Ford

“Hi, Ford! I hope it’s okay that I stopped by.” Melissa Gunderson stands under the stoop of my front porch, another tray of tin foil-covered food in her hand.

“Oh, hey.” I don’t hide my annoyance. “Give me two secs. I’ll grab your brownie pan.”

“No, no.” She waves her manicured hand in front of my face, her hot pink nails a little too close to this chiseled mug of mine. “I brought you a casserole! Hope you don’t think I’m being nosy, but I’ve been noticing you order a lot of takeout, and I thought you could use a home cooked meal. Made you a casserole. I hope you like chicken.”

“Honey, who is that at the door?” My sister Nicolette calls from the living room.

I hide my laugh with my hand, glancing down, and Melissa’s eyes dart over my shoulder, her face falling.

“Hi! I’m Nicolette Hawthorne,” she says, pushing me out of the way. “You must be one of the new neighbors?”

That’s my sister. Sharp as a tack and doesn’t miss a beat.

Melissa’s words must be caught in her throat, and she visually assesses Nicolette the way insecure, lonely women tend to do.

“I’m so sorry,” Melissa manages to say a moment later, extending her free hand. “I didn’t know …”

I can only hope Melissa’s too in shock to notice our uncanny resemblance, right down to the dimples in our chins.

“Well, I should be on my way.” Melissa hands over the hot dish and Nicolette thanks her before closing the door.

“Completely unnecessary,” I say.

“Bullshit, Ford. That girl was a stage five clinger situation waiting to happen. You should be thanking me.”

“Should I also thank you when she discovers I’m your brother and starts spreading rumors around the neighborhood?”

“She’s not going to know. Women like that aren’t bright enough to put those kinds of things together.” Nicolette takes the casserole to the kitchen, where my five-year-old nephew, Arlo, is hard at work on a page in his Transformers coloring book. “Anyway.”

Nicolette ruffles Arlo’s curly blond hair before leaning to kiss his forehead.

“You going to miss me, buddy?” she asks.

“Yep.” He doesn’t look up.

“I’m going to miss you,” she says.

“I know.” He reaches for a blue crayon, inspecting the tip to ensure it’s sharp enough.

We laugh.

“He’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s just a week. We’ve got fun stuff planned.”

“Like what?” she asks.

“Guy stuff. Super secret guys stuff that only guys can do,” I say, smirking at my nephew, whose face is lit like Christmas.

“Thanks for doing this for me,” she says, ruffling his silky curls again. “You’re the only person I trust with my baby.”

Nicolette hugs him one last time, tickling his ribcage until he giggles. Her annual girls’ trip begins tonight with a flight from O’Hare International to Miami, where she’ll meet up with some old friends from college. I don’t even want to think about what they’re going to do from there.

Being a single mom with zero help from Arlo’s dad, she needs this time to herself, and I’m happy to help.

“You’re cool with me getting a babysitter for a few hours a day?” I ask. “It’d only be in the morning.”

“Let me guess. Gym?” She rolls her eyes.

“And work.”

“Thought you had the summer off?” she asks.

“Prep work. Boring stuff. Just a couple hours a day.”

“Whatever,” she says. “That’s fine. I trust you.”

Nicolette grabs her suitcase from the bottom of the stairs as her cab pulls into the driveway, and I can only hope Melissa’s not standing outside watching me walk my sister to the car and send her off with a friendly wave instead of a romantic embrace.

“Be right back, bud,” I say to Arlo. “Don’t move a muscle.”

He freezes, his lips fighting a giggle.

“I want you just like that when I get back.” I point my finger at him before heading out the front door and helping Nic into her car. And just as I’m turning to get back inside, I spot Victor Abbott in his driveway, waxing his car.

He waves. I wave. At this point it would be rude to walk away, especially considering the fact that he’s my new boss.

“Victor,” I say, striding between our driveways.

“Ford,” he says.

“Have a question for you.”

“Shoot.” He stands, his hand resting on his lower back. Why he doesn’t just pay someone to wax his car is beyond me, but I suspect a man like Victor Abbott does things himself if he wants them done right.

“My nephew’s in town for a week. Looking for a babysitter. Just a few hours a day, Monday through Friday. You know anyone in the neighborhood? Looking for someone reliable and responsible.”

His face lights up, something I wasn’t sure was possible. “Matter of fact, my daughter, Bree, was just saying she wanted to get into babysitting. You want to meet her?”

That was easy.

“Sure.” I glance toward the house, waiting as Victor heads in and returns with a bobble-headed cheerleader type—of the studious variety, not the slutty—complete with a tied bow in her ponytail. Victor’s daughter looks like she walked off the set of a Taylor Swift music video, but she comes from good stock, and I’m not exactly in a position to say no.

“Bree, this is Ford,” her father says, clearing his throat. “Principal Hawthorne come August twenty-third.”

“So you’re the new principal!” Bree extends her hand, her blue eyes wide and smiling. “It’s so wonderful to meet you. You’re going to love Rosefield. We’re one of the top high schools in the state.”

“That’s what I’ve been told,” I say. She’s still holding my hand, almost refusing to let go. I give a gentle tug and sever the tie. “Very honored to lead the charge this fall.”

“Dad says you need a babysitter?” She bounces on her tennis shoe-covered toes.

I nod. “My five-year-old nephew’s in town for a week. Are you available in the mornings? Eight to eleven or so?”

“I am.” She smiles. “When would you like me to start?”

“Tomorrow?”

“See you then, Principal Hawthorne.” Bree tugs on the hem of her scoop neck top once she’s out of her father’s periphery. If she’s trying to give me a show, she’s wasting her time.

There’s nothing there.

And I don’t fuck my students.