Halftime Husband (Sassy in the City 5)

“Duh, Dakota,” I murmured out loud.

Of course it did. That’s what he was.

I had assured him everything was fine and that was that. We were just a boss and a nanny.

But then the next morning I got a text from the front desk downstairs at nine. The buzzing from the notification woke me up.

Mr. Macnamara has a delivery. It’s being brought to your door now.

“Oh, great,” I groaned, throwing back the covers. I was disheveled, wearing a tank top with no bra and pj shorts. Running my hand through my hair, I got to the living room right as the doorbell rang.

I yanked it open because I didn’t want the continued ringing to wake up the girls.

The doorman’s eyes widened. He looked at my chest and then quickly looked away. He was around my age. “Oh, hi, sorry to disturb you, Miss Tanner. Mr. Macnamara wanted these delivered to you this morning.”

“Thank you.” I reached out and took the pink box, curious. I instantly knew what it was. Donuts. I could smell them and the label was a well-known donut shop. I bit my lip so I didn’t grin too broadly in front of the doorman.

“Have a nice day.”

“You, too.” After I closed the door it occurred to me maybe I was supposed to tip the doorman. I wasn’t familiar with buildings like this and what was considered appropriate. I would have to ask Brandon.

There was an envelope attached to the top.

I opened it.

Since you hate mornings, maybe this will help.

-B

That would be my heart squeezing in my chest. Why did he have to be sweet? He was that guy. The one who claimed not to enjoy things, was a workaholic, rolled his eyes constantly, yet at the end of the day was considerate, kind, and generous. The jerk. If I fell head over ass in love with him, it was completely his fault. I refused to accept any responsibility.

Ditto for if I suddenly went up two clothing sizes. That was on him.

I opened the box and debated which donut I wanted. They were elaborate creations, some with cereal on top, another with what looked like a s’more stacked on it. I was reaching for a simpler starter donut with pink icing when I heard a voice.

“Can I have one?”

For whatever reason, I jumped. It was just Poppy, but I wasn’t used to having a child sneak up on me before I’d had coffee. “Oh, hi. Good morning. Yes, of course you can have one. Your dad sent these for us to share.” Presumably.

Poppy looked like I felt. Strung out. Her hair was a snarled mess going in six different directions and she still had a pillow crease on her cheek. She was bleary-eyed and scowling. I had a mild panic attack at the thought of trying to herd her out on the door on weekdays for school.

She picked the gooiest donut out of the box and bit it aggressively. “What time is it?” she asked around a mouthful of fried dough.

“Nine something.”

“That’s ludicrous,” she said.

I tried not to laugh. She was the oddest mix of youthful exuberance and grumpy middle-aged man. Hmm. Wonder where she got that from.

“I need to make some coffee. Sit down and eat that monster at the breakfast bar.” I headed toward the kitchen. “Though it will be a miracle if I can figure out how the coffee machine works. I don’t think I’m smart enough to live in a smart home.” Everything required an intuitiveness I didn’t have. Or maybe I was just used to dumpy apartments.

“I think it actually tells you what to do,” Poppy said, pulling out a chair with a scraping noise that grated on my nerves.

“So a voice is like ‘hey, dummy, here’s how you make coffee’?”

“No. I think all the buttons light up and there are words on them.”

“Oh, okay.” I approached the machine with caution. It looked like it belonged in an indie coffee shop. One with a name like The Wet Bean or something. It was huge, with steamers and cranks and buttons galore. I did figure out the power button. I hit it and Poppy proved correct. You just read the button to indicate latte, espresso, etc.