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How did he even find her? Maybe he was there to inform her that, despite the fact her coffee had been iced and filled with cream, it was somehow miraculously hot and he was suing her for third-degree burns. That scenario was much more in line with her current life status.
“I can’t believe . . .” He dragged a hand down his face and glanced around him like he, too, couldn’t fathom the coincidence that he was standing there in front of her. “What are the odds,” he said, still not answering her question.
Mel braced one hand on the door frame and peered out into the hallway as if this was all a joke. Diego’s music still blared, the musician rapping some abominable lyrics about big booty.
In front of her, the man took a step back, as if debating something. Then he dropped his hand from his face and said, “I’m your one o’clock interview.”
A gurgling sound spluttered from her chest, morphing into a chuckle. “Okay. You’re my next interview? Right.”
He laughed good naturedly and glanced to the ground before piercing her once again with eyes the same shade as espresso. “I know this is super weird, but I am.”
Her laughter faded. The joke’s dead, dude.
But he stared at her straight-faced.
“Wait. You’re serious?”
He let out a small laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, almost like he was afraid to admit it. “One hundred percent.”
Mel turned abruptly and headed for the coffee table to her abandoned notebook. Swiping it up, she swiveled around, feeling unsteady on her feet, which she couldn’t blame on the half-glass of wine, but instead, on the presence of the gorgeous hunk of man-flesh at her door.
Settle down, libido.
When she glanced up from her folder, she halted. He’d followed her in.
With a nervous flutter in her stomach, she glanced at her printout of interview candidates. “So, you’re Blake?”
He nodded, his eyes fixed on hers as she tried to regain some measure of composure. “I assumed you were a woman.”
He grinned. “Blake is typically a male name.”
“Blake Lively,” she pointed out.
“It’s one of those names, then. Would you prefer it if I were a woman?”
Was the pope catholic? “Yes.”
He pursed his lips at this. “And why is that?” He crossed his arms over his chest, causing his biceps to swell. She really wished he wouldn’t do that.
“Because . . .” She searched for a reason. Why didn’t she want a male nanny? Because women were traditionally caretakers? Since when was she an advocate for traditional roles? Or was it more that she didn’t trust men?
Alex Trebek’s voice shouted in her head, Ding, ding, ding, that is correct!
“Why would a man wa
nt to take care of children all day?” she asked. “It’s not typical.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Maybe it’s not the norm, but guys can be into kids, too.”
She raised a brow, and he held his hands out in front of him. “Okay, that sounded a little creepy and is definitely not how I meant it. I’m not into children. I just like kids.”
This time, she shot him a double brow raise, and he growled. “Not like that. You know what I mean, but why do I get the impression that anything I say, you’re going to twist it?”
“You’re not making it hard.”
“True.” He pursed his lips. “Do I at least get to sit down for this interview?”
She hesitated, then relented because who was she kidding? Even if she did question the intentions of a thirty-something male who wanted to watch kids for a living, he was the best prospect she had.
