Chapter 5

Five

P addy

"My new what ?" Gosh, for an apparently smart business woman, she sure didn't listen much. Grabbing my duffel bag out of my trunk, I threw it in her backseat before deciding to introduce myself.

"Paddy Sullivan. New nanny at your service," I said, as I held out my hand and she reluctantly tossed me her car keys.

"Wait, how do I know you're telling the truth?" Her features adorably furrowed with little frown lines.

"Your husband's name is Nathan Washington. Tall, dark skinned, square type. Son's name is Elijah. You're coming back from Chicago after a three-month gig. Your husband hired me with the intention to start today. Guess I know now I know why."

If she wasn't convinced before, she sure was now, as she pranced that pretty arse away from the car wreckage and into her passenger seat. Having such a good look at her, she hadn't at all been what I was expecting.

Her husband hadn't exactly had a program on hand to give me a good idea of what she looked like, but with a name like Pretty, I sure as hell was expecting someone pretentious. That she lived up to. I just didn't know she'd be such a knockout.

She fit the Hollywood mold. Classic style, perfect hair, the kind of figure that was hard not to take a second look.

Admittingly, I'd never given myself permission to appreciate many full-figured women before, but at the same time, I'd never given Black women much thought until Cillian married one.

I've faced beatings to last a lifetime with Pa, and I wasn't going to give him another reason to have me end up in a cast. To think, I would have ended up with Queenie had I not been too much for the girl. But I was relieved that she had been a better fit for Cillian.

But back on subject, I likely wouldn't end up with any woman, race had little to do with it. But now that I gave myself permission to, my eyes definitely wandered a bit. I imagine all the possibilities I could have had if I'd been more open to it like Bellamy.

I just didn't have time, nor did I make it for women to be in my life for more than being at the end of my paddle. Courting was a waste of time and women brought anything but peace. And that myth that they loved unconditionally couldn't be furthest from the truth.

Even the best of them couldn't love a man with flaws. And I was a man with many flaws. Falling in love, getting hitched and having kids was just a fantasy to trick people into marriage. It was no longer a goal that felt reachable, so I just stopped reaching. So long as I got to express my degenerate ways from time to time, I was content.

Joining my boss's wife in the driver's seat, seconds from placing the keys in the ignition, I got distracted by the sight of thick thighs, dropping the keys under her feet. Out of reflex, I reached for them, causing her to say through gritted teeth, "Excuse you."

"Oh, you're excused," I challenged back, as she rolled her eyes, resting her face in her hand that was resting on the door's dashboard.

"This has got to be a joke. Ain't no way in hell my husband hired you of all people to watch my child."

"Well, better get used to it, because you're stuck with me for six months," I laughed, happy to be under her skin so soon into meeting her. This was going to be fun.

"I'm gonna have to have a talk with my husband, because he'd have to be insane to hire a man to watch a child," she said out loud, trying to convince herself this wasn't happening.

"Look sweetheart, the only insane thing is the bill you're gonna get for having to reimburse me for this tow and body repair. And just so you know, ain't a thing a man can't do. Which I can't say the same for women."

"Well, a man can't have a child," she countered through squinted eyes.

"You got me there. But what you can't do is turn a boy into a man. You can nurture a boy, but you can't help him become one," I said, shutting her up once again.

For all Oisín's faults, I probably wouldn't have been as tough without him. I fucking hated him. More so when I gave myself time to think about him. But he was gone and had barely any fight left him when he kicked the bucket, so wasn't even worth making space for him in my mind anymore.

"Men say that, then they're barely present. Even when their kids are there right in front of them," she admitted, hinting at some deep seeded resentment she was likely holding onto to weaponize her husband with it later.

"I'm sure your husband would disagree. But I reckon it's why people stay in bad marriages. The kids are literally fucked when the father isn't in the home," I challenged, something she didn't seem to like very much.

"If you're gonna talk the entire time, I'm going to need a list of your qualifications. At minimum list of references."

"Calm down, sweetheart. What I gave your husband was sufficient enough. You should trust him more. He's got your best interest at heart," I said, shooting her a wink that seemed to infuriate her. And I was just getting started.

"My name's not sweetheart , it's Pretty," she corrected. Far as I was concerned, they meant the same thing when it came to her.

"Okay, Pretty ," I overemphasized. "Whatever you need to know, you can ask through your husband. I'm not going to get in the middle of all that marriage bliss bickering. Just know the job your husband hired from me for, I'm more than qualified."

Which wasn't a lie. I was hired to protect her, but I could already see why he couldn't be upfront with her. She was as irritating as a woman could get. It was clear to anyone with eyes that someone wore the pants in that relationship, and it sure as hell wasn't her fucking husband.

It was a good thing the closest mechanic had only been a twenty-minute drive from the accident site. Otherwise I would have blown my brains out by having to argue back and forth with this woman.

She didn't even wait for me to get out the car first when we parked, forcing me to catch up before she could reach the door. "Look," I stopped her, catching her by the side before she could waltz in. "Why don't you let me take the lead on this one? Some things are better to left to a man."

"So just shut up and let you do all the talking?" she said, shooting me a beautiful scowl, that on another woman would have made her less attractive, but even in that frown, she lived up to her name.

"Best thing you said all morning," I joked.

A woman like Pretty was easy to rile up. In fact, doing so with intention actually made it more fun. As we were about to approach a front desk, the disagreeable woman not only cut me off, she took charge, something I had advised her not to do.

"Good afternoon," I started with a fake American accent. "We're in the need of a?—"

"Hi, my name is Pretty Washington, and this is my husband, Patrick Washington. I fear we may have gotten ourselves into a bit of a pickle." I turned to her, surprised. So, I was her husband now?

"What can I do for you two?" The man at the counter turned, initially caught off guard or uncomfortable that the voice that stood before him hadn't been a white woman.

The woman was an entertainer, I just hadn't been expecting the woman I'd been verbally sparring with to become uncharacteristically decent the whole time she was talking.

"I was coming home from a gig, and in a rush to meet my husband. Clearly, he was in a rush as well, wanting to surprise me," she started, giving off this naive and submissive demeanor with each battened eyelash.

Who was this woman, and what had she done with the real Pretty Washington?

"In my effort to get home, surprised to see his car, I might have hit him by accident," she lied, the last detail in her story, but it seemed she'd had more in store to use to her advantage.

"That's too bad, but I'm sure I could give it a look after a tow. Say you was coming home from a gig? You in entertainment or something?" The man questioned.

"Something like that." She shook her head in a ditzy way, knowing damn well it wasn't as small as something like that.

"I see you're a Louis Armstrong fan," she said with a point to the poster on the wall. "He and I go way back. I'm actually a pianist and a singer. I don't like the brag, but I've been in a picture or two."

"Oh yeah," the man's face lit up with recognition. "I thought you maybe looked familiar. I think I saw one of them musicals. Pretty good for a race film. You was playing two pianos at once," he admitted, impressed.

"Guilty as charged," she flirted. "I actually have a screening coming up in a few months. Honey," she turned to me, expecting me not break character. "Haven't we've always been talking about how fortunate we are and how much we want to give back?"

"We've been talking," I nodded, unsure of where she was going with this.

"Have you ever been to a premiere?" She beamed, as I assumed the direction she was about to take.

"Can't say a man like me has?" The man repairman laughed.

"Well, entertainers are nothing without the people filling those seats. Even busy men like you deserve a night out every once in a while. Probably even meet your favorite movie star."

"I couldn't?—"

"It's nothing! We insist," Pretty persisted.

"I'd be honored. I ain't never been to no film premiere before. Where did you say that pickup site was again? I should be able to get that tow here and give you a quote in no time," the flattered ego of their mechanic bragged, before taking down the information.

The moment he left the station, I shot Pretty a look that showed her I was onto her. "What on bloody earth was that?"

"The same energy where that Irish accent went," calling me out. Of all my brothers, I was the only one who could completely turn off the Irish brogue. Bell could tone it down for sure, but I'd served with so many non-Irish Americans, I learned how to imitate the way they spoke, particularly when I didn't want someone to know I was Irish.

Since I paid everything in cash, I didn't always give my real name when I needed a service. Cash typically spoke for me. Even though I didn't want to compare my struggle with a Black man's, there were still a bunch of doors closed to you when you were Irish.

Seeing how my fellow soldiers were treated based on skin color had been a bit of a wakeup call for me, but it didn't take away the fact I got different treatment once people knew. Toning down the accent just gave me instant respect when I travelled for other jobs.

But Jesus, I didn't have shit on a Black woman. Were they always so assertive, or was it just her?

"My accent went where it'd ensure we didn't get cheated because I'm bloody Irish. And the husband thing. So, I'm your husband now?" Not wanting the subject to pass.

"For the record, service workers are more likely to upcharge a single man, than a married couple. The man had shaggy hair, chapped lips, plain style. It was clear a woman's attention would flatter him and a night out some place out of his league would make him feel special. All you have to do is throw in some sob story about romantically rushing home to each other, and he wasn't going to care who was white or Black. He was just grateful to be flattered by a woman who's been in a picture or two." Seeing the immediate change after she'd dropped the whole nice girl act.

"Something tells me you're going to be dangerous," I smirked, "And my name's not Patrick, it's Pádraig. But like I said before, everyone calls me Paddy."

"Well, I will not be calling you Paddy. At best you'll get Mr. Sullivan, but only after I talk to my husband first. But try to remember that my name's not sweetheart. It's Pretty. Even then, you should be referring to me as Mrs. Washington." The attitude on this woman. Can't believe I'm even saying this, but my cock got hard just thinking about her, cooking up an inappropriate situation involving her bottom and my paddle.

She was everything you were taught to not want in a woman. Argumentative. Challenging. Bossy. Assertive. So why did I have to convince my body to calm down when it came to our exchange?

Couldn't imagine the satisfaction a man like me would get putting a woman like that in her place. Thank God this woman was married because the things I would do to her…

"Well, shall we?"