"The Daily Grind" was, as its name unironically suggested, a throbbing hub of Bridgewood City's caffeinated masses, all engaged in their own particular forms of daily attrition. The air was thick with the rich, dark aroma of roasted beans, the murmur of a hundred hushed conversations, and the relentless clatter of fingers on keyboards – the soundtrack to ambition, anxiety, and the desperate pursuit of the next deadline. For Clara, stumbling through its doors with Leo's stroller navigating the tightly packed tables like a tiny, bewildered tank, it felt less like a trendy café and more like a public confessional, the last stop before total surrender.
Maya was already there, a vibrant splash of defiant color in a sea of muted urban greys, perched on a slightly wobbly stool by the window. She'd managed to commandeer a small oasis of relative calm, her signature oversized sunglasses pushed atop her artfully messy curls, a half-empty latte and an expression of sympathetic exasperation already in place. Seeing Clara, her face lit up with the kind of genuine, all-encompassing warmth that could almost make one forget the impending doom of their circumstances. Almost.
"There she is!" Maya declared, her voice a cheerful counterpoint to the café's general hum. "Our lady of perpetual deadlines and diminutive dictators! You look… creatively disheveled. It's a vibe." She air-kissed Clara, then immediately cooed at Leo, who, having decided the stroller was a mobile prison, was making his displeasure known with a series of low, rumbling growls that sounded suspiciously like a tiny, disgruntled bear.
"He's channeling his inner critic," Clara sighed, unstrapping Leo and settling him onto her lap with a biscuit that would hopefully buy her at least seven minutes of peace. "And 'creatively disheveled' is a very kind euphemism for 'human dumpster fire.' You have no idea, May."
"Oh, I think I have some idea," Maya said, gesturing for the barista. "Olivia's call was… illuminating. Something about Tasmania, manifesting, and the distinct possibility of you sacrificing small woodland creatures to the Nanny Gods?" She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Double espresso for my friend here, and make it intravenously if possible."
Clara managed a weak smile. "Bless your cotton socks, Maya. Olivia means well, but her brand of Zen is currently incompatible with my brand of Category Five Panic."
And then it all came tumbling out – the nanny's abrupt departure to the land of actual devils1, the Aura Bloom campaign's Monday guillotine, the soul-destroying trawl through childcare agencies that apparently only catered to billionaires or those willing to trade a kidney for three hours of sporadic babysitting. She painted a vivid, desperate picture of her predicament, her voice tight with unshed tears and sheer, unadulterated frustration, Leo occasionally interjecting with a well-timed sigh or a fistful of biscuit slammed onto the table for emphasis.
Maya listened, her expression shifting from amusement to genuine concern, nodding, her eyes never leaving Clara's. She was that rare, precious kind of friend who understood that sometimes the best solution was simply to let the storm rage until it exhausted itself.
When Clara finally wound down, her voice hoarse, her coffee a lukewarm memory, Maya leaned forward, her gaze intense.
"Okay," she said, her tone surprisingly practical. "So, traditional avenues are a bust. Agencies are out. Family is… Olivia. You need a miracle, babe. Or something so batshit crazy it might just work."
Clara snorted. "At this point, I'd consider selling my soul to a particularly well-organized imp if it came with decent childcare references."
Maya's lips curved into a slow, mischievous smile that made Clara instantly uneasy. It was the smile Maya deployed right before suggesting something utterly outrageous, like dyeing their hair blue before a job interview or attempting to bake a croquembouche after three bottles of wine.
"Well, speaking of impeccably organized imps…" Maya began, her eyes twinkling with a dangerous light. "What about him?"
"Him who?" Clara asked, wary.
"Him. Your neighbor. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Arrogant. The architect with the cheekbones that could slice a lemon and the personality of a particularly judgmental spreadsheet. Ethan."
Clara stared at her. "Ethan?" she repeated, the name tasting like ash and expensive cologne in her mouth. "Are you actually insane? He practically recoils if Leo so much as breathes in his general direction. He offered me 'systematic approaches' to Leo's meltdown yesterday like he was critiquing a faulty HVAC system. He thinks I'm a public health hazard."
"Exactly!" Maya said, undeterred, tapping a perfectly manicured nail on the table. "He's uptight. You're… gloriously not. He clearly needs something – men like that, all controlled ambition and bespoke suits, they always need something they can't quite admit. Maybe he needs to look less like a robot for that career thingy Olivia mentioned he was obsessed with? His 'Partnership Gala' perhaps?"
Clara blinked. "How do you…?"
"Olivia babbles when she's stressed about you," Maya waved a dismissive hand. "Details, details. The point is, he's got a need. You've got a need. You live across the hall from each other. You have a cute baby as a bargaining chip. It's like… a really screwed-up, modern-day rom-com waiting to happen! He looks after Leo, you… I don't know… pretend to be his adoring, non-chaotic girlfriend at some stuffy work thing so he looks like a well-rounded human being for five minutes?"
Clara gaped at her, speechless. The sheer, unmitigated audacity of the suggestion was breathtaking. Ethan. Entrusting Leo to Ethan, the man who probably disinfected his hands after touching a doorknob? Having to pretend to adore him? It was beyond ludicrous. It was… offensive.
"Maya," she finally managed, her voice a strangled whisper. "That is, without a shadow of a doubt, the single most certifiably insane idea you have ever had. And that includes the time you suggested we start an alpaca farm in my one-bedroom apartment."
"Hey, alpacas are very calming!" Maya grinned, unrepentant. "Look, I know it sounds crazy. But you're desperate. He's probably desperate in his own stiff-upper-lip, emotionally constipated way. Think about it – the universe keeps throwing you two together in these hilariously awkward encounters. Maybe it's a sign!"
"It's a sign I need to move," Clara muttered, shaking her head vehemently. "Or invest in a hazmat suit every time I leave my apartment. No. Absolutely, categorically, not. I would rather personally knit a thousand organic cotton nappies while simultaneously yodeling the entire works of Wagner than enter into any kind of 'arrangement' with that man."
She shuddered, the very thought sending a wave of revulsion, mixed with an unwelcome, inexplicable flicker of… something else, something hot and unsettlingly curious, through her. She squashed it immediately.
Maya sighed, picking up her latte. "Okay, okay. Just a thought. A wild, probably terrible, but undeniably intriguing thought." She winked. "But hey, if Mr. Darcy over there suddenly needs a fake fiancée to inherit a dukedom and offers childcare in return, you know who to call."
Clara laughed despite herself, a shaky, exhausted sound. The idea was still preposterous, an insult to sanity.
Yet, as she gathered Leo, preparing to face the bleak reality of her dwindling options once more, a tiny, insidious seed of Maya's outrageous suggestion, watered by the sheer, overwhelming force of her desperation, lodged itself in the darkest, most rebellious corner of her mind. It was a weed, she told herself. A noxious, ridiculous weed.
She would uproot it. Definitely. Right after she'd exhausted every other conceivable, and inconceivable, option on planet Earth.