Page 20 of Where the Blacktop Ends

Sharp angles, bland colors, paintings on the wall with no personality, stiff sheets that have yet to be broken in. Nerves twist in my stomach and my palms begin to sweat.

Okay, time to face the music.

***

A few minutes later, I’m seated at the kitchen table across from Troy while he rapidly shares Liam’s schedule with me.

“His nap is at noon,” Troy says, his tone firm.?

“Got it,” I reply.

“And bedtime is no later than 7o’clock sharp.”

I nod, watching as Troy sighs, his jaw clenching and unclenching in that familiar way from my interview. His large, calloused hands rest on the glass kitchen table, and I can’t help but stare at the veins that run across the top of them.

Why are they so rough if he works solely in politics? I hadn’t noticed any tools or gym equipment lying around, but he clearly works out based on the bulging muscles beneath his clothing.

Maybe he plays the guitar? Not that I saw one lying around, but hell, with hands like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did something unexpected in his spare time. If he has any. Not that I should be thinking about his hands. Or his face. Or any part of him, really. For a guy who’s forty-two, he looks more like he’s in his thirties and though I never thought I’d be into an older man, Troy’s face is distracting.

Body too.

“Are you going to write any of this down?” he asks, voice full of annoyance dragging me out of my daydreaming.

I shrug. “No need. I’ve been a nanny for years. I took care of both Evie and Ember from newborns to well past two. Two-year-olds aren’t all that different.”

Clench.

Unclench.

Clench.

Unclench.

“Were you this strict with your son?” I ask, trying to distract him from cracking a molar. He was just twenty years old when had him—that couldn’t have been easy. I’d love to know how he managed it while finishing his law degree and beginning his career, but something tells me that’s a topic Troy doesn’t want to discuss. At least not with me.

Maybe not with anyone.

Is Troy divorced? Where’s Max’s mom?

His jaw tightens—so hard I wonder if his dentist has warned him about stress fractures. A muscle ticks in his cheek, his nostrils flare, and for a second, I think he’s about to snap. But then he exhales, measured and controlled, forcing himself back into that perfectly composed shell.

He’s holding back, restraining himself from saying what he really wants to express. There’s a part of me that’s curious about what he’s like when he’s not so buttoned-up, stripped down like he was in the steam room, but another part thinks it might be terrifying to see that side of him in the light of day, away from the protection of the steam. Even seeing him in casual clothes today feels deeply unsettling.

“I kept Max on a strict routine,” he replies, his voice tight. “Routine is important. It gives children predictability. Helps them feel secure when they know what to expect next and when. Adults, too. Humans were created to adhere to schedules, the seasons, plans.”

“Okay...” I draw out the word, not sure how to respond because I completely disagree with him. Is he implying I don’t have routine in my personal life? When I nannied Evie and Ember, we had general guidelines for naps and meals, but every day was a little different. They thrived on the adventure of it all. The magic in the surprise and allowing the day to unfold naturally without so much rigor.

“I’m not against routines if that’s what you’re hinting at. But I don’t need to write anything down. I’ll put Liam down for his nap around noon and get him to bed by seven each night. You hired me for a reason, so I’d appreciate it if you trust that I’ll make sure Liam always has a safe, fun, and educational day. I don’t need to micromanage every second of his time to make sure that happens.”

He checks his watch, completely ignoring my response as if my words are beneath his consideration. It’s like he’s already decided I’m going to do a shitty job when I know this will be fine.

At least he hasn’t fired me yet.

Even if I don’t crave structure in my personal life, I can separate work from the rest. That said, I’m not going to parent the way I'm sure Troy would. Kids thrive in moments of free play, the wild and spontaneous days where they discover things on their own. They don’t learn by being confined to rigid schedules or being forced to sit and memorize things. Especially Liam, who, according to Troy, isn’t talking much at two-years-old. That’s something I want to help with, but sitting down with flashcards? No thanks. Neither of us would get much out of that except a lot of tears.

Mostly from me.

“Liam’s back in twenty minutes. Eleanor’s dropping him off. Prep dinner now, bedtime routine starts in an hour. I leave tomorrow morning—gone all week. The fridge is stocked. Questions?”

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