Linda Robertson's Urban Fantasy.
The keys were upstairs on the dresser. Seventy-eight steps. Seventy-eight steps from the foyer to the master bedroom and back. Seventy-eight opportunities for one of the babies to hear the slightest disturbance in the force and scream his puddin' head off.
Then his brother would hear. And his other brother. And the other. And the other. Then the unholy choir would sound and the babysitter would bolt. Ears bleeding.
She could do this.
Thirty-nine steps one way. Five bedroom doors. Stealthy like a ninja. Like a ninja wearing thigh-high leather boots that creaked every time she bent her knees. Bending one's knees was a requirement for climbing stairs. Forty-five minutes to lace them up meant she couldn't just whip them off. Five-inch heels made her ass look great, but the ruckus they made on the steps would sound like the Charge of the Heavy Brigade.
They were just babies. She was a grown ass woman. With keys on the dresser. Keys that stood between her and an epic date night.
"Wish me luck, hon. I'm going up."