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How can I competently do that when those fucking eyes of his are all earnest and attentive and ugh?

I have to be strong.

I have to be able to tell him something, because the seconds keep ticking by and it’s getting kind of ridiculous by now.

“Therapy.” I finally get the word out, though it’s more of a choked croak, but I’ll take it.

“Yes, she told me you might need an extra hour every other day for that. I’m hoping you can do that during the hours the boys will be at daycare? And I really hate to be this dude, but if there’s a reason why your mental health could impact your ability to take care of the boys, I would want to know. Always.”

He’s not saying . . .

Holy shit, he’s not saying he won’t give me the job because I go to therapy. Is he saying he’s going to give me time off if I have a bad day?

I must be making some kind of face because he sits up, his eyes open even wider—really not helping with the puppy comparison—and he honest-to-god starts to ramble.

“Your resumé’s freaking impressive, and the letters of recommendation from your professors and the parents at your previous job? Phew,” he breathes out, obviously impressed. “They adored you. I promise I’m not doubting your ability or professionalism, it’s just that⁠—”

I hold up my hand, and miracle of miracles, he actually shuts up.

Either he’s been conditioned to act a certain way toward men who are even slightly older than him—and I mean clinically conditioned in a lab—or Tucker Barclay is truly nothing like what I thought he’d be.

I’m scared either way.

Maybe that’s a good thing?

A sign that I’m getting my survival instincts back?

That would certainly classify as good news, at least in my book.

I have to shake my head to stop thinking so many stupid things, and get my thoughts back to what actually matters.

“They’re your brothers and your responsibility, Mr. Barclay⁠—”

“Please call me Tucker, or Tuck,” he practically begs.

I nod shortly.

“Tucker. It’s not only understandable that you’d ask, but it’s also absolutely your right and, I believe, the right thing to do. My therapist has encouraged me to find work. She knows what I do, and I believe there’s no reason why I wouldn’t be able to take care of the boys.”

Why the flying fuck am I even saying any of this? Aren’t I supposed to be botching this interview?

My mouth continues to move despite everything.

“My psychiatrist also believes I’m capable of working.” I suck in a deep breath, which is the only sign that I’m in any way hesitating to speak at all. “Officially, I have generalized anxiety, and take medication for it only during a crisis. With that said, I can absolutely get you letters from both of them that will state that I’m mentally stable enough to work as the boys’ nanny.”

After my little speech, there’s only silence, briefly broken by the squeaking sounds the boys’ markers are making on the pages of their books.

Then, horror.

A truly breathtaking, teasing smile pulls at Tucker’s cheeks, and if I’m not mistaken, I see a dimple.

Because why wouldn’t this perfect specimen be more endearing than any man has any right to be and also have dimples?

No, it has to be a trick of the light. Thanks to his beard, maybe?

“Manny.”

All the cogs in my brain grind to a halt.