Chapter 5
Brynn
The last sliver of the late-morning sun shimmered through the cafe's wall of windows. I'd grabbed a cozy table for two towards the rear of the cafe, against a brick wall. A golden sunbeam stretched towards my table and fell on my arms and legs, warming my skin.
And I sat in that cafe by myself, waiting and waiting.
I'd almost given up on our meeting altogether, but Mr. Ellis finally texted me right when I was ready to leave. So I gave him another hour. If he didn't show within that time period, screw it, I'd walk.
I sat with two paper cups of coffee in front of me. Mine, a latte. His, a black coffee.
Okay, so Mr. Ellis likes his coffee black. That's something, I thought to myself.
It was really the most I knew about my prospective employer. Because the truth was, I had no idea who I was meeting—only that his name was 'Mr. Ellis.'
It was easy to picture this Mr. Ellis as a rich, self-important jerk. Maybe a hotshot lawyer or radiologist. Some type of businessman whose time was clearly a lot more valuable than a lowly nanny's time.
Lord knows, it wouldn't be the first time I interviewed for someone like that.
The longer Mr. Ellis kept me waiting, the more I started to doubt this whole thing. Why did this guy need to find a nanny on such short notice anyway? How many kids did he have? How old were they? Why didn't he include that information in his ad? Why did he need someone to start working tonight, and why did he seem so secretive?
And really, who meets at a cafe? It's not like we were internet strangers trying to date each other. Did we really have to meet someplace 'safe'?
I'll be honest—all the secrecy and lack of information was a little creepy. Not that I thought I was being catfished or anything, but … well … maybe it was a concern of mine. It was creepy enough that, before I left my apartment, I double-checked to make sure that my mace was for sure in my purse.
Sitting in the cafe, I double-checked my purse for the mace again. Just to make sure I hadn't lost it at some point.
Whew. Still there.
Just then, the cafe door opened. My eyes shot up, my warm and professional smile snapping right into place just in case it was Mr. Ellis that came walking through the door.
A towering man—I'd guess he stood six-foot-five, at least—lumbered into the cafe. His walk wasn't exactly easy. He had the strut of a man who'd put his body through hell to make a living—not broken down, exactly, but the worn walk of a warrior. Accomplished, yet maybe a little tired.
Which was surprising, considering how fit and muscular he clearly was beneath his expensive suit.
He took off his sunglasses. With a strong chin and a rugged jawline, he was a dashing man, and he looked a lot younger than his walk seemed to imply.
A hush came over the cafe's patrons, as if we were all in the presence of a movie star. Everyone stopped and stared at him. A few people even pointed at him and whispered.
Should I know who this guy is? I wondered.
I had to admit, he did look important. And honestly …? Kinda hot, for an older guy.
I didn't think he was my super self-important Mr. Ellis, though. Or maybe I just didn't want to believe it could be him—because I'd never, ever thought that any of the fathers I worked for were hot. Frankly, I never wanted to be in that situation, either.
Tall movie star guy looked around the shop, then spotted me. And he kept staring in my direction.
No way. You can't be serious.
Then he started walking towards me.
Oh no.
I felt my practiced smile fade from my lips. A beating in my heart took its place, and my belly began to nervously flit about, too.
“Two coffee cups,” he said to me suddenly, snapping me from my trance.
“E-excuse me?” I nearly whimpered.
“I forgot your name.” He pointed at the cups in front of me. “But you're the girl I texted with, right? You're interviewing for the nanny job?”
“Right,” I stammered nervously. “I'm Brynn.”
“Okay, Brynn.” He spoke curtly and with a gruff, growly voice that he tried to keep low. “I'm Shea.”
Mr. Ellis's first name was Shea. Something about that name seemed so deeply, strangely familiar, but I was too woozy to place it.
Mr. Ellis stuck out his hand. I gave him mine and stared, entranced, at the sight of his hand completely swallowing mine up whole. My tiny hand was gone, lost somewhere inside that firm but gentle pocket of meat and muscle.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked, his voice as coarse as the salt-and-pepper stubble that covered his jaw.
“Of course not, Mr. Ellis.”
“Just call me Shea,” he said as he peeled his suit jacket off his shoulders and sat opposite me.
Now I wished I'd picked a booth to sit at—with his hulking frame, his enormous arms and mountainous shoulders, he made the 'cozy' wooden table look ridiculous. Like a circus elephant trying to balance on a tiny platform.
“Will do, Shea.”
He opened his briefcase and rifled through his organizing dividers. He flipped through papers, looking for something that he couldn't find. Through his dress shirt, hard lines and mounds of muscle flexed and swelled with his movements. The sight begged for my eyes, but I refused to give in.
Stay professional, dummy.
Eventually, Shea looked up at me, stumped. “Huh. I know I printed off your resume, but I must've left it at home.”
I'd come prepared, so I handed him an extra. “Here you are.”
“Thanks.”
Silently, Shea studied my resume. And I studied him. His hair was wet and dark, but I could still see the striking glints of gray running through it. Handsome lines were etched into the skin around his slate-gray eyes—which didn't make him look old so much as it did wise.
He was a very attractive man. When Shea finally looked up from my resume, my eyes instinctively and nervously darted away.
Obvious much?
“So you've been nannying for five years,” he said, “and you've been with three families in that time.”
“That's right.”
“Pretty good history.” He bobbed his head. “You used to be a personal trainer?”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
“Interesting.” For whatever reason, that bit of info seemed to make him think. “How'd you like that?”
“I liked it a lot.”
“Why'd you get into nannying?”
“I guess I felt the calling,” I said, forcing a cheerful smile.
There was no way in hell I'd ever drop the real story on someone in an interview.
He looked at my resume again, and the hint of a frown surfaced. “The kids you've nannied have all been on the younger side, I see.”
“Yeah, I really love taking care of the little ones.”
I figured Shea had young ones at home himself, but he gave a head shake. “Hm. Mine aren't so little.”
“Tell me about them,” I said—since that's how these interviews usually went.
“Okay. I've got three. The oldest is my fourteen-year-old daughter, Chloe. She's currently knee-deep in that whole 'rebellious teen' phase, and I can't say or do anything without somehow embarrassing her.”
I frowned with sympathy. “Oh gosh, that's such a tough age.”
“You're telling me. Then there's my twins, Nick and Cam. They're ten years old, and so they're a lot less trouble than Chloe … but they're a heck of a lot more physically destructive.”
“Twins! You're so lucky. Are they fraternal or identical?”
“Sure am. They're fraternal.”
“And how are they so destructive?”
“Ever meet a ten-year-old boy?” Shea asked with a laugh. “Their schedule is a lot more demanding than Chloe's, too. Chloe likes to be left alone and do her own thing. But the boys are both pretty serious about their hockey careers. They play on the same travel squad. So, before school, they need to be driven to their 6 AM practice.”
Hockey careers? I wondered. That was a weird way to phrase it—almost as if there was a legitimate chance that they would have a future in hockey—rather than just saying his sons were passionate about the sport.
“Sounds like you've got a handful,” I said.
Honestly, I didn't think I was cut out for the job. It sounded like Shea needed someone who had experience with busy and possibly difficult kids, and could effortlessly juggle jam-packed schedules. Could I do that? Maybe, but I wasn't exactly confident. Would Chloe even listen to me? I was only thirteen years older than her, after all. In the eyes of a rebellious teen girl, what authority could I possibly have?
“And is it just you at home, or …?” I asked, trailing off, my eyes instinctively darting to his ring finger. It was bare.
“Just me. I'm divorced.”
“Oh, I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. When I'm on a business trip, the kids stay at their mother's. When I'm home, they'll be with me, and that's when I need a nanny.”
“I see. Do you travel a lot?”
“Several times a month. Some trips are long, but most are only a few days long. So I'm looking for a nanny who's willing to live with us for about half the year.”
“Oh, wow, I didn't know you needed a live-in nanny.” He'd left that part out of his ad, too. I started to think that Shea just wasn't very good at this whole 'finding a nanny' thing.
“Would that be a problem?” he asked, one brow arching.
I didn't have a good reason why it would be—except for Pickles.
“Um, well, I have a cat?” I stammered, and maybe a small part of me was hoping that Pickles would get me eliminated from Shea's consideration.
But Shea gave a shrug. “That'd be fine. Chloe loves cats.”
“Great,” I said with a gulp. “So, it sounds like you travel a lot. What is it that you do, exactly?”
Shea waved a hand. “Oh, it doesn't matter. I'm about to retire in a few months anyway.”
Doesn't matter? Retire?
Why was this guy so cagey and weird with all his answers? And how old was he in the first place? He definitely didn't look old enough to be retiring. He must've been more successful than I realized.
But Shea butted in before I could ask any questions.
“Listen, Brynn. You seem like a nice girl.” He looked at my resume again and gave a small shake of his head. “You've got a good resume, too. But I'll be honest. I'm not sure you're what I'm looking for.”
Which was funny, because a moment ago, I thought I would've been fine with hearing that. But something about being told you don't have what it takes only makes you want to prove the person wrong.
“Why not?” I asked defiantly, suddenly determined to change his mind.
“You'd be perfect if you had experience with kids the same age as mine,” Shea said as someone walked by our table. “But the kids have never had a nanny as young as you. Honestly, I'm worried that they wouldn't listen to you, that you'd get taken advantage of—”
Shea stopped talking, because that stranger who'd went walking past our table actually came to a complete stop. He hovered right by our table, looking at Shea and listening in, until his intrusive presence had to be addressed.
Shea looked up at him, mildly annoyed. “Do you mind?”
The grown man looked and sounded jittery. “Hi! I'm sorry to bother you, Shea, but I'm a huge fan. Got time for a selfie?” The fan held his cell phone out, at the ready to snap a selfie of the two men together.
Wait a minute. What?
The wheels in my head started to turn.
Shea … Ellis. Shea Ellis.
Oh my God.
Shea Ellis.
Before Shea could even give an answer to that fan, time froze for me and I was engulfed in a flood of memories: I remembered those painful preteen and early teen years, when all I wanted to do was fit in and hang out with my older brothers. They were in high school, and so funny and interesting—I just wanted to be around them! I remembered all those evenings we spent hanging out in the den, watching the hockey game, their favorite sport.
And I remembered that no matter how much I wanted to fit in with them, I knew I'd never be worthy. I remembered the sting of their teasing. “Haha, Brynn, you don't know a thing about hockey. You can't even name three players on the Brawlers, can you? Can you?! Go ahead, try! Let's hear it if you lo~ove hockey as much as you claim you do!”
I'd try, but sure enough, I couldn't. No, I didn't really care about hockey—I just wanted to be around my cool older brothers! Why didn't they understand that? Why'd they have to make me feel bad for looking up to them? Why'd they make me have to go through this whole charade of liking hockey?
And then I remembered something else: their excitement when a fresh-faced rookie joined the Brawlers. He was a young, hulking defenseman that my brothers lovingly referred to as “a horse.” Big, fast, strong and mean. They were sure that he'd lead the Brawlers to glory.
His name, of course, was Shea Ellis.
And since I copied my brothers, Shea became my favorite player, too. But while my brothers idolized Shea for his hockey prowess, I liked him for another reason entirely.
I thought he was cute. So cute. He was my first crush, actually.
Back in those innocent days, something about having a crush felt wrong. So my crush was my dirty little secret. Of course, my brothers figured it out in a hurry—and that became another reason to tease me, another piece of evidence that I wasn't a real hockey fan.
I denied it all, of course.
I denied it, even as I taped Shea's poster to my wall, painted my lips with lipstick I stole from my mom, and covered Shea's cute face with bright red smooches.
And now here, back in the real world? I was sitting right across from him. Shea Ellis. My first crush—from baby-faced rookie, to handsome hockey hunk all set to retire—and here he was, interviewing me to be the nanny of his kids. It was so absurd, so unreal! In moments like those, you realize how magical life can be, and how fast it all moves.
Time resumed from its standstill.
The fan jumped into action without waiting to get permission from Shea to take the selfie. “It'll only take a second, Shea, thanks a lot.” The fan put his arms around the hockey player's shoulders and invaded Shea's personal space, cheek-to-cheek, his outstretched arm now holding the phone across the table and invading my personal space.
The grimace on Shea's face told me that he didn't appreciate the situation but accepted it as one that came with his fame.
But I didn't have to accept it. Nor did I like it very much when the fan's knuckles brushed against the side of my head as he tried to find the perfect angle, as if I didn't exist.
I snatched the phone away from the fan before he could snap the picture.
“Hey, what the hell, lady?” the fan barked. “Gimme back my phone!”
“Excuse me,” I said, shutting off the camera, “but we were having a private talk before you interrupted. And you never even got Shea's permission for a picture.”
“But it'll only take a second!”
“No,” Shea said firmly. “She's right. It's not a good time. No selfie.”
I gave the fan his phone back.
“Wow,” the fan huffed. “Never knew you were such a dick, Shea. You just lost a huge fan.”
We watched as the fan scurried away, out the door and across the street.
“Unbelievable,” I said. “Do fans approach you in public like that a lot?”
“Here and there. Usually, they're polite about it, but every once in a while you get a guy like that.” Shea's eyes glittered at me, and he leaned forward over the table. “But you just laid down the law on that guy, Brynn. I liked that.”
I gave a confident smile and moved in for the kill. “Anyway, Shea, before that guy interrupted, you were telling me that I'm not a good fit for the job.”
He chuckled. “I was?”
“You sure were.”
“Look. I won't lie. My kids are a handful, and I'm a little worried that you've only got experience with young children. But if you think you're up for it, I'll at least give you a shot.”
“I'm up for it.”
“Great. I've got a game tonight, which means you'll be on your own once the kids come home from school. Can you make it by three o'clock?”
“Sure can.”
“Good, then I'll have some time to show you around before I have to leave. Don't worry about staying the night just yet. We'll start you off slow—and make sure my kids don't drive you up the wall.”
I laughed. “Sounds good! I'm your girl.”
He smiled. “Good to hear.”