“I took a look at your résumé. It was thin.” His eyes sweep over me slowly, like he’s peeling away layers and peering right inside me.
Rude. Efficient, but rude.
“Some people fill their résumés. I prefer to let my results speak louder.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Interest? Annoyance? I can’t tell. Whatever it is, it pins me in place.
“Social work degree from City College of Chicago. Graduated a year and a half ago.” He rattles off my credentials like he’s committed them to memory.
There are things he doesn’t know.
My failed art career. How badly I need this job.
How much I need to make this work without asking Kyle for help.
But I’m not about to offer that up.
“That’s right,” I confirm.
“And you’ve worked with children but have never been employed as a nanny.”
“I babysat often in high school. And I worked with several children while getting my degree, mostly through art.”
He hums, low and skeptical. “You need money.”
“I need a job. The money comes with it.” My tone lands calmer than he probably expects.
His mouth curves slightly, not mocking, just acknowledging the honesty. “True enough. Some people are willing to work for it rather than expect it.”
His words have weight, not cruelty, and they leave a faint spark of challenge between us.
Roman pushes off the desk, moving toward me with quiet precision. His expression gives nothing away; I can’t tell if he’s about to hand me a drink or dismiss me entirely.
He circles slowly, deliberate, like a collector debating a piece of art he isn’t sure he wants to buy. When he stops behind me, the air itself feels heavier.
Roman straightens, the movement unhurried, powerful enough to make my skin prickle. He looks like a man who never rushes, because the world bends to his pace.
“Why do you want this job?”
“Because I’m good with children and enjoy being around them. And, like you said, I need the money.”
“Why do you need it?”
“The usual,” I say carefully. “Bills. Family.”
He studies me. Not coldly, but with a kind of curiosity that feels dangerous. It’s the look of a man who doesn’t believe in coincidences—or weakness.
“And your family?” His voice drops, the question quieter but heavier. “Where are they?”
“Around,” I say carefully.
He watches me like he already knows that isn’t the full answer. “Doing what?”
“Surviving,” I reply, soft but firm.
His jaw flexes. He doesn’t like evasive answers, yet there’s no impatience. Only the faintest trace of intrigue, like I’ve managed to surprise him.
“Are you hiding something, Miss Denning?”
