I’m gripping the wheel tighter as I pull onto the private road, my tires crunching over gravel. Even the mailbox at the end of the road is fancy, with gold letters spelling out “Silverwood” in the front of it.
Then, after a curve and a small bridge over a pond, I see it- the Silverwood estate. It’s not a house. It’s a freaking mansion. There’s a golden security gate with a camera, and I have to stop and squint at the tiny button panel.
I roll down my window, as rain splatters into the car and some on my face. I quickly jab the gray button before I lose my nerve.
“Um, hello?” My voice comes out small and echoey in the drizzle. I immediately want to crawl under the seat and die.
No response comes from the intercom. Instead, the massive gates begin to swing open silently, like something out of a gothic horror movie. I roll my window back up with the manual crank, my teeth chattering slightly.
I drive through the gates, following the winding road as it curves through stands of ancient pines. After about half a mile, the trees give way, revealing their home.
The Silverwood mansion stretches before me, a sprawling stone structure that seems to go on forever. It’s at least three stories tall, with countless windows.
A circular driveway surrounds an elegant fountain, which leads to the grand entrance. To the right of the mansion is a beautiful pond, partly frozen over, with several parking spaces nearby marked ‘guest.’ I pull into one of these spots, suddenly hyperaware of how out of place my beat-up Honda looks among the pristine surroundings.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, tucking a strand of red hair behind my ear and making sure my eyeliner isn’t smeared everywhere. I’ve worn my most professional outfit, black slacks and a dark green sweater that brings out my eyes, but I suddenly feel woefully underdressed.
“You’ve got this,” I tell my reflection, not believing any of my words. “You’re a professional nanny with three years of experience. You’re qualified. You belong here.”
I step out of the car, the cold air biting at my cheeks. My old black sneakers, which are the only comfortable shoes I own, make squelching noises on the wet pavement as I walk toward the entrance of the mansion.
The front door is massive, made of dark wood with intricate carvings that probably cost more than my entire apartment. Before I can even lift my hand to knock, it swings open silently.
It’s like they’ve been waiting for me.
Standing in the doorway is the most imposing alpha I’ve ever seen.
He’s really tall, with broad shoulders that fill out his perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His black hair is cut in a severe undercut, and his ice-blue eyes seem to pierce right through me. A faint scar crosses his jaw, somehow making him even more intimidating.
“You must be from Tiny Paws,” he says, his voice deep and smooth. “I’m Kieran Silverwood.”
His scent hits me right away. He smells like fresh pine needles. It wraps around me, and to my horror, my body reacts instantly. Heat pools low in my belly, and I feel a trickle of slick between my thighs.
What the hell is happening to me? First Drake’s scent, and now Kieran? Am I turning into some kind of scent-whore?
“Yes, I’m the nanny,” I say, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Francine.”
His eyes flick over me, assessing. “You look young to be a nanny.”
“I’m sure twenty-six is old enough,” I reply before I can stop myself. “Nearly thirty, actually.”
His eyebrows rise slightly in surprise at my quick retort, and his lips twitch into a smile. “You’re a funny omega, Francine.”
I feel heat creeping up my neck at his words. His pinecone scent is overwhelming, making it hard to think clearly.
“Please, come inside,” he says, stepping back to allow me in.
The floor is polished marble, the ceiling soars at least twenty feet above, and a crystal chandelier hangs in the center. My old sneakers squeak obscenely against the pristine floor, announcing my commonness with every step.
A man in a formal butler’s uniform appears from nowhere, extending his hands for my coat.
I shrug out of my bubble jacket, wincing as I notice the rip on the side where cotton stuffing is starting to poke through. The butler takes it with the same expression he might use to handle radioactive waste, polite but cautious, and hangs it on a coat rack where it looks pathetically out of place next to what appears to be cashmere and wool.
“I’d like you to meet the family,” Kieran says, gesturing for me to follow him. “They’re all eager to meet Nora’s potential new nanny.”
We walk through several opulent rooms before entering what must be the living room, though it’s larger than my entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the pond, and the stone fireplace is big enough to roast a whole cow.
There are four people in the room: three men, and a little girl with curly brown hair who’s curled up in an armchair, reading a book.
