I always figure it out.
Underneath, though, the stone in my stomach doesn't let me forget that I'm lying to myself. Mom reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, her silver wings fluttering softly behind her.
"You're doing the best you can," she says. "And you're a damn good mother."
The kindness in her voice almost makes me cry. I squeeze her hand back and nod, not trusting myself to speak.
The doorbell rings.
Mom goes suspiciously still for a beat, then her expression shifts into something bright and cheerful that immediately sets off alarm bells in my head.
"Oh!" she says, standing up. "That'll be Noah."
I blink. "Who?"
"Oh, I told you about my new employee, didn't I?" She's already moving toward the door, her wings shimmering under the kitchen light. "He's been working for me part-time for about six months now."
No. No, she did not tell me anything about a Noah. Well, maybe she did? I honestly don't remember.
"Mom." I push to my feet, my pulse spiking. "Why is your employee coming to my home?"
She pauses at the door, her hand on the doorframe, and gives me a smile that's equal parts innocent and devious.
"Noah worked as a nanny for six years for a wealthy dragon family in Boston," she says quickly. "He moved back to Saltford Bay about six months ago because his last family relocated to Singapore. He's looking for work to tide him over until he can find a teaching position, and I thought he would be perfect for you."
"You ambushed me?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend. "You seriously ambushed me with a surprise interview after the worst week I've had in months?"
"It's not an ambush," Mom says, waving a hand dismissively. Her crystal bracelets click merrily as she moves, like tiny alarm bells. Yeah. She knows what she did. "It's an opportunity. Noah is perfect, Rika. He's experienced, he's kind, he's great with kids—"
"He's aman."
The words hang in the air.
Mom's expression hardens, and I recognize that look. It's the one she gets when she's about to call me out on my bullshit. Which she often does.
"Are you seriously that old-fashioned?" she asks, lifting her brows. "Men can care for children just as well as women can. Just because Mitchell never lifted a finger in the house doesn't mean it's normal."
The mention of Mitchell stings, sharp and immediate. My jaw tightens. I want to argue. I want to tell her that hiring a male nanny feels weird and uncomfortable and like yet another thing I'm going to screw up.
But I also know she's right about men in general and Mitchell in particular.
Mitchell never helped. He never changed a diaper, never packed a lunch, never stayed up late with a sick kid. He was too busy building his real estate career and, apparently, sleeping with my best friend.
But that doesn't mean all men are like him.
Does it?
A tall shadow moves on the other side of the front door, pulling me from my Mitchell-induced bitterness. Mom gives me a pointed look, then gestures for me to open the door. I throw my head back and groan like I'm trying to do my best impression of Zoe, and then I yank the door open.
And all thoughts shrivel inside my brain like spit under the August sun. Gross, I know. But I have a seven-year-old son, so I know a bit about gross stuff.
"Noah!" Mom calls from behind me, cheerful voice booming. "Come in!"
But he can't. Because I'm standing right in the doorway. I tell my feet to move, but they refuse.
Probably because I'm staring at some kind of movie star or a male model. He even has a halo from my porch light on top of his head, and for a solid three seconds, I forget how to breathe.
"Hi," he says, stepping forward and offering his hand. "I'm Noah Mercer."
