The Nanny

—◊—

I told myself I wouldn’t be nervous.

They can’t actually see me, so why is my heart pounding so hard?

I adjust my camera for the fourth time, checking the angle before I assess my outfit again. It’s a cute bra, and the underwear match—what comes next is nothing that I haven’t done a thousand times before.

It’s just that now, I’ll be doing it for unseen viewers for pay.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I need the money. That it’s my body, and I’m taking ownership of it. Everything that I do from this point onward is my choice, and I’m in complete control.

That thought makes me feel brave.

I take a deep breath. I check my wig. I adjust my mask.

I can do this.

I start the camera.

—◊—

I’m going to be homeless.”

I hear Wanda clucking her tongue all the way from her kitchen (which, incidentally, isn’t that far away in a seven-hundred-square-foot apartment), and when I raise my face from the aged velvet of her couch, I can see her shaking a spatula at me. “No pity parties,” she tells me. “You aren’t gonna be homeless. You can take the couch if need be.”

I make a face at the aforementioned velvet couch, glancing from it to the pile of newspapers at the end of it to the television that defies time by refusing to die inside its wooden shell. “I couldn’t . . . impose,” I say tentatively, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “I’ll figure something out.”

In my third year of grad school for occupational therapy—losing my job as a therapy assistant at the children’s hospital was not part of the plan. I’ve barely been making rent with the salary they were giving me, and now that they’ve had to downsize, my even tinier apartment across the hall from Wanda’s place is looking more and more like it will be a thing of the past very soon.

“Nonsense,” Wanda argues. “You know you’re welcome here.”

I blow one auburn curl away from my face, pushing up from the couch cushions to a sitting position. I’ve known Wanda Simmons for about six years now; I met her when she invited me in for tea after I locked myself out of the apartment my first week here. A seventy-two-year-old woman as my best friend wasn’t exactly on my list of things to accomplish here, but she might be more interesting than I am, so I guess there’s that.

“Wanda,” I sigh. “I love you. You know that, but . . . you have one bathroom and no Wi-Fi. It would never work out between us.”

“It’s the age difference, isn’t it,” she pouts.

“Absolutely not. You will always be the only woman for me.”

“I’m just saying. The option is there.”

“And what are you going to do when you bring home your bingo men, and I’m sitting here on your couch?”

“Oh, we won’t bother you. We’ll go to the bedroom.”

I grimace. “I am all for you getting yours, but I absolutely don’t want to be on the other side of these very thin walls for it.”

Wanda chuckles as she stirs the sauce for her meatballs. “You could always go back to doing those booby cams.”

I groan. “Please don’t call them booby cams.”

“What? It’s a camera. You show your boobies. You get paid.”

I let my face fall back against her couch. I sort of regret telling Wanda about my . . . history with OnlyFans, but I hadn’t quite anticipated that she would be able to handle her tequila better than I did the night I bared it all. Not that I’m ashamed of it, by any means. It was good money. Taking cash from people looking to get their rocks off was an easy decision when faced with a looming tuition bill that I couldn’t begin to pay for otherwise. I mean, good tits should really earn their keep. I think Margaret Thatcher said that once.

“You know I can’t,” I sigh. “I deleted my whole account. All my subs are gone. It would take me another two years to build them back up.”

Besides, I learned my lesson the first time around. At least I kept that part to myself.

“Then what are you going to do? Have you been looking for another job?”

“Trying to,” I grumble, scrolling through the same help wanted ads on my phone that have mostly not panned out. “Why put out help wanted ads if they aren’t going to get back with you?”

“Too many people in this city,” Wanda tuts. “You know, when I moved here, you could actually walk down the street and recognize folks. Now it’s like a beehive out there. Always buzzing. Did you know they have a damned grocery store you don’t even use your card in? Just walk in and walk out. Thought I was stealing the whole time. ’Bout gave me heart palpitations.”

“Yes, we talked about the new Fresh store, remember? I helped you set up your account.”

“Oh, yeah. Next thing you know, they’ll be flying groceries right to your door.”

“Wanda, I hate to break it to you, but they already are.”

“No kidding? Hmm. You should set that up too. Save me a damned walk.”

“I guess you’re not so opposed to the future after all.”

“Yeah, yeah. What about the diner on Fifth?”

“They won’t let me off for my on-campus labs.”

“You know, Sal was saying he could use some help with—”

“I am not working at the deli,” I tell her firmly. “Sal is too handsy.”

“I always sort of liked that about him,” Wanda laughs.

“Aren’t you too old to be this horny?”

“I’m old, Cassie,” she snorts. “Not dead.”

“Seriously, I don’t know what I am going to do,” I groan.

“Check the ads again. Maybe you missed something.”

“I’ve checked them a dozen times,” I huff.

Wanda is still grousing at me from the kitchen as I pore over the help wanted section again regardless, thinking that if I scan it enough times, some miracle ad will jump out at me that I didn’t notice before. How can it be so hard to find a job that will let me do my schoolwork at night and be off every other weekend for my on-campus courses? I mean, this is San Diego, not Santa Barbara. There’s got to be something that I can—

“Oh, shit,” I say suddenly.

Wanda steps out of the kitchen, spatula in hand. “What?”

“Wanted: full-time live-in nanny position. Experience with children is a must. Free room and board. Serious inquiries only.”

Wanda humphs. “You don’t want to be stuck taking care of someone else’s—”

“Entry salary . . . Holy shit.”

“Is it good?”

I look up at Wanda with an open mouth, and when I tell her what they’re offering, Wanda says a word she usually only reserves for when the Lakers lose. She blows out a breath afterward, patting at her neat white curls in that flustered way of hers. “I guess you’d best be calling them then.”

—

Ihadn’t expected Aiden Reid to get back to me as quickly as he did after I emailed him, and I certainly hadn’t expected him to seem so eager, in setting a date for an interview. And speaking of date, I definitely hadn’t expected him to ask me to meet him at one of the poshest restaurants in the city—one I cannot afford to eat at and one that I am pretty sure I am too underdressed to even be in. Is this how rich people hold interviews? I doubt Sal at the diner would be treating me to a five-star restaurant to get me to slice turkey for him while he accidentally brushes his hand across my ass.

Still, I’ve put on my favorite black sheath dress, the one that I wore to my college graduation, and I hope it makes me seem a lot more put together than I feel right now. Since I am now under the suspicion that the family I am trying to nanny for is more well-off than I first thought, I’m thinking a little false confidence will do me a world of good.

I mean, I love kids. And I learned working at the children’s hospital that they’re the target demographic of my terrible jokes, so that’s a plus. Besides, the entire reason that I am pursuing a career in occupational therapy is to try to be that person who is there for children when no one else seems to be—so with that in mind, this job should be a piece of cake, right?

That’s what I keep telling myself.

I swear the hostess can smell my vanilla body spray from Target, and she somehow knows this means I can’t afford the appetizers here, but she pastes on a smile, much to her credit, and leads me to a table after I give her my would-be employer’s name. Is this what it feels like to have pull? I take a seat in the silk-covered chair, feeling like a fish out of water amid the lit candles and the elegant music. Hell, I’m afraid to put my elbows on the table.

A waiter comes by to ask if I want to start with any appetizers, and since the hostess with the judgy eyes was absolutely right—I ask for water instead while I wait. I sip it as I wait for this Aiden guy to show up (seems kind of rude to be late to your own interview), trying to look like I totally eat at places like this all the time.

The restaurant itself is the nicest I’ve ever been in. I’ve never seen so many crystal centerpieces in my entire life, and Wanda would lose her shit if she saw the prices on the menu. I can’t wait to tell her later and watch her eyes bug out of her head.

“Excuse me,” someone says.

The deep voice murmured so closely to my ear nearly makes me choke on my water, a bit dribbling over my bottom lip and down my chin as I cough through it. I press the back of my hand there to try to wipe it away, noticing big hands in my now-blurred vision as a face comes into view.

Holy. Hell.

My brain short-circuits for a few seconds, trying to make sense of the sudden appearance of a large man with thick chestnut hair that’s pushed away from his forehead and strong jaw and stronger cheekbones, and is his mouth softer looking than mine? He’s tall too. Not the sort of tall that makes you think he plays basketball or something (although he totally could, if he wanted to), but the kind of tall that makes you want to ask him to grab something off the top shelf for you just so you can watch the way his shoulders move under his shirt. I realize this thought process makes little sense, but all I know is I am five seven with tits worth paying for, an ass built on squats and an emotional connection with bread, and this man makes me feel tiny.

And if these things aren’t enough to leave me dumbfounded (which I am, I mean, I’m literally drooling sparkling water)—his eyes would do the trick. I’ve heard of heterochromia; at the very least I’m pretty sure my biology professor mentioned it in passing when I was an undergrad, but I have never actually seen it in person. His eyes are a clash of one brown and one green, the colors not bright but subtle, like warm tea and seawater that are hard to look away from.

I realize that this is exactly what I’m doing. Staring at the poor guy.

“I’m sorry,” I sputter. “Sort of caught me off guard.”

I grab the napkin to start patting at my chin, noticing now that the man is wearing a white chef coat with a matching apron tied around his waist.

“Oh,” I start again. “I wasn’t going to order anything yet, I was waiting for someone.”

“Right.” He flashes a row of perfect teeth that my orthodontist would be ecstatic over, looking almost like he regrets having walked up to the table. Or maybe I’m projecting. “I think you’re waiting for me. Are you Cassie?”

“I—” Oh no. No, no, no. I did not spit water all over myself in front of the guy I’m trying to get to hire me. “Are you Mr. Reid?”

He makes a face. “Aiden, please. Mr. Reid makes me feel old.”

Which he isn’t. I don’t think. I mean, he’s older than me but not old. He can’t be any older than thirty, I’d wager. I’m still sort of gawking at him. “Right,” I say, trying to collect myself as I push away from the table and extend my hand awkwardly. “I’m Cassie. Cassie Evans.”

His mouth quirks at my extended hand, making me immediately regret holding it out like I’m doing an off-Broadway rendition of the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, but there’s no taking it back now. He shakes it in what I can only assume is an attempt to be nice, gesturing back to my seat and waiting for me to sit before he takes the one across from me.

I clear my throat, trying to forget that a minute ago I almost spit water on the hottest man alive who I very much want to pay me a ridiculous amount of money to watch his kid. His kid, I remind myself. This is a job interview. Which makes it totally inappropriate that I’m still thinking about his massive hands. Hands that my hindbrain actually notices aren’t sporting a ring of any kind.

Cut it out, brain.

I should stop staring at his hands, in any case. Even if they are large enough to make a girl mentally calculate when her last date was.

“So,” I try awkwardly. “You’re a cook.” I groan, instantly regretting my choice of words. “Sorry. I mean a chef. You’re a chef. Right?”

Miraculously, he doesn’t call to have me removed but smiles instead. “Yeah. I cook here.”

Oh, bless him for humoring me.

“That’s . . . awesome. Really awesome.” I nod appreciatively as I glance around us at the glittering chandeliers and the piano player somewhere behind us. “It’s a snazzy place.”

“It is,” he agrees. “I’ve been the executive chef here for a few years now.”

“No kidding? Fancy.”

“Fancy,” he echoes, looking amused. “Right. Sorry to ask you to meet me at work. I’ve been, ah . . . well. It’s been crazy lately.”

“It’s no big deal. I thought it was weird to do one of these things over dinner, especially at a place like this, but I figured . . .” It might have been nice if it had dawned on me before I had started sputtering my nonsense, but nevertheless, it does hit me. The implications of what he’s said. My mouth snaps shut as heat floods my face, and I duck with embarrassment as I cover my eyes. “Oh my God. This isn’t a dinner interview. You wanted to talk to me on your break.”

“I should have . . . been more clear in my email.”

Oh God. He’s trying to defend me. Someone bury me.

“I’m unbelievable.”

“No, no,” he tries. “It’s fine.”

“God, I’m an idiot. I wore this dumb dress, and—”

“It’s a very nice dress.”

“You probably think I’m bonkers—”

“Really, I don’t.”

“I can be so dense sometimes, I’m sorry.”

He still looks amused. Like he’s finding my mental breakdown funny. I don’t know if that makes things better or worse.

“You can order something,” he offers. “If you want. I don’t mind.”

“Um, thank you, but I might need to go throw up now. I should see myself out, right? This is already a disaster.”

“Wait, no.” He holds out a hand as I move to stand. “Don’t do that.”

I stop trying to slink away. Surely he can’t still be considering me, can he? Maybe he’s bonkers too. “You still want to interview me?”

“To be honest,” he sighs, “no one has applied with anything near your credentials. CPR training, a bachelor’s in occupational therapy with a minor in psychology? I mean, your last job was at a children’s hospital. And they had nothing but good things to say about you there when I checked your references. It almost sounded like they hated to let you go.”

“Yeah, I was pretty bummed when they did,” I admit. “There was a funding issue, unfortunately. I loved the work.”

“Well,” he laughs, “I’m hoping their loss is my gain. I couldn’t believe it when you sent me your résumé.”

“But now that you’ve met me, you’re beginning to think I forged it, right?”

He sort of laughs, his mouth barely opening as he casts his eyes down at the table, like he’s afraid of making me think he’s laughing at me, which would be well within his rights, considering this awful first meeting.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think you forged it. Though, I am curious why you’re looking at a nanny position with your background?”

I sink back down into my chair, heaving a sigh as I lean over the table. “Can I be totally honest with you?”

“I’d prefer it,” he says, leaning in and looking intrigued.

“I’m in my last year of the graduate program for OT, and like I said in my email, I got let go from my job due to downsizing. Rent in this city is ridiculous, and honestly, I need the money. And even more honestly, the free room and board isn’t anything to turn my nose up at either. It would be great to not have to worry about that on top of everything else.”

“Right. About that.” He frowns then, and I assume this is the part where he tells me that he actually can’t allow a spitting lunatic like me anywhere near his kid. “It is a live-in position, but full disclosure . . . it’s just me and my daughter. You would have your own room, of course, practically your own floor, even—full privacy, and all that, but . . . I want to be completely transparent with you in case that makes you uncomfortable.”

Twenty-five years old, and the first time I live with a good-looking guy is in a full-on Uptown Girls scenario. I’m dying to ask about the other parent in this situation, if only to squash my mental drooling, but my brain is screaming that this is the wrong move. Still, he’s got a good job and a nice smile and doesn’t give me total murderer vibes.

I paste on my most professional smile. “I don’t think that will be a problem. However, in the spirit of being transparent . . . I’m in a hybrid program at St. Augustine’s over in San Marcos.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that most of my coursework is online, which I have been taking care of at night after work, but two weekends a month I have to attend on-campus classes. It takes longer than the usual program, but since I’ve been paying my own way, it makes working easier. Most of the jobs I have been applying to haven’t been able to work with me on my schedule, though, which is sort of a deal breaker.” I chuff a laugh. “It seems that you’re the only one who thinks my credentials are impressive. Diners, dives, and department stores? Not so much.”

Aiden frowns, thinking. “I won’t pretend that I get home at a reasonable hour every night. My job is stressful—that’s actually an understatement. My job is a nightmare sometimes. I have most mornings off, and sometimes I don’t have to go in until the afternoons . . . but my nights can get late. Do you think it would be a problem? Sophie normally gets into bed by nine. I’m sure that as long as she’s fed and ready for bed, you could work on your schoolwork.”

“Sophie? Your daughter?”

Aiden smiles a new kind of smile, one that feels warm and proud, but it clashes with the flash of sadness that sparks in his eyes. “Yes. She’s . . . really great. She’s nine, but she seems so much older than that. She’s too damned smart for her own good.”

“Little girls usually are,” I laugh, thinking of myself. “And the weekends that I have school? I could be home by late afternoon. So I can still cover dinner, surely.”

Aiden considers this. “I can make it work. I mean, I have so far, anyway. If worse comes to worst, maybe you could pick her up here on those days? She could play her little game system in the office while she waits. She’s, ah, used to that by now, unfortunately.”

“And your daughter? Is she okay with all of this? The nanny situation?”

Aiden nods thoughtfully. “She’s had them before. None have really . . . fit though. I . . . Can I be honest with you again?”

“I prefer it,” I tell him, echoing his earlier sentiment.

Aiden laughs again, and I determine that I am going to have to make it a point not to make him laugh very often for my own sanity’s sake, if I’m going to be living with him. It’s a very nice laugh, okay? “I just . . . I need some help, Cassie, if I’m being blunt. I’m doing this all alone, and it’s much harder than I thought it would be. Or maybe it’s exactly as hard as I thought it would be. I don’t know. Sophie can be very . . . strong willed, and that’s made it difficult to find someone who is willing to stick around. I’ve been looking for a replacement for the last nanny for weeks, because I wanted to find the best fit for Sophie, and absolutely no one has applied for the job that has been half as qualified as you. It’s been weeks of juggling schedules, and at this point, I’m desperate.”

“That’s . . . very honest.”

“You can run away screaming at any time.”

Strangely, I have no desire to do that. Something about this tired-sounding man with his pretty eyes and his stomach-fluttering laugh makes it kind of hard to say no to him. Not to mention, there is still the ridiculous amount of money he’s offering.

“So, how would this go? If I say yes.”

“Well, I’d love for you to start as soon as you can,” he tells me. “Maybe you could come by this Saturday? I could introduce you to Sophie and show you the house. Where you’d be staying and all that . . . If you take the job, that is.”

I’d be silly not to, right? I mean, when is anything else this good going to come along? Sure, it’s daunting, the idea of being directly responsible for someone’s kid, not to mention living in their house . . . especially this guy’s house . . . Still. I don’t think it’s an offer I can actually afford to refuse in my position.

“Okay.”

I nod down at the table as I come to a decision, meeting Aiden’s eyes and once again sticking out my hand across the space in a thoughtless way that I immediately regret.

Seriously, why do I keep doing that?

Thankfully, Aiden sighs with relief, taking my hand again and enveloping it in his much larger one. “So you want the job?”

“As long as you want me,” I say with what I hope is confidence.

I try not to think about the way his eyes widen with my weird phrasing; it won’t do to regret my nervous word vomit now. Thank God he’s so desperate.

And I’m definitely not thinking about how his hand swallows mine.