Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“You should keep a diary. A salaciously erotic diary about all the things you want to do to him. Maybe you’ll get a book deal, become the next EL James.” She sweeps her hand across the air, like she’s reading a headline. “The Diaries of an Insatiable Nanny.”
I pull out my phone and dial Felicity. “You’ve got a screw loose,” I tell Callie.
“Several. Just don’t tell my boss because I’m in charge of her children.”
“I hope you’re calling with good news,” Felicity bellows through the phone.
“Let’s do this,” I say. “When do I start?”
“Not sure how you’ll like this, but he’d quite like you to start tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s going to be busy,” I reply. Callie squeezes my hand, her eyes full of excitement for me.
“This is going to be a great position for you,” Felicity says. “I have a really good feeling about it.”
Yeah, I think to myself. I’m not Rebecca De Mornay. And so what if I have a crush? I’ll just talk myself out of it. I’ll make a note of all his annoying habits and focus on them whenever I find myself looking at him the wrong way. It will be fine.
“Oh and I didn’t find out, but is the mother involved at all?” I ask.
“Nope,” Felicity says. “He’s a single dad. Mother is in America or something.”
So I’m going to be working for a rich, handsome, single dad. Eddie will love it, and I know Callie does. I just need to keep out of his way, focus on his daughter and make note of his bad points. What could go wrong?
EIGHT
Eira
I’ve borrowed Callie’s car to help me transport my things into my new home. I’m surprised we haven’t been pulled over by the police, because the car is so stuffed, there are things poking out of the windows. It’s a good job it’s an automatic, because there’s a shoebox balanced on top of the gear stick.
“You have a lot of stuff,” Dax says to me as he takes a box from the back of the car.
“I’m nearly thirty years old. Things accumulate.” He doesn’t need to know about my storage unit crammed to the brim with everything from our parents’ house I could get out before my uncle noticed.
“You’re cute. Anyone ever tell you that?” Callie asks Dax as she joins us with my jumbo-sized suitcase—a loyal friend that’s accompanied me everywhere I’ve been in the last ten years. The suitcase. Not Callie, although she’s been a good friend to me. She can just carry less.
“Excuse her. She has no filter.” I try to fix her with a stare, but I can tell she’s deliberately not looking at me. I lower my voice and hiss, “How would you feel if I said that to your boss?”
“I would take you for a medical examination if you told my boss he was cute. He’s a hundred and five and…not cute.”
I give a little shake of my head. There’s no point in telling her she missed what I was trying to say. Her brain is three miles ahead now and I’d just be wasting oxygen.
I’m doing everything I can not to focus on Dax’s cuteness. Or the way his forearm muscles flex when he picks up a box and his t-shirt pulls tight across his back. Yup, I didn’t notice any of it. Or how the scruff on his jaw suits him a little too well, or the way he keeps his house so bloody tidy is adorable. Everything is just so organized.
And not sustainable, given he just had a kid. But I’m not about to tell him that.
“How much more is there?” he asks as he glances over his shoulder.
“A few more boxes,” I say. Or twenty. I’m pretty proud we managed to get everything into one carload. Probably because I took a carload to the storage unit when I finished at my old job.
I have a lot of stuff. But most people my age have their things stored at their parents’ place. I don’t. Besides, it’s all useful.
“You saw the room, right?” he asks.
“I did. Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be able to fit everything in.”
“You might want to keep the door closed,” he says.
I don’t make a quip about waiting until his child hits three and seeing if he can close the door on mess. This father is in for a rude awakening. I add it to my mental list of Dax Cove imperfections.
“The temp nanny who took over from Doreen left this morning. I had the room cleaned so it’s ready for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, as we head into the lift. I pause. I’ve known some really clueless dads in the past. Not that they’re stupid—because of the nature of my business, most people who hire me are smart and successful. But that doesn’t mean they have any common sense. I swear, medical science should fund research into some kind of vitamin or supplement to create common sense. It would be worth a fortune. “Where’s Guinevere?” I ask, trying to sound blasé.