Chapter 1
Serenity
“Yeah, I mean, you’re pretty hot for an older chick.” That’s what this man—who is onlyfour years older than me, thank you very much—said to me over a mediocre bottle of Bordeaux he ordered with the same confidence he probably used to choose his entirely too-strong cologne.
I stared at him, silent, letting the words hang in the air like a bad smell while I wondered whether Toni had finally snapped. Maybe this was her revenge for all the times I gave her the most difficult parents because she could handle them.
This was what happened when your employees found love: they started touting the benefits ofbeing in lovewhile those of us not in love—namely, me—got shoved onto dating apps, into blind setups, and onto bar stools where you met men like Samuel.
Samuel was forty-five, an investment banker from Houston with a full head of hair—mostly—and straight white teeth that practically glowed in the low golden light of the wine bar. He clearly believed both made him an irresistible catch. Sure, he was wealthy with a stable career, but he lacked polish, andhe wasn’t nearly as interesting as he thought. In fact, the condensation sliding down my glass was a more interesting conversationalist.
“You’re older than me,” I reminded him, taking a sip of the Bordeaux and resisting the urge to grimace. It was an abysmal vintage, which made it perfect for this date.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, but men age like fine wine and women, well… you know.”
I tilted my head, a small smile curving my lips. “No. Idon’tknow. Please, enlighten me.”
His smile faltered. “Come on, you know what I mean.”
“I really don’t. But I’m dying to hear the rest of this sentence. Go on.”
A flicker of discomfort crossed his face, the first uncertainty he’d shown all night.
I leaned forward, resting my chin in my hand and watching him squirm. Part of me enjoyed it. The other part wondered, briefly and traitorously, if this was why I was over forty and still alone. Too mouthy. Too direct. Hard to please, successful, and I didn’t take shit from men, especially when I was supposed to smile while they insulted me.
“You’d have more luck out here if you were easier,” he muttered into his glass.
I barked out a laugh. “Why should I make things easier for you, Samuel? You just insulted me. And now what? I should pat you on the head like a good boy for it?”
His cheeks went blotchy red. He pushed back from the table so abruptly his chair screeched along the polished floor. “I don’t have to put up with this. Not fromyou.”
“Of course you don’t,” I said, keeping my voice calm, almost bored. “I’m sure there’s a daycare letting out where you’ll find a girl at your maturity level. Run along.”
He sputtered and, failing to come up with a cutting comeback, stalked out.
The waitress approached a moment later, her smile twitching but trying really hard not to. “Bad date?”
“Almost as bad as this Bordeaux. Bring me a glass of something red, Italian, and full-bodied, please. Hold the regret.”
She laughed, taking the bottle with her and returning with a gorgeous glass of Barolo, which almost made Samuel’s presence worth it.
Almost.
I sipped it slowly, savoring the flavors as they exploded on my tongue. Nothing beat a good glass of wine, especially after a trying interaction with a man who thought he was God’s gift to womankind. “Damn good wine,” I said to myself when it was finished, paying the bill and heading out into the warm night air.
Another bad date behind me meant I had a few hours left to head back to the office and finish some work I’d left incomplete to go on a date I didn’t even want to be on.
It was just another confirmation that romance wasn’t in the cards for me. I wasn’t even upset about it anymore, not the way I’d been once I’d gotten over my first and last heartbreak in my twenties. Or in my thirties when I thought there was still hope.
I’d given up on love and poured all of my considerable time and energy into Elite Nanny Service, growing my business to the point that I had a waiting list, a big fat bank account that allowed me designer shoes, and a wardrobe a twenty-year-old me never dreamed possible. The trade-off, in my opinion, was well worth it. Louboutins don’t leave you hanging.
I stepped inside the building that housed my baby. It was dark except for the soft glow from the hall sconces and the ambient lavender scent that drifted from the diffusers Toni refused to stop refilling. I sent her a text.
Me: No more lavender.
Instead of responding, Toni’s face appeared on my screen, and I answered with a laugh. “No more lavender. Seriously. It’s making me sick.” My heels clicked on the pale oak floors. The space was exactly what I’d wanted when I opened the Houston branch: sleek and modern, but not cold. No one, not even the ultra-wealthy, wanted to walk into a sterile environment to hire someone they had to trust with their children. Warm lighting, plush chairs, watercolor prints, and a gallery wall of candid photos featuring nannies holding babies, toddlers painting, and teenagers grinning beside the women who helped raise them. It was a space where families felt welcome.
It was a place where my nannies felt needed and valued.
