform undetected ass-checks.
Somebody needs to get over herself.
But when she stops in the middle of the foyer to look around, I have to say—she does have a great ass.
“Nice house.”
“Thanks.”
“I don’t come to Santa Monica much. This seems like a really nice, quiet neighborhood.”
“It is. Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just pictured you living in a penthouse on the Sunset Strip, behind a billboard of yourself selling overpriced watches or men’s chest lotion or something.”
“That’s not a thing. There’s no lotion that’s made specifically for men’s chests—I know because I’ve searched for it online. Multiple times.”
“Well, if there were, I’m sure the company would hire you to be their shill.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean, that wasn’t a compliment, but—”
“It was. Thank you.”
Another eye-roll with an accompanying head shake.
What a treat!
“Would you like to have a seat in the living room, milady?”
“Sure. Is your son actually here? Sam, right?”
“Yes. He’s upstairs, watching something on his iPad or sleeping. I thought I’d ask you a few questions first.”
“Okie dokie.”
I lead her to the living room. This house isn’t big but it’s classy as fuck, and I can see by the way she’s eyeing my very tasteful décor that she’s impressed and I can see that it kills her to be impressed by anything me-related. And I fucking love it.
I take a seat in the vintage Herman Miller lounge chair—the one that cost seven thousand dollars.
The one that makes me feel like a boss every time I sit in it.
The one with the rosewood back that Sam carved his name into.
I wasn’t even mad at him because one day this will be his and good for him for staking his claim.
Big Daddy’s got his back, and he’s going to do what’s best for both of us by not hiring this snarky vixen.
I wait for her to remove her shoulder bag, place it on the floor next to her feet, and take a seat on the sofa.
She sits with her thighs squeezed together.
Possibly because she doesn’t want me to see up her shorts, but more likely because there’s a lot of tension between those legs, courtesy of yours truly. And it’s going to get so much worse.
She finally stops fidgeting and looks me in the eyes, almost daring me to question her.
“So you’re from Tampa?”
“Yes. The city of gators and your in-laws.”
“Former in-laws. How long have you been out here?”
“About two years.”
“Uh-huh. And you’re doing stand-up? Why haven’t I seen you around the circuit?”
“We aren’t exactly in the same circuit, are we?”
“You could still go to shows.”
“I do go to shows. Just not yours.”
“Which begs the question—why did you agree to interview for this job?”
“I told you. I need a job. So I’m here to meet your son and determine if I can put up with you for a month or whatever.”
“I see. You’re here to interview me.”
“Well, that makes it sound like I’m here to write an article about you or something. If I were going to interview comedians, there are approximately five thousand I would want to talk to before you.”
“Save the best for last, you mean.”
I watch her struggle with her facial muscles, trying so hard not to smile at that. “No. That’s not what I mean. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to ask me more child caregiver-related questions?”
“Are you twenty-five or older?”
“I’m one year older than twenty-five. Why?”
“Because Sam’s nanny would have to drive a rental car at some point while we’re out of town. One must be at least twenty-five years of age to rent a car in this country.”
“Well, I am of car-renting age and I also have a perfectly clean driving record.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll need proof of that. Marty said you have a lot of experience with looking after kids, but he didn’t clarify.”
“Don’t call him Marty. And yes. I do. In Tampa and when I was in college. I actually got certified from the Red Cross when I was in high school.”
“For what? Joke and tweet assessment?”
She almost laughs at that, and it feels fucking great.
“For babysitting and advanced child care. First aid and CPR.”
Shit.
She’s trained for this.
“Cool. I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“Well, you were probably too busy being a model to babysit when you were in high school.”
“Damn right I was. Paid for my entire college education.”
“I bet. And this house, I suppose?”
“The down payment, sure.”
“Are you still modeling at all?”
“Only if I get an offer I can’t refuse. I’m a full-time comedian now. As you know, I have a cute family comedy series in development.”
She rubs her glossy lips together and frowns. I’ve annoyed her by reminding her of her adorable drunk messages. Oops.
“I did notice the headline in the trades, yes,” she says through clenched teeth. “Congratulations. I’m glad they got Shane Miller to direct the pilot. He’s awesome. And funny.” She smirks at me. “And he has great hair.”
How dare you.
I stare her down, giving her my most intense model-gaze, while combing my fingers through my hair. Because Shane Miller is awesome and funny, and yeah, he might even have great hair—but no man has better hair than I do.
She just stares back, blinking slowly. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your son. Do you share custody of him with his mother? If you don’t mind my asking.”
I rub the back of my neck, drawing attention to my unbearably sleek jawline.
“Yes, we share custody, fifty-fifty, usually. But my ex-wife and her new husband just had a baby.” I lower my voice a little.
“I don’t think Sam’s getting enough attention when he’s at their place, so I didn’t want to leave him for an entire month while I’m on tour. ”
Her eyes soften a little, along with her voice and posture and her entire being, maybe even. “That’s nice. I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”
“Yeah, well. That’s the thing about Sam.
I’m sure he will appreciate it, but he’s a bit…
stoic. He’s a great kid, but he’s super chill.
He likes to take naps. He probably will for the rest of his life, I don’t know.
Ashley kept taking him to the doctor to see if there’s something wrong with his thyroid, and she had him talk to a child psychologist once to see if he’s depressed. But he just likes to take naps.”
“I would literally nap all day if I could.”
“Well then, maybe you should have your thyroid checked out.”
She doesn’t roll her eyes. She just looks at me like that flat line for a mouth emoji.
“Anyway, he’s really smart and cool and responsible and low key and serious. So if you meet him, don’t be offended if you don’t see much of a response. That’s just what he’s like.”
“If I meet him?”
I smile and blink at her, saying nothing.
She crosses her slammin’ legs, grasps one knee with both hands, and stares at me for a beat before saying, “So…does Sam have any allergies?”
“He’s allergic to sass and sarcasm, so I don’t think this is going to work out.”
“Yeah, well, my eyeballs are allergic to your face, so I agree this is a bad idea.” She stands up.
“Thanks for stopping by. I’ll tell Martin you’re overqualified for the job.”
She picks up her shoulder bag like she’s mad at it. “Great. I’ll tell him I’d rather clean sewers than spend a month on the road with you.” Her eyes are watery. Her lower lip is quivering.
Shit.
I’m an asshole.
But so is she.
So maybe she’s perfectly qualified for this job.
I get up and cross over to her. “Listen, I…” I start to reach out to her, to console her because I want to make her feel better.
There’s a vulnerability just beneath the surface that I can see so clearly.
I recognize it, and I want to make her feel good and better about everything—which is weird.
But I stop when I follow her gaze and see that Sam is standing in the entrance to the living room.
“Hey, buddy. I didn’t hear you come downstairs.”
“Yeah.” He gives Frankie a perfunctory wave. “Hey.”
“Heyyyy, Sam. Sup?”
“Hey.”
“Sam, this is Frankie. She was just—”
“Hi, Frankie. I like your T-shirt.”
“Oh, thanks. You a Star Wars fan?”
“Yeah. The old stuff.”
“Me too. I mean, I like Rey and Kylo though.”
“Me too! I want to go as Kylo for Halloween this year.”
This is already the most he’s ever said to a total stranger, which is disturbing.
“Awesome!”
He shrugs. “My dad thinks we should go as Han Solo and Chewbacca.”
“Well, that would only work if you’re Han Solo and he’s Chewbacca.”
“I know, that’s what I said. But he doesn’t want to cover up his face.”
She shakes her head. “Sounds about right.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Well, I’ve been having a terrible time talking to your dad over here, so I was about to run out.”
Sam laughs.
Laughs.
Just to be polite, I’m sure.
“Yeah, he’s pretty bad.”
“Yeah, he’s the worst, I’d say. So what were you watching up there?”
Sam scratches his nose with the back of his hand and walks over to be closer to her.
Which is unusual.
And unfortunate.
She sits back down on the sofa and pats the cushion next to her, gesturing for him to join her there.
And he does.
Which is really fucking weird.
She gives me a look, like maybe I should take a step back so they can bond.
Which I don’t want them to do.
But Sam looks so happy.
And comfortable.
So I go back to my Herman Miller chair and wait for my son to realize what a cheeky little turd this lady is.
He will.
I have faith in him.