CHAPTER ONE

Reva

When will this week be over?

My final appeal to the credit agency has just been rejected. I can’t sleep on Angela’s couch forever, even when she’s more than understanding of my shitty situation. Then again, she’s my best friend—so she’s obligated to tell me I’m welcome to stay. For all I know, she probably can’t wait for me to get out of her hair. I can’t blame her. Here I am, a grown woman shacking up on my best friend’s couch. I’m so over it.

So much for the plans and dreams I worked so hard for. Said plans included learning everything from the charter school director, whom I’d hoped would become my mentor. I was ready to work my way toward opening a state of the art learning center for children and young adults with special needs. Growing up with a little brother with learning disabilities opened my eyes to the lack of resources for kids like him. It angered me to no end.

It’s been my dream since childhood to find a solution to the problem, but that all went to hell with my credit. It was bad enough that I was laid off from my first teaching job, due to county budgeting cuts. The less tenured teachers were the first to go. Now, I have tens of thousands of dollars in debt.

Then, there’s my ex-boyfriend Danny, whom I foolishly trusted to be an authorized user on my one credit card. I intended to help him build his credit, as he used it for basic necessities, like picking up groceries or toiletries. What I didn’t expect was for him to spend my money on an Xbox or pay for his car’s pricey new rims, amongst other things. I guess I should’ve been more specific considering the lack of common sense he was born with.

It really doesn’t matter whose fault it was at this point. My credit is trashed. There’s no way to get the debt cleared or salvage my credit history. All I can do is get a decent job and pay off the balance. I’m good with kids, so I list my resume with a nanny agency. My best friend, Angela, is letting me stay with her for a while, but I can’t hide in her apartment and feel sorry for myself. I’ve already done enough of that and it’s time for me to move the hell on. After weeks of sending my resume to job postings online, I eagerly respond to the first interview that came my way.

The Uber brought me to the address I was given, but I’m convinced there’s been a mistake. It’s not a house. It’s a business, and one that looks rather uninviting. Carter Security is the name of the institution, with its tiny spheres suspended from the overhang that are either surveillance cameras or something that shoots lasers. I wish I was joking but the exterior of this place adds even more to my nerves. I’m not ruling out the idea that I’ll be zapped with a laser if I buzz in at the camera and the person on the other end doesn’t like my presence. Perhaps they vaporize unpleasant clients?

Breathe deep woman. You’ll give yourself a heart attack and you haven’t even begun the interview.

I have to make myself stand up straight, although what I really want to do is turn my behind around and leave this place. My best friend’s couch doesn’t look so bad from where I’m standing. I take a deep breath, press the buzzer, and force a smile. The screen blazes to life, and a woman’s face appears.

“Yes?” she asks.

“Hi, I’m Reva Sloan. I have an appointment for an interview with Mr. Carter about the nanny position. Am I in the right place?”

I hope my smile is friendly enough for her to not laser me into outer space something. I hear the buzzer and the roll of lock tumblers. A small sigh of relief escapes me as I’m accepted in.

The lobby is every bit as appealing as the gray citadel exterior, which is to say it looks about as appealing as an IRS audit. I stand and grip my manila folder encasing my resume and references. I don’t feel like sitting down in one of the black plastic chairs that appear pretty uncomfortable. There’s no elevator music playing, nor artwork on the walls. There are various shades of gray on the carpet, and the walls are complimented by one white door leading to the rest of the mysterious building. I feel a shiver at the thought of being led down some long, gray hallway to nowhere.

The agency rep said this was a full-time position for one child, with a generous salary and benefits. They said nothing about the creepy as hell building resembling an intake facility for a sketchy government experiment.

“Enter,” said an almost robotic voice over an intercom. The rolling sound of another lock tumbler indicated the release of the door, as if awaiting me to open it. The long antiseptic hallway was filled with cold air and akin to a medical lab.

Stop freaking out. Stop freaking out. Stop freaking out.

Then, as I finally manage to slow down my heart’s pace, a breathtaking man steps into the hallway, giving me a whole new reason to hyperventilate.

I’ve never seen anything like him. My cheeks heat and my heart pounds. I lick my lips, and give an involuntary smile. My entire body seems to react to him. He’s gorgeous. Tall, broad shouldered, and dark military-trimmed hair. Then, those eyes so bright blue they remind me of fire of the hottest flames. My palms start to sweat. I swear it’s like I’m fourteen and just met my first cute boy. Except he is no boy; he’s a man. Anyone who looks at him can see he’s dangerous—the power in his muscular body and his blue eyes. Can a girl be both nervous and excited at once?

It’s possible that the most sophisticated surveillance equipment in this place is standing before me—because I feel as though he can see right through my clothes, right into me. My skin, and even beneath that, my secrets.

I make myself walk, and extend my hand to shake his. He doesn’t take it. I awkwardly put it back down. He nods and directs me to enter the office. I wouldn’t mind being directed by him to do all types of naughty things in his office.

I blush at my bold thoughts, and as I walk by him, I feel the brush of my sleeve across his shirt. The contact is electric. I wonder what it would feel like if he tried to touch my skin. I breathe hard, sinking into a chair before I collapse.

“Ms. Sloan, before we begin, you must complete this questionnaire.” His curt voice commands.

“Okay. I can do that.”

Anything for you.

He doesn’t introduce himself. He just hands me an iPad and sits down behind his desk. The office is also gray and spare with a laptop and a cell phone being the only item on the pristine glass desk surface. I glance at the screen and see a long list of questions, choose my answers as swiftly as I can, aware of the consuming weight of his gaze. He isn’t even pretending to work while I finish.

What’s with this guy?

He’s watching me, weighing my every expression and choice. I need a glass of water and possibly a nerve pill seeing how my leg starts the slightest tremble. He’s making me jumpy, restless. He’s too gorgeous and I’ve already become a little irritated by time. I feel my skin heat. I keep uncrossing and re-crossing my legs, nearly dropping the tablet twice. When I’m finished, I pass the tablet to him. He scans my results with a nod.

“That’s unexpected. I rather anticipated that the applicants would all be Guardians. You tested out as an Idealist, subtype Counselor.”

“What?”

“The Keirsey Scale. Standard personality profile test,” he says, setting the tablet aside. Your result is suitable.”

“Okay,” I say, wondering if I’m being interviewed for some CIA security clearance or just a nanny job.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I intended to hire someone oriented to protect and safeguard my child. A Guardian with a Protector designation would be ideal. But your result does not disqualify you. Your temperament subtype is keyed to the welfare of others, which is acceptable for a nanny in this situation.”

“Is this an unusual situation? I was under the impression that you needed residential care for a school-aged child. Does she have special needs? Educationally or health-wise?”

“No. However, there are other issues in play that complicate the current circumstance,” he says, clarifying absolutely nothing for me.

“I cotaught in an inclusive classroom. There were gifted students, students on the autism spectrum…” I say.

“That experience is not relevant to my daughter.”

“I see,” I say, although I don’t understand why he’s being weird and secretive. Cleary he’s waiting for me to show him why I deserve the job.

“Well, I brought my resume. I had to leave my job at the charter school. It was a Reduction in Force because of budgeting cuts. Enrollment is down for the coming year. They downsized the newest staff. It’s about seniority, not performance. My administrative evaluation was good,” I try to assure him, probably sounding desperate in my attempt.

Smooth. Very smooth.

He cuts me off, “I know your work history. The agency provided your information. I also conducted an extensive background check myself.”

“Really?” I ask, a little uncomfortable with the ‘extensive’ review of me. Did he do a credit check? Because if he did, this is going to be embarrassing—not to mention the fact that he probably wouldn’t trust me with five bucks, much less a child if he saw my debt load. I clear my throat, and re-cross my legs for the thousandth time.

“Yes. Your duties, should you be offered the position, would be as caregiver in residence to a five-year-old girl. She attends morning kindergarten at St. Agnes. The nanny will ready her for class and secure her in the safety seat before her driver takes her to school. The nanny then meets the driver after school and feeds the child lunch, helps complete any homework, conducts age appropriate activities such as crafts or simple nature collections and reads aloud to the child. When I arrive home, we eat dinner, and I spend some time with the child before the nanny bathes her and puts her to bed.”

“Does the child have a name?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

“Lydia Carter. She’s my only child. She is, in fact, my only living relative. I take her safety very seriously. I will permit visits to the public library and walks in the park, so long as it is a location without a dog park as she is frightened by dogs. I require that her caregivers take no risks with my daughter.”

I feel like I should be taking notes or video recording this to show Angela later, because for a ridiculously attractive man, he makes Captain VonTrapp look like a party animal—so uptight yet endearing due to his clear concern for his little girl.

“I can assure you that I’m certified in CPR and first aid, should an emergency arise, and I show proper caution in caring for children,” I say in my best professional voice.

“As you say; however, there are strict guidelines to which the nanny must adhere. Likewise, a daily routine is ideal for Lydia so she knows what to expect and remains on schedule. Any deviation from her weekday routine—a later bedtime, a sugary snack after supper—is disruptive to her comfort and this shows in her behavior. While you have classroom experience, I understand that you are childless yourself and may not have a concept of how diet and activity level can impact conduct and attitude…”

I want to roll my eyes. He’s enlightening me, a former teacher, on children and behavior management.

“I promise I didn’t feed my students eight popsicles each before dismissal. They’re all alive and well, perhaps despite my wild and reckless care,” I say sarcastically. He levels a glare at me but I don’t care. I’m a professional with a degree and loads of experience taking care of children—in the classroom and growing up as my brother’s big sister.

I feel like a misbehaved child in the principal’s office. He gives me a stern look, disliking my attitude. He’s even sexier stern than he is uptight. My mouth closes shut tightly and I suddenly yearn for a glass of water, his hotness affecting me to no end.

“This is no joking matter. I trust you can behave professionally for the remainder of the interview. Now, how many siblings do you have?”

“One. I have a younger brother. I’m really proud of him, actually. We’ve always been close. Benny is developmentally disabled. He’s worked so hard and made the most amazing progress. The doctors told us originally that he’d never be able to do self-care tasks or anything—but he’s just the most incredible person I’ve ever known,” I say. I can’t help gushing a little when it comes to Benny.

For a minute, I think Mr. Stern but sexy softens. It’s mesmerizing. He’s so attractive that I’m not sure I want to “act professionally” around him. Maybe I can earn myself a spanking if I continue.

However, low and behold, his expression seems kinder, even for a fraction of a second. He clears his throat, returning to the task at hand.

“I see. Are your parents in good health?”

“Yes. They’re both in excellent health. Why are you asking—”

“How often do you exercise?”

“Three days a week. I jog and used to teach kickboxing in college.”

“I know. As I said, I did a background check. You also medaled in cross country at the state level during your junior year of high school, correct?”

“Yes. Um, it’s a bit—uncomfortable that you know all this about me, but I don’t even know your first name.” I say shyly.

“Ridge Carter,” he revealed.

“Ridge,” I say, thinking the name is perfect. It also somehow makes him even sexier. Although, let’s face it, the guy’s name could be Wilbur, and he’d still be hot as hell.

“Now I have a series of scenarios for you to consider and offer your best response.”

“Okay,” I say, expecting a Jeopardy-like scene where he will give me a buzzer and I’ll have to dazzle him with my knowledge of nineteenth century American art.

“You are walking in the park with Lydia. She is not holding your hand. She runs ahead to go after a bunny in the bushes. A man grabs her and runs with her. What do you do?”

“What kind of park is this? I have never seen a kidnapper at any of the parks in the city. I even chaperoned forty students on a field trip to—”

“Answer the question.”

“I run toward him, shouting that he has to let her go. This draws the attention of any bystanders, law enforcement or otherwise, alerting them to trouble. I tackle him from behind and bring him to the ground with a knee to the back. I release his grip on Lydia by pinching the nerve beside his neck. I get to my feet, then stomp his wrist so he can’t hold on. I tell her to run to safety. By this time, bystanders have called 911.”

“What if you can’t catch him?”

“Why would I not be able to catch a grown man who has a small head start and is trying to keep hold of a flailing child? Trust me, if you pick up a kid who doesn’t want to be picked up—whether it’s bedtime or you’re a kidnapper—they kick and wave their arms and shriek. She’d be making it difficult for him, and it would slow him down. Also, I won more awards for sprint than I did for distance. I’d catch him.”

Phew!

“Okay. Next scenario. I’m out of town overnight. Lydia gets a sudden high fever and cough. What do you do?”

“I try to bring the fever down with a tepid bath and Tylenol. If it doesn’t respond, I alternate Tylenol and ibuprofen and bathe her pulse points and try to keep her hydrated until her doctor’s office opens in the morning.”

“It’s a Sunday. Her pediatrician does not have weekend hours. Go!”

The hell…

My heart pounds like I’m losing on a game show or a ridiculous Saturday Night Live skit.

“I try to control the symptoms and see if the fever is responsive to over the counter treatment. If she’s not vomiting a lot, which holds a risk of dehydration, and she isn’t in breathing distress, I hold the line and call you in the morning for instructions regarding whether you want her taken to ER.”

“Incorrect. You call me immediately, regardless of time, and take direction from me.”

“Fine. But fevers come on quickly, and they’re usually a virus. They’re not an emergency unless there are other major symptoms.”

“What if it’s strep throat? Untreated, it can become scarlet fever!” he says.

“We’re not out on the prairie. If a peek at her throat indicates strep, I’d take her to the doctor for a screening and antibiotics.”

“She’s allergic to penicillin. She could go into shock.”

“I would know what she was allergic to,” I protest. “I have a feeling you’ll have it tattooed on my arm,” I mutter under my breath.

“I heard that, Miss Sloan.”

“Forgive me, but your worst-case scenarios seem a little… much.”

“I have three more. Are you ready?”

“Fine,” I say, trying not to groan. I can’t win with this guy. He’s obviously intelligent and very cautious about his child, but it seems like paranoia to me. I’ll humor him only because he’s so incredibly hot, but that’s only going to get him so far in this interview, so he’d better not try his luck.

“Third possibility. You see on the news that there is a lockdown at her school due to a possible intruder. What do you do?”

“I don’t call the school because the phone lines will be tied up. I check the school app for updates and wait to see if they’re dismissing early. I don’t want to get in the way of the cops if they’re involved.”

“Wrong answer. You go get Lydia. You have my driver take you there. There’s a guard on Lydia at all times, but he’s discreet. He doesn’t enter the school. You’d call him to notify him that she needs to be removed from the premises and that you’re on your way.”

“Removed?”

“Her guard has a locator on her activity tracker. He can ping her whereabouts on the app and get to her whenever necessary. He has access to blueprints of the school and could utilize ductwork to reach her. Alternately, he would use force to secure her.”

“What? You mean he has a gun on school property?”
“I didn’t say that,” he said, “I said he would use force. He might have to break down a door or incapacitate an intruder.”

“I’m supposed to believe he isn’t armed? It sounds like you’re planning a military strike to get a kindergartener out of a classroom,” I say, “This seems a little intense for me. I’m interviewing for an action movie instead of a child care job. I’m sorry but it doesn’t seem like I’m what you’re looking for. I wish you the best of luck in finding a nanny who is a good fit for your family. I think it’s obvious that it won’t be me.”

I stand up and give an awkward nod and step back out into the hallway. Momentarily disoriented by the row of identical white doors, I pause for a moment.

“Turn left to exit,” I hear him bellow from the closed office behind me. I roll my eyes. I turn left and don’t stop until I’m outside waiting for my Uber.

I pick up a gallon jug of inexpensive rosé on the way home. I plan to wait for Angela to get home, and I vent about the interview fiasco.