Chapter 4

Mazzy

The last notes from Lily Kershaw’s “Ashes to Snow” fade from both my voice and my guitar strings. It’s one of my favorite covers to perform here at the Perco-Lately.

The clapping is not polite but exuberant and I get a wolf-whistle from the back. This coffee shop is one of the most popular in downtown and the coffee drinkers love their folk and indie pop music, and more importantly, they love me and Leo. We play here every other weekend and it’s a favorite of mine.

Leo… not so much. He’d rather play edgier stuff in bars and while I’m not opposed to that, those gigs never quite fit into my nannying schedule. However, given I’m temporarily between jobs, I’ve agreed to a few such events with him. But I really do hate those late nights.

Leo’s guitar chords pick up as mine fade. When we play together, each of us will sing individually, but mostly we duet. We’re both phenoms on the guitar and our voices harmonize perfectly.

The crowd recognizes the opening chords to “Leather and Lace” by Stevie Nicks and Don Henley, and a rousing cheer goes up. While the demographic in here is all over the place, from hip twenty-year-olds to millennials to Gen X, they all know a broad range of music.

Leo and I sit on stools, the stage slightly elevated and tucked into a corner. I’m wearing a pair of cargo pants, a Violent Femmes T-shirt that says “I Forget What Eight Was For” and a pair of sparkly flat sandals. None of it goes together, but that’s kind of my style. My red curls are piled on top of my head with some loose tendrils springing around my face. My makeup is light because I love my pale skin and freckles, but I always wear flavored lip gloss—today’s yumminess is mango-pineapple.

If I’m sort of a conglomeration of various styles, Leo is straight up edgy rocker who looks like he’s about to burst into Metallica—his favorite band of all time. He’s got on well-fitting jeans ripped at one thigh and the other knee, a sleeveless Queensr?che T-shirt that fits like a glove to his broad and chiseled chest and his muscled arms are fully tatted. He wears his dark hair long and messy, and it falls around his face as he bows his head over his guitar while I sing Stevie’s first verse.

I can practically hear all the women swoon when Don Henley’s verse starts and Leo lifts his face, those hazel eyes sweeping over the crowd before his smile reveals perfect teeth.

Leo Stratham is the definition of hotness, but his smile does not melt my panties or make my heart flutter. I’ve never once swooned over him. We’ve been friends since grade school when our respective parents enrolled us in piano lessons together, then on through high school, by which time we’d both learned the guitar and bass and I’d even dabbled in the violin. We both had good voices and would meet up at my house to jam.

It was my mom who made an offhand comment one weekend as we sat on the back deck, plucking at our steel strings and trying different melodies. “You two should form a band.”

We looked at each other, our hands stilling on our acoustic guitars. I played my grandfather’s Martin D-18, which I still play to this day, although now I have three other guitars. Leo had a Gretsch Rancher, his favorite. A silent message passed between us. “We should totally form a band.”

I’m not sure exactly what constitutes a band. It seems it should be more than two people and contain more instruments than two acoustic guitars, and while we both play the piano and keyboards just fine, we’ve never brought on any more members. Instead, we’ve stuck to our six-strings. It’s what we do best, marrying my raspy, lilting tone best suited for ballads and his edgier, deeper voice that melts panties with any rock song.

With my sandaled feet perched on the lowest rung of my stool, I sway to the melody, leaning slightly forward toward my microphone. Leo has one combat-booted foot on the rung, the other long leg stretched in front of him. His microphone stand is between his legs, and I glance out across the patrons, noting every woman’s eyes are pinned on him. I grin and pick up on the lyrics where he leaves off.

I don’t sing in coffeehouses or bars for the money but for the pleasure of sharing music with others. As a full-time nanny for the last seven years, I make ridiculously good money along with benefits. Although my prior job just ended, I’ve received several offers this week because I’m good at what I do. I last worked for an executive who’s transferring out of the country and he gave me a stupendous review.

Leo, on the other hand, lives hand-to-mouth on the earnings we make together. I can only usually do one gig a week with him when I’m nannying but he plays on his own and with another band, usually seven days or nights a week. He lives in a seedy apartment with two other guys over in McKees Rocks and eats ramen for most meals. Still, he loves his music so much, with grand dreams of getting noticed and signed to a label, that he’ll happily live the rest of his life this way for that one shot.

We finish “Leather and Lace,” our last song of the evening, to even stronger applause and people calling out for an encore.

Leo looks over at me. “Want to do a few more?”

I check my watch and shake my head. “I can’t. Got another job interview.”

“I thought you’d already decided on a job,” he says softly, placing his hand over the microphone and leaning toward me.

“I did but I’ve been asked to do one more interview—special favor to Sasha. It won’t change my mind, but I agreed.”

Sasha and Craig Hamberly were my former employers, and I worked for them for four years, watching their five-year-old son and two-year-old daughter. Sasha and Craig are executives with Norcross Holdings and apparently Brienne Norcross herself called in the favor. One of her hockey players is in quick need of a qualified nanny and while I really didn’t want to spend the time or energy doing another interview when my mind was made up, I love the Hamberlys like my own family and I’d do anything for them.

“But you should stay and sing,” I say, noting that Leo’s open hard case on the stage beside him is sprinkled with fives, tens and even a twenty, while mine has a few one-dollar bills. It’s not that Leo is a better singer or musician than me—we both are fucking good—but the coffeehouse is probably eighty percent women and everyone who approached the stage to tip us veered toward his case.

Geriatric patron Mr. Porter, who drinks tea at his favorite table by the window every Saturday, is the one who graciously tipped me the dollar bills, which is a lot given he doesn’t have much money. Over the years I’ve had conversations with him, I’ve learned he lives in a fixed-rent, senior-living apartment and depends on his social security income to get by. He can stretch a cup of tea into an hour, bopping his head along to our music, even though most of it he doesn’t know.

I hop off my stool, grab the ones in my case and toss them into Leo’s. He needs them and I don’t. Leo leans into the microphone and gives a sexy smile. “Folks… how about a big round of applause for Mazzy Archer? She’s got to hustle off to another gig but I’m going to stick around for a while, so settle in with another cup.”

Smiling, I acknowledge the rousing cheer because while the women here may be lusting after Leo, there’s no doubt that my music is appreciated. I lift a hand in acknowledgment, sling my backpack over my shoulder and nab my guitar case by the handle.

Leo covers the microphone again. “Text me later and let me know about the interview.”

“Will do.”

“And we’re still on for tomorrow at six?” he asks, eyes filled with hope.

I laugh. “Yes. Dinner at my parents’ house, six p.m. sharp.”

“Sweet,” he says, and I know he’s already salivating for my mom’s fried chicken. My mother hails from Georgia and even though she’s been in Pittsburgh for almost thirty years, she still cooks from her southern heart.

“Later,” I say to Leo as he pulls on inspiration from his T-shirt and starts plucking the cords of “Silent Lucidity.” He and I actually do a beautiful, harmonized rendition of this song, but he freaking kills it on his own. I’m forgotten and no one watches as I walk out of the coffeehouse and across the street to where my car is parallel parked.

I drive an Audi Q3, my one big splurge from the generous salary the Hamberlys paid me. Because I was an almost full-time live-in with them, I had no rent or utilities. On my days off, I would stay with my parents over in Mt. Lebanon, so I’ve managed to save up an incredible amount of money in the 401(k) the Hamberlys started for me, as well as in individual investment accounts my dad helped me set up.

Opening the rear hatch, I place my guitar in gently, toss my backpack in behind it, and grab my keys and phone from the back pouch. The SUV is a push-button start engine, so I toss the keys in the cup holder. I take a moment to plug in the address from the text Sasha sent and am relieved to see that with lazy Saturday traffic, it will put me there five minutes early.

Disregard for punctuality is a pet peeve of mine, so I always try to be a little early. On the rare occasion that I might be a few minutes late, I chastise myself hard. Checking for traffic in my side mirror, I pull out and head over to Squirrel Hill where Pittsburgh Titans hockey player Foster McInnis lives.

?

The hockey player’shouse is imposing, as are all the houses in the affluent neighborhood of Squirrel Hill. Still, it’s not as large as the mega mansion the Hamberlys owned in Oakmont, so nothing about it is intimidating.

I had a middle-class upbringing with two very successful parents as role models. My mother, a chemical engineer with PPG, is highly educated and analytical. My father is an entrepreneur at heart and has owned his own commercial landscaping business for the last twenty-five years. He went into manual labor upon graduating high school while my mom went off for seven years of university, earning a bachelor’s, master’s and ultimately a PhD.

I’m part of a blended family but it’s the absolute best family. I never knew my biological father—he wanted nothing to do with my mom after she got pregnant with me twenty-eight years ago when she was just twenty-five and starting her career at PPG. She met Kyle Archer, a handsome man who had his own start-up cutting grass around her workplace, when I was two.

Divorced, he had two boys who were six and nine and they split time between parents. Kyle fell in love with and married my mom and I had a new dad, and he’s been my dad in all ways ever since. Never a stepfather, Kyle adopted me and I became an Archer through and through. My two older brothers, Brian and Tim, immediately became overprotective, overbearing and completely nonsensical when it came to me. They embraced their new little sister and deemed it their duty to watch over me alongside their dad.

But our family wasn’t done growing. Our families melded, Mom rose in the ranks of PPG, and Dad’s business boomed, and because my parents apparently thought that their lives weren’t chaotic enough, they had a baby eleven years into their marriage. I was thirteen, Tim was seventeen, and Brian was twenty and off to college at Penn State.

When people ask why I’m a nanny, I can honestly say I came by it naturally and to an extent, by default. With two career parents and a soon-to-be eighteen-year-old brother who was so into his girlfriend at the time he was hardly ever home, I was the go-to person to help raise my new baby brother, Mason, and my second one who came along two years later, Landon.

My parents never asked or demanded of me the extra time I put into helping with the two babies. They had, in fact, hired a nanny to watch the boys while they worked and when Tim and I were at school.

But when I wasn’t in school or playing music with Leo, I doted on Mason and Landon. I love them so much and it was a calling in my heart. I thought at first maybe it was just the novelty of having babies in the house—I loved everything from changing poopy diapers to rocking them to sleep after their baths. My parents often joked they had to beat me off the boys so they could have time with them after work.

It wasn’t a baby thing, though. I loved the toddler years just as much, and while I don’t have as close a hand in the boys’ upbringing now since they’re twelve and fourteen and completely self-sufficient (which is how our parents raised all of us), I get a kick out of watching them go through hormones and puberty and crushes on girls, dealing with acne and outgrowing their clothes every three months. What’s best about that though, is they come to me for advice, and we can talk about anything.

At any rate, when it came time for me to graduate high school, I had no interest in going off to college. I’m a reasonably smart girl, although not close to genius the way my mom is, or dedicated to knowledge the way Brian and Tim are. I was more the entrepreneur and my dad encouraged me to find my own path, even if it wasn’t going to college.

I took my first nanny job when I was nineteen after a year of waitressing at a downtown steakhouse. I wasn’t in that job for more than two days before I knew I’d found my calling.

The last four years with the Hamberlys have been a dream and I was devastated when they both got transferred to London with Norcross Holdings. They asked me to come along and even offered an insane salary increase because they love me as much as I love them. Let’s not even talk about the emotional attachment between me and their kids.

But in the end, I couldn’t bear to leave my family. My parents and brothers—the ones at home and those who have flown the coop—are my life, and I can’t imagine ever leaving Pittsburgh as long as they’re here. Brian and Tim both have jobs in the city and are married, although I haven’t been graced with nieces or nephews yet.

It’s my family I’m thinking of and our monthly family dinner tomorrow as I walk up to the front door of Foster McInnis’s house. I’d have every right to be irritated that I’m spending hours out of my day in what I think is futility, but I don’t mind doing this favor the Hamberlys asked of me. My mind is pretty much set on accepting a job offer from a couple with a new baby, and while the salary isn’t exactly what I’ve been making, the hours aren’t as tedious. I figure, however, I can hear what Mr. McInnis has to say and maybe even offer him some help finding the perfect person for him.

I ring the doorbell, pocketing my car keys, and when the door swings open, I’m not prepared for the stunning man standing before me. It never once occurred to me that he would be handsome, not that it has any bearing on anything, but he’s so good-looking, I’m momentarily speechless. His dark hair is longish on top, shorter on the sides, and looks like it was styled only by a quick running of his fingers through it. His strong jaw is covered with thick stubble but it’s his light hazel eyes fringed in dark lashes that hit me with a case of the stupids.

“You must be Mary Elizabeth,” he says, offering a hand. “I’m Foster McInnis.”

I accept the handshake. “Yes, hi. But everyone calls me Mazzy.”

Tilting his head as if to consider my name, he grins. “I like that. Come on in.”

I step over the threshold and look around at the large open foyer filled with light, plants and framed landscape art. “You’ve got a beautiful home, Mr. McInnis.”

“Foster, please,” he says gruffly, and leads me into the kitchen. “Mr. McInnis makes me feel old.”

He heads to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Would you like something to drink? I’ve got water, and well… just water, or I can make you coffee or tea.”

“I’m good,” I reply and take a seat at the large island done in white granite with black veins, flecked with silver. The entire kitchen is white except for the backsplash, which is a wall of charcoal-gray subway tile.

Foster moves around the island and takes the chair next to me. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I was so relieved when Brienne Norcross had a personal recommendation for a nanny for me, but I have a few questions for you.”

“Actually,” I say, cutting in, “I think I need to be up front with you that I interviewed for a job yesterday that I’m strongly considering. In fact, not just strongly considering. I’ve decided to accept it, but I have to work out a few scheduling details with them.”

“But you haven’t officially accepted?” he prompts.

“No, but I guess I just need to be clear. It’s a good job and I’m going to.”

“How do you know my job isn’t better?” he asks. “And I figure you must have some interest or you wouldn’t be here.”

I incline my head, because he’s got a point. “I was just fulfilling a favor to Brienne Norcross through my former employers and I figured I might be able to help you find someone or give you some pointers on what to look for.”

Foster uncaps his bottle of water and takes a swallow. I try not to notice the way his throat moves or the broad chest or muscled arms showcased in a Pittsburgh Titans T-shirt. He’s got on workout shorts and his legs are tanned, well-muscled and…

I blink again, clearing my throat. “What exactly are you looking for?”

Foster sighs and rests an arm on the countertop, swiveling his stool to face me. “It’s a bit complicated, but short story is that I’m seeking full custody of my daughter, Bowie Jane—”

“Oh, cute name!”

He grins. “Thanks. Nod to David Bowie, obviously. At any rate, my ex-wife, Sandra, and I have shared custody since the divorce. Bowie Jane lives with her mom in San Francisco. We’ve made it work where I get summers and then see her as much as I can during the season.”

“What’s changed?”

“Sandra has it in her mind that she’s relocating to Singapore to follow a boyfriend and she wants to take my daughter with her. That’s a big no for me and my attorney managed to get an emergency hearing in front of a judge who’s issued an order blocking her from going.”

I frown at him. “So, what’s the problem? Why are you seeking full custody?”

“Because I think Sandra is going to go anyway and my attorney said if she takes Bowie Jane out of the country, despite a judge’s order, there’s not much that can be done to get her back. Or at least, it’s going to be a brutal fight that could take months and months. I want to prevent that so I’m seeking full custody and that’s why I need a nanny, to help me with her when I’m working, especially travel days. It’s probably a lot different from what you’re used to, but I promise, the pay would be commensurate.”

“But you’re offering me a job that you don’t even know would come to fruition. I mean, I sure hope you get awarded custody, but you might not, right?”

Foster’s jaw tightens, a possibility I can tell he doesn’t even like to consider. “The hearing is Monday morning and it’s going to be via Zoom for her and her attorney to attend. I’ve been told I’ve got a good shot at getting full custody, especially since in the emergency hearing yesterday, Sandra was so insistent on needing to go to Singapore for her career.”

I don’t bother asking what that career could be. It’s irrelevant. “Still… you really don’t have a job for me at this point. And I’ve got a good offer on the table that fits my needs exactly.”

“Look,” Foster says, leaning slightly forward, his gaze penetrating mine. “I already talked to the Hamberlys, and their recommendation of you could not be any more glowing. I don’t know what you’ve been offered for this new position or what the job entails, but whatever it is, I’ll beat it. In fact…” Foster reaches across the counter and nabs a checkbook sitting there. He opens it and I watch as he puts my name as the payee and signs the check. Tearing it out, he slides it across the counter toward me. “This will be a signing bonus. You can fill in the amount.”

I quickly push the check back to him. “You’re crazy.”

“Determined. Name your price.”

“That’s not my style,” I say, my head spinning with how hard he’s working to seal the deal. “I’m not saying I’ll consider your offer, but what would the job entail? You travel… a lot. Would Bowie Jane and I travel with you?”

Foster shakes his head. “No. She’s ten and has school. You’d be here as her sole caretaker. You’d have the support of the other hockey moms on the team, especially to give you days off as needed. They apparently have some sort of babysitting club going.”

“Live-in?” I ask.

“Yes. I’ve got a separate master suite upstairs. Not as big as the main one but it would give you privacy. Bowie Jane’s room is upstairs too. Even when I’m here on home games, I have practice and, of course, the games themselves. But I get days off and those would be your days off. When I’m in town, I don’t need all-day care. It might just be for a few hours at a time. It’s not a consistent schedule and that’s the downside, but the upside is that I will make it worth your while.”

“The current job offer I have is a base salary of $125,000 per year and it’s essentially a forty-hour-per-week job with most weekends off.”

To his credit, Foster doesn’t flinch. “I’d need you more than that. But I’ll pay you $150,000, and I’ll coordinate with the other hockey moms to give you as many weekends off as I can muster.”

“They’re also offering retirement contributions and health insurance.”

“Done.”

I nibble on my lower lip, considering. Finally, I say, “You haven’t even asked me questions about my style with children or my capabilities.”

“I got all I needed from the Hamberlys.”

No doubt the work would be harder with this job offer but that’s not why I’m hesitating. It’s just… there’s something about the hot single dad desperate for my help that has me on edge. This seems like a really bad situation to put myself into.

Not that I’m a desperate woman seeking anything, but I’ve read enough romance novels to know that I could become a trope, and I don’t want that. It could end disastrously, not that he’s attracted to me or anything, and not that I am to him. I mean… he’s gorgeous, yes, but I think that about a lot of people. Leo’s exceptionally hot but he’s just my friend.

“A hundred and fifty thousand, plus retirement and insurance,” Foster says and pushes the check back toward me. “And a signing bonus.”

More blinking since that seems to work best to clear my errant thoughts. I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but it’s just too much of a risk. You don’t even have a job to offer since your daughter isn’t here yet, and I have to give my answer to these other people by tomorrow night.”

“If you were so committed to taking that job, you would have already accepted it.”

Crap. That is a damn good point. There has been one little hesitation I’ve been struggling with, but I don’t let him know that.

“I’ve been busy,” I reply, blowing off such a well-made point with a lame excuse.

“Please,” Foster says, and he sounds desperate. “My custody hearing is on Monday morning. If I don’t have childcare lined up, there’s no way I’ll win this.”

I stare at him shrewdly, wondering about his ploy to tug at my conscience. But I don’t buy it. I can tell by the determination he’s shown so far, he loves his daughter beyond any definable measure and he wouldn’t go into that hearing without a backup plan.

“I’m not your only option,” I say confidently.

“No, you’re not,” he says, and I smile in triumph. “Although you’re my only nanny option. But if you don’t take the job, I’m just going to tell the judge I’ll walk away from the league to take care of my daughter full time. That’s my backup plan.”

My mouth falls open. “You’d do that?”

“What father wouldn’t?” he asks with a frown.

“You’d be surprised how many,” I mutter, thinking of some of the families I’ve worked for over the years who use their nanny as the primary parent because they have better things to do. But I don’t give him details, instead standing from the stool. “I’m really sorry, Foster, but I’ve committed to the other family.”

He stands, towering over me. “But you haven’t. You haven’t accepted yet.”

“But I will,” I counter.

“Call them right now then.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his smirk confident. “If you’re so committed, might as well give them some peace of mind.”

“They’re not in town currently,” I grit out. Which is true but that wouldn’t prevent me from making a call to accept. “Again, thank you for the very generous offer and if you want, I’m glad to help you search for someone who’s more compatible.”

His hazel eyes seem to darken as he stares at me with an intensity that makes the back of my neck hot. “If you change your mind, let me know before Monday.”

“I won’t.”

“You might.”

I hold out my hand for him to shake. “Thank you again for the offer and I wish you the best of luck.”

For the first time, Foster looks peeved but manages to plaster on a smile as his large hand engulfs mine. “Please just think about it.”

I make no promises because I don’t want to get his hopes up, but truth be told, he actually makes me wonder if this is worth further pondering.