Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“Do you have her resume I could look at? What agency does she work with? Experience?” I run through my list of usual qualifying demands, and Cole cocks his head, giving me a scathing look from beneath sharply arched brows.
“I handed over my kid and took a nap. What more do you need to know?”
He’s got a point. An extremely valid one, because if Cole felt comfortable doing that, he’s already done a background check on her that’d rival the Pentagon, plus done a gut check of his own impression of the woman. And I trust Cole’s gut. “That’s fair. I’m willing to interview her, at least.”
“About that—”
He’s cut off by the two women coming into the living room from the hallway. One is my sister-in-law, Janey, with a riot of red curls and gray eyes that look surprisingly bright given her new mom status.
The other is young, maybe early twenties, and while I wouldn’t say she’s classically beautiful, she’s interesting-looking. Her hair looks like cotton candy, pale pink and wispy, and is cut in a way that makes shaggy chunks flip out all over her head and shoulders. She has wide-set blue eyes which are rimmed in gray shadow and precisely drawn, black cat-eye liner, and there’s a tiny hoop in one nostril of her pixie nose. She’s wearing baggy jeans with frayed hems that lay messily on thick-soled tennis shoes, an oversized T-shirt that’s folded under and tucked up to show a tiny sliver of her midriff, and two wrists full of chunky bracelets that match what must be at least five necklaces hanging around her neck.
My eyes virtually bounce over her, trying to find a singular thing to focus on, but there’s simply so much, like her presence is shouting at me from across the room. And given the way she’s looking back, I’m probably frowning, which she shouldn’t take personally. It’s my default expression.
“Riley, I finished!” Grace interrupts my scan of the newcomer. My daughter is triumphantly holding up the piece of paper I took from Peanut Butter to the pink-haired woman, who flashes a beaming smile that makes her eyes sparkle.
“Nice,” she answers Grace, holding up her fist for a bump.
I see a look pass between Cole and Janey, and then Janey waves at me before saying, “Hey Grace, can you help me in the nursery for a second?” Before Grace can answer, she ushers my daughter out of the room, leaving me with my brother and the other woman, who is apparently Riley, the nanny I’m interviewing… now?
“Gotta hand it to Janey, she’s smooth like that,” Cole deadpans.
He has jokes? Since when? Maybe Janey hit him over the head or he tripped and fell? It’s the only explanation.
Riley approaches me easily with her hand extended. “Hi, I’m Riley Stefano. Nice to meet you.”
“Cameron Harrington, and you too,” I reply, shaking her hand. As we move up and down, her bracelets jangle in a discordant tune.
“No worries if you don’t want to do this, now or at all. Cole mentioned you need a nanny, and as it so happens” —she holds her hands out wide as though presenting herself and smiles— “I am one. But no pressure.”
Cole shoots me a look that is definitely filled with pressure.
“No, I do need to hire someone. I’m just not sure if…” I give her pink hair, outfit, and decidedly youthful looks another glance, feeling my frown deepen. “Well, Grace can be a lot sometimes.” I say that at a near whisper so there’s no chance of my daughter hearing me, even if it’s the truth. “We’ve been through a few nannies over the years.”
Cole chokes but tries to cover it with a cough before repeating dryly, “Few?”
Okay, we’ve been through more nannies than I can remember at this point, although that’s cumulative over nine years, and not all of them left because of Grace. Some of them left because of me. Others left because they’d simply moved on to a different phase of their own lives.
But there have indeed been several who left because of my not-always-darling, verbally-unfiltered daughter.
Riley laughs at my attempt to sugarcoat the situation. “Look, I’m gonna take a wild guess that you’ve never raised a teenage girl, yeah?” She pauses, waiting for me to agree, which I do with the slightest tick of my head. “Me? I’ve raised five of them—myself, three when I was a teenager, and then my latest job was with Jordan, who recently turned sixteen, has straight As, is a star volleyball player, got her driver’s license after I taught her to drive, and no longer needs a nanny. You’re welcome to call her mom, Bianca, for what will be a glowing referral if you’d like. I can give you her number.” She lists off Jordan’s accomplishments with pride, like she had a hand in helping the girl achieve the impressive roster of successes.