1
Maren
The kitchen smells like brown butter and Madagascar vanilla—the expensive kind Henry keeps stocked in the pantry alongside organic everything and imported Italian olive oil. I'm elbow-deep in cookie dough at the marble-topped island, and Lilliana's standing on her step stool beside me, her little tongue poking out in concentration as she rolls a lump of dough between her small palms.
Afternoon sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the exposed timber beams overhead—original to the barn, Henry told me once, restored and reinforced when he designed the conversion five years ago. The whole house is like this: rustic elegance meeting modern luxury. Wide-plank hardwood floors heated from beneath, a chef's kitchen with professional-grade appliances, and enough space that my entire childhood home could fit in the great room alone.
The place was featured inArchitectural Digestlast year. I found the issue in his office once, trying not to feel intimidatedby the spread showing off his custom metalwork staircase and the cantilevered deck that seems to float over the forest.
"Like this, Maren?" Lilliana holds up what might generously be called a ball. It's more of an oblong blob, but her face is so hopeful that my chest squeezes.
"Perfect," I tell her, and I mean it. "You're a natural baker."
She beams at me, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like tear up. Four months. I've been living here for four months, and I'm so gone for this kid it's not even funny. And for her father. God,especiallyfor her father.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Henry appears in the kitchen archway. He's wearing dark jeans that probably cost more than my monthly salary and a charcoal cashmere henley that clings to his broad shoulders in ways that should be illegal. There's a pencil tucked behind his ear like always, and even from here I can see the vintage Rolex on his wrist catching the light.
My stomach does a complicated flip.
"Just checking if you two need anything," he says, and his voice has that low, rough quality that makes me want to do extremely inappropriate things to my employer.
"We're good!" I say too brightly, flour dusting my cheek.Why do I always sound like an overeager golden retriever around him?
His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long. My hair's in a messy bun with honey-brown strands escaping everywhere, and I probably have cookie dough under my fingernails. Very professional nanny energy.
"Daddy, we're making cookies!" Lilliana announces. "Maren's teaching me her grandma's recipe!"
I don't miss the way his jaw tightens, or the way his eyes darken just a fraction before he forces them away from my mouth.
"That's great, sweetheart," he says softly. Then to me: "I'll be in my office if you need me."
And just like that, he's gone, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that makes me want to press my face against his neck and just breathe him in.
"He keeps doing that," Lilliana says matter-of-factly, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.
"Doing what?"
"Coming to check on us. He's done it like five times today." She gives me a look that's far too knowing for a seven-year-old. "I think he likes spending time with you."
My face goes hot. "He's just being a good dad. Making sure you're okay."
"Uh-huh." She doesn't sound convinced, and I wonder, and not for the first time, if kids can somehow sense when adults are lying to themselves.
I focus very hard on shaping the dough into balls, trying not to think about the fact that Henry Bauer, the successful architect, single father, the man who designed this incredible home and probably a dozen others featured in magazines, might be finding excuses to see me.
That way lies madness. And unemployment.
I took this job because I needed it.Reallyneeded it. When Dad's construction company went under last spring, my parents lost everything practically overnight. The house they've lived in for thirty years is in foreclosure. Mom's working double shifts at the hospital just to keep the lights on. My brothers are helping where they can, but they've got their own families, their own bills.
This job? Room and board in a converted garage apartment that's nicer than anywhere I've ever lived, plus a salary that lets me send most of my paycheck home each week. Last week I transferred eight hundred dollars. It's not enough, but it'ssomething. Maybe if I can make this job last another six months, save a little more, they'll have enough for the down payment on something smaller. Something they can actually afford.
What I didn't need was to fall for my employer and his daughter. But apparently my heart doesn't give a shit about what's smart or appropriate.
I glance around the kitchen: at the Sub-Zero fridge and the Wolf range, at the custom walnut cabinetry and the hand-blown glass pendant lights. This isn't my world. I'm the nanny. The help. The girl who sends money home to keep her parents from losing everything while living in luxury that still feels surreal after four months.
And Henry? He's the kind of man who wears a Rolex to play with his daughter. Who drives a Range Rover because Vermont winters demand it. Who can afford a live-in nanny without blinking, who probably makes more in a month than my parents made in a year.
I need to remember that.
