I wasn’t about to argue with him on that. But there were other things to consider. “Hardly qualifying criteria.”
“Let me see.” Adrian grabbed the phone, his eyes practically popping out of his head at a generic LinkedIn-style profile pic. Granted, Miss Maren Calloway pulled it off better than most I’d seen floating around online. “Says here she’s a kindergarten teacher. Sounds like a qualification to me.”
“No.” I took back my phone and with one last look at her, added, “We can’t take someone we’ll end up having to micro-manage. She looks like a pushover.”
“The only other option,” Miles said, adopting his business tone of voice so I’d know he wasn’t flexible on this, “is to stick your nieces and nephew on a flight to Kenya, and hope Gabe gets the message by the time they land so he can pick them up at the airport.”
I’d spent years in finance and we’d been running Lumen for the better part of a decade. My biggest lesson was that making decisions out of desperation always came back to bite me in theass. There was no way to know if this applicant was the right choice without any contenders to compare her with. We could end up doing more harm than good, with the kids taking the brunt of it.
I nearly dropped my phone as another notification pinged. A text from Cara. She wanted to confirm the meeting with our team later.
Shit.
No school on weekends was a promise I couldn’t go back on. And I couldn’t see those two firecrackers behaving in an upscale gallery in the South End.
Double shit.
“What’s it gonna be, Ethan?” Adrian tapped his wrist. “Time’s a-ticking.”
3
Maren
The last time I was this far east was for a blind date that wasn’t meant to be. I showed up at Charles Playhouse expecting a night of improv with a cute guy from Liv’s work. But I ended up sitting in the audience alone, watching him act in the show. That was the date. Watching him. I bailed when he tried to call me up as a volunteer in one of his scenes and to this day, Liv was convinced the night could’ve ended better if I’d stuck it out.
I shook off the memory as I turned a corner into the swanky brick facades and iron railings that lined Marlborough. Leaves curled over themselves in shades that made fall a feeling more than a season. But instead of whispering to me about all things toasty and cozy, it screamedyou don’t belong herein all caps.
I shifted the strap of my bag and focused on the scuff of my boots on the sidewalk. One foot in front of the other. I wasn’t here to belong. Definitely not as someone’s nanny. My plan had taken a detour, but it wasn’t trashed. Not yet.
A roof over my head, money in my bank account, a rest stop along this tightrope of desperate circumstance.
I slowed to a stroll and double-checked the address against the email I’d received earlier this morning. As I got closer, I discovered my potential employer didn’t live in just any old overpriced brownstone in one of the nicest parts of town. Ethan Cross lived in the brownstone on the corner, its angles catching the sun just a little differently than the others. Large windowswrapped around the side, and a small tree framed the entrance as if announcing the house. Presence, was the word I was looking for. The place had presence.
And me? I had half a mind to turn around and go back to sending out job applications to neighboring schools in my area. I still had a few days to be out of our apartment. What if the perfect job needed me to hold out a little longer? I wouldn’t have to step outside of my five-year plan at all. Everything would be back on track. Except, of course, for the white picket fence and pigeon pair that was supposed to happen in exactly three years. My heart iced over with a vice-like chill.
But, no.
I took a breath and squared my shoulders, the sun at my back casting my shadowed figure across the steps leading up to Ethan Cross’ front door. I was done moping and mourning that motherfucker. This was about getting back on my feet. By myself. Screw my ex and his romantic getaway in Bora Bora.
Adrenaline and sheer stubbornness spread through my knock, but I realized too late to stop the way it rattled the door. It wrenched open, and my hand froze mid-air. My brain straight up stalled. He wasn’t anything I’d expected. Broad shoulders filled the doorway, smiling eyes (a little flustered, but kind), hair I wanted to run my fingers through, and a neatly trimmed beard that said he spent time in the mirror, but never lingered.
“We have a bell.” The low timber of his voice trembled through me.
But before I could launch into an apology, a little girl darted out in a blur of blonde curls and pressed the doorbell.
“Ding, dong, ditch,” she chanted over and over, and loudly enough to go echoing down the street behind me.
“Sadie!”
She screamed with laughter and bolted back into the house, toward the deep voice that had just called out to her. When I looked up, the guy I assumed was Ethan Cross had a sheepish grin.
“Kids,” he said with a breathy laugh.
Years as a kindergarten teacher primed me for that very expression, for the specific tilt of his head as he said the word. I was always amused by parents’ mild embarrassment on behalf of their kids when they were just… being kids.
“She looks just like you.” I did what I always did in situations like this, and smoothed it over with something they were proud of.
“Thanks, but that’s only because my brother and I share a face.” He stuck out his hand. “Ethan Cross.”
