Chapter 2

Lucas

I’m still holding the little plastic cup in my hand, staring in awe as the irate pothead storms out of our interview. Oh, well. I wanted a full-service nanny anyway, and the look on Fig’s face—she was literally named Fig—told me everything I needed to know. Living here and taking care of my children would cut into her jazz festival time.

The distant sound of quiet sobbing draws my attention from Fig’s passionate exit. Something about her rights? I’m sorry, did she have rights?

My brow furrows. I recognize whose crying that is. It’s Charlie, my oldest, who cries more often than Madison, the five-year-old.

I stride down the hallway corridor and hesitate at the foot of the wooden staircase, gazing up to the second floor. Charlie is sensitive right now—I suspect early onset puberty, and even coming up to his doorframe unannounced could send him into a hormonal fit.

The irritating chill at my back causes me to pause and yell over my shoulder, “Either come back in or close the damn door!”

The door obediently shuts, and I assume that Fig departed. I place one fucking foot on the bottom stair and it creaks.

“Don’t come up here,” Charlie blubbers down to me, and I hesitate.

Fuck. Things have been hard on him this year. I want to reach him, but he doesn’t want to be reached.

With a grimace, I twist on my heel and freeze.

There’s a woman in my foyer.

She’s dripping wet, the white shirt plastered to her hourglass figure now almost totally see-through. Her hair hangs in blond ropes on her shoulders, and a puddle has formed beneath her sneakers.

I exhale for what seems like forever.

Damn.

I want to send her away, because I won’t be able to work with her. Her lips are too pouty. Her eyes smolder as she scans the premises. And she has freckles. Even though she’s soaking wet, there’s something classically feminine about her. Maybe it’s that figure, or maybe it’s something else. It’s like she should be winding a scarf off her head, even while she’s muddy and probably frozen to the bone.

I blink and head toward this new girl. I didn’t realize Rachel had scheduled an interview for this hour, but maybe she did. It’s hard to keep all the balls in the air when your secretary works on-site in California. Because who the fuck tries to run a business from a mountain town with less than two thousand people living on it? This guy right here, that’s who.

“Hey,” I call to her, and those gray eyes focus on me. They remind me of the sky outside, impenetrable and frosty. My dick twitches. Shake it off. You can’t get an erection in these jeans, Lucas. You cannot. “Can I grab you a shirt or something?”

“I’m fine,” she says and shivers. “My car broke down on the way, and I-I had to walk in the rain.”

“Get those shoes off,” I command, pivoting and heading toward the stairs again. Charlie isn’t crying anymore. “I’m going to grab you a shirt.”

I pause and glance into Charlie’s bedroom as I pass his door. He’s peering down at his phone, scrolling through social media. “Everything okay, bud?”

“Yup,” Charlie grumbles.

It was my fault for hoping to get a genuine response from him. I back off and head into my bedroom. I root through my closet for my warmest, driest, and largest shirt.

I don’t just want her to be warm and dry. I want her body hidden from me. I’ve already interviewed almost a dozen potential nannies, and I honestly thought Fig was the last one in the lineup. If I get a hard-on and send this girl rushing for her broken-down car, I’ll be out of options for the rest of the week, and Graytech needs me yesterday.

But my kids need a fucking caregiver, too. I want the best for them, but I’ve got to stop being so picky or they won’t have anyone at all.

I glance at Madison, fast asleep for her afternoon nap in her own room, and then come back downstairs. The new girl took off her shoes, as she was told. Good girl. Maybe we can work together after all, because I need someone who can follow my orders.

I thrust the blue-and-red plaid flannel into her clammy hands, and I don’t let myself look into her eyes or down at that bountiful rack. I usher her toward a bathroom to strip off that soaked shirt.

While waiting for her to return to the den, I pace and organize my questions. What is your experience with childcare? Do you have your degree? Are you seeing anyone right now? Scratch that. She’s definitely seeing someone, with a face like that, and anyway, it’s none of my business. I need to know her hourly rate and that she can piss clean. I need references. That’s it. That’s all.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the long, horizontal mirror mounted over the mantle. Damn, I look wild. What kind of madwoman would want me as her boss? My dark hair, stricken through with tendrils of early gray, is a mess.

I’ve been shoveling my fingers through it all day. My eyes are haggard, in spite of all the coffee I’ve had. Then there’s the five o’clock shadow and all the tattoos. I don’t look like a hardworking single dad. I look like I’ve been in the mountains too damn long without another adult to help blow off some steam.

Bare feet pad over the hardwood floor, and I turn to look at the source, relieved that the flannel shirt hides her curves like a tent would.

Warning: Dangerous when wet.

I stomp out that train of thought like it’s an errant fireplace ember on my bedroom carpet and force a light, casual smile onto my face.

“Much better,” I say, sticking out my hand for her to shake it. Her chill fingers slip against my rough palm and my cock throbs again. Damn it! What the hell? I give her hand a quick squeeze and let it go, alarmed at this feeling. I’m playing with fire in a house already made of matches. “Have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the couch. “Didn’t catch your name.”

“So… Maggie,” she answers.

“So Maggie?”

“That’s me,” she agrees cheerfully. “I mean, I’m just so myself, Maggie. Maggie Marshall. I’m nervous. Sorry.”

My heart softens, and I offer her a cup of coffee from the fresh pot in the kitchen. She agrees and surprises me by following. I pour her a cup and we settle at the table, surrounded by panes of glass that show off the surrounding woods. I have neighbors, but I couldn’t prove it.

“So, Maggie,” I say, “what’s your experience with children?”

“I love kids.” She does look nervous.

“A lot of the applicants have been intimidated by how demanding of a schedule this is,” I warn her. “I want to be honest here. Realistically, you’re not going to have much time for a normal life until after about eight at night.”

“Oh, I don’t have a life anyway,” Maggie informs me. “I just got out of school—where I got my degree in child psychology, by the way—and I’m going to be honest, I’ve never been a full-time nanny like you need. But it’s a perfect fit for me. I saw your ad, and I knew I had to apply.”

“I told Rachel not to place a public ad,” I mutter. I didn’t want a wide net. I want a few quality applicants, but then again, I drove four fairly qualified women out of my house today. Maybe a wide net isn’t the worst thing in the world. “Do you have references? I’m going to be honest with you, Maggie. I’m getting desperate. I’ve been too picky. At this point, I can either hire you or take another week off work, and I can’t afford to do that. So, look. How would you feel about a cash payment to start immediately? You don’t have to sleep here tonight, but I would want you here by six o’clock Tomorrow morning. I’ll check your references this week, and we can get you set-up with a direct deposit and a real contract if everything looks good.”

“That would be perfect,” Maggie breathes. “You need a nanny, and I need a boss. Let’s do it.”

My lip quirks, but I let the smile fade. I don’t like her. She’s just the nanny for the week, and I flourish yet another little plastic cup. For some employees, this is the final test.

“Perfect,” I say. “All I need now is some urine in this cup for the drug test, and your social security number or a license for the background check.”