And against my better judgement, I’d let her stay. Yesterday, she wore a white tank that clung to her like it had no business doing so, faded jeans that sat too well on her hips, and a wide belt buckle that caught the sunlight with her every move. Her boots were scuffed. Her eyes were sharp. And her hair—an unruly mane of light brown waves spilling over her shoulders, wild like her mouth, like her presence.
Now, in my kitchen, she’s in similar attire. Her hair’s twisted back today, half-up in some chaotic knot she probably didn’t spend more than thirty seconds on. Loose strands curl at her temples and behind her ears. She was beautiful yesterday. She’s even more so today.
Which is a problem.
Because I shouldn’t be thinking that. Ican’tthink that. It’s wrong. Weird. Complicated as hell. I should’ve just kept to my word. In saying no. There are rules about things like this. Unspoken ones. She’s off-limits.She’s Bradley Mitchell’s little sister,and I’ve known her since she was in her early teens, too young to be in a house alone without someone watching her. Back when her teeth were in braces, and her laugh was way too loud. It was Teddy who changed my mind. He didn’t melt down when she came in. Didn’t go stiff like he did with Tara, or full-on panicked like the others before her. He just… stayed himself. Quiet. Focused. Guarded. But not unravelled. And that alone feels like a goddamn miracle.
Something about her sits right with him.
Not perfect, but steady enough that I notice the way his shoulders don’t tense. The way his hum stays soft under his breath, not sharp and broken. Just as he did yesterday, and for me, that matters more than anything else. So, I talk. I ramble, actually, pacing the kitchen like a madman while she sits, calm as ever, nodding along.
“Breakfast is always cereal or toast. School drop-off’s at eight-thirty sharp. Pick-up’s three. He lines up his cars after meals. Don’t touch them until he’s done. He hums if he’s unsettled, but he also hums if he’s comfortable. You’ll have to learn the difference. Bedtime’s usually around six-thirty. He knows the routine, and he’ll walk you through it. Just stick to what he says. And no surprises… They don’t end well.”
She soaks it up like a sponge, repeating it back to me, asking questions when I pause, like she’s actually listening. Like she wants to get this right. When I finally stop talking, when I’ve said more than I meant to, she just smiles and tells me she’ll be fine.
Iwantto believe her.
Yet, I grab a pen, scribble my number on a Post-it, and slap it on the fridge. “Call me,” I say, voice rougher than I intend, “if anything happens. Anything at all.”
That’s how I leave them. Olivia Mitchell at my table, casually cutting Teddy’s toast crusts, while he hums to himself, lining up Lego cars beside his cereal bowl, and me walking out the door with a tightness in my chest that hasn’t let up since she arrived. Because the truth is—Olivia Mitchell shouldn’t be in my house. Shouldn’t be in my space. Shouldn’t be anything to me except Bradley’s kid sister. But she’s something else now. My son’s babysitter.
And I have no goddamn clue what the hell to do about it.
The station is loud. Louder than usual.
Hudson Wood, though nobody calls him anything but Woody, is halfway through some heroic retelling of his weekend footy match. I’d put good money on the story ending with him tripping over his own boots, but he’s carrying on like he won the bloody grand final. John Reynolds, known just as Reynolds, is laughing too hard, and Tom Wilson, better known as Stokes, because the bloke says “stoked” at least twice in every sentence, is already nursing his second long black. These are my people. My team. My family in a way that doesn’t need explaining. Hell, I’d take a bullet for any one of them, and not just because it’s the job.
Normally, I’m right in the middle of it all—stirring the pot, tossing out one-liners, playing the golden retriever to Bradley Mitchell’s broody Rottweiler. That’s our thing. He scowls, I grin, balance restored. But today? My head’s not in it. Today, my head’s back at home. More specifically, on Olivia Mitchell being in my space.
“You’re quiet,” Reynolds says, pointing his pen at me. “That’s never a good sign.”
Woody leans forward. “It’s not Teddy, is it? Kid’s alright?”
“Yes and no.” My hand scrubs down my jaw, like that will settle the unease gnawing under my ribs. Across the room, Bradley’s eyes cut to mine. Not glaring. Not scowling. Just watching. Which is worse, because it means he knows I’m up to something. And I am. Sort of.
I push out of my chair. “Back in a sec.”
Bradley’s already in his office. I follow, shut the door behind me, and drop into the chair opposite his desk. He leans back, arms folded over his chest like he’s been waiting for me to confess something.
“This can’t be good,” he says flatly.
“Depends on your definition of good.” My grin feels thin, stretched over nerves that won’t quit. He doesn’t bother replying. Just sits there with that Mitchell stare. So I rip the Band-Aid. “Olivia’s working for me.”
“Pardon?” His brows pull tight. “Working for youhow?”
“Babysitting Teddy. She, uh, started this morning.”
The silence that follows is so heavy, it presses against my ribs. Bradley leans back further, jaw ticking hard. “No.”
I can’t help it. I grin. “Bit late for that, mate. She’s already making art out of his toast crusts.”
“Sebastian.” Bradley’s voice is a warning.
My hands spread wide. “What? She wanted a job, and I just happened to desperately need someone I could trust.”
He sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. “So I’m guessing that means no good news from Tiana leaving?”
“Tara, you mean?”
