Chapter 1
Chloe
The never-endingsnowflakes of the winter season hit my windshield like tiny frozen warnings.
I flick on the wipers, watching them smear across the glass in lazy arcs as I follow the winding road into Valentine, Montana. The town appears gradually through the flurries— a scatter of brick storefronts, strings of white lights already hung for the holiday, and a massive wooden sign declaring, “Welcome to Valentine: Where Love is Always in Season.”
I snort. “Of course it is.”
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I don’t need to look to know it’s probably my mother, texting for the third time today to ask if I’ve “really thought this through.” As if moving back to my hometown for a temporary nanny position is some kind of reckless life decision instead of exactly what it is: practical.
Strategic.
A way to stay afloat while I wait for my real life to start.
Real life? What does that really mean anyway?
The teaching position at Sunnyside Elementary isn’t available yet. Won’t be available until Mrs. Henderson retires at the end of the school year. I have six months to wait, and turningdown a decent-paying nanny gig with room and board included would’ve been stupid.
Even if it means coming back to Valentine.
Even if it means living in someone else’s house, taking care of someone else’s children, putting my own life on pause.
Again.
I turn onto Main Street, my beat-up Honda Civic protesting the cold with a concerning rattle. The town looks exactly like I remember. It’s quaint bordering on precious, the kind of place that shows up in Hallmark movies and small-town romance novels. Heart-shaped benches on every corner. Cheesy, but effectively reiterating the town’s focus. A fountain in the town square with actual cherubs. Okay, I forgot about that. The local coffee shop called “Cupid’s Brew.”
And now that I’ve been gone for a few years, I see it’s all a bit much.
Yes, I grew up here, spent eighteen years suffocating under Valentine’s well-meaning charm before escaping to college in Missoula. I built a life there. Made great friends. Started my teaching career as a substitute, working my way toward something permanent, something that wasmine.
And then the funding cuts came, and the permanent positions dried up, and suddenly, I was twenty-seven years old with a teaching degree and no prospects, moving back in with my parents like some kind of failure.
Except I’m not moving back with my parents.
I made damn sure of that.
The Westerland house is on Sweethearts Lane —because of course it is— a tree-lined street on the north side of town. I slow as the house numbers climb, my stomach doing an uncomfortable flip that I refuse to acknowledge as nervousness.
It’s just a job.
A temporary job at that.
I’ve done harder things than taking care of two four-year-olds for six months.
The house appears on my left: a two-story craftsman with dark blue siding and white trim, a wide front porch, and flower boxes under every window that are currently empty except for a dusting of snow. It looks warm and lived-in. The kind of house that belongs in a children’s storybook.
I pull into the driveway and cut the engine.
For a moment, I just sit there, watching the snow collect on my hood while doubt creeps up my spine like the crawl of frost on the inside of breezy windows in winter. This is insane. I don’t know these people. Don’t know anything about Jonah Westerland except what the ad said:Single father seeking live-in nanny for twin girls, age four. Must be patient, reliable, and comfortable withveryearly mornings. Baker’s hours.
I looked him up, obviously. Found his bakery —Spice Spice Baby— owned and ran by several men from around the area. There were a few photos from the Valentine Tribune, although it should be labeled “tabloid” with the amount of gossip included inside. All issues showed him at various town events, always with two identical little girls clinging to his legs. Dark hair, serious eyes, the kind of face that doesn’t smile much for cameras.
He seemed... fine. Normal. Not a serial killer, which is really all I’m looking for in an employer.
My phone buzzes again.
This time I look.
