going well—but you could do it, right? You worked with kids, before. Right?”
Hannah blinked. Could she do it? Be some kind of private nanny, two years after her career in childcare had collapsed as spectacularly as an under-hairsprayed bouffant? Frankly, she had no idea.
But something bright and hopeful and awfully excitable sparked inside her at the thought. Which was sad, and ridiculous, and dangerous, because, “I highly doubt Nate would want me watching his kids.”
Evan frowned as he started peeling parsnips. “Why the hell not? You’re exactly the sort of person I’d want watching my kids.”
Well… that was sweet. So sweet she might do something painfully embarrassing, like thank him. “I can’t, Evan. You know I can’t. I can’t even pass a DBS check.”
“Is that necessary,” Ruth asked innocently, “if you’re working privately?”
“I have no idea,” Hannah lied.
“Really? That seems like the kind of thing you’d know.”
Hannah sighed. “Fine. No, it isn’t technically necessary. But the legal aspect doesn’t matter! I just… I don’t think Nate would want someone with violent convictions around his children.”
“Violent convictions,” Ruth snorted. “You’re so dramatic. It was just a car.”
The car of the town’s wealthy, handsome, beloved sweetheart. Which Hannah had destroyed in a fit of rage. With a cricket bat. In front of almost a hundred people.
Sometimes she thought she should’ve destroyed the bastard’s kneecaps for what he’d done to her sister. But it was a good thing she hadn’t; she was too uptight to survive in prison.
“Whatever,” Hannah sighed. “Look, it’s a nice idea, but… I just don’t know. I don’t see it happening, that’s all.”
“But if it did,” Evan said, “you would be…?”
She huffed. “I don’t know.” Over the fucking moon and highly suspicious of my own good fortune.
She couldn’t say that, because Hannah would rather die than ever be so openly enthusiastic. She liked Evan—she really did—but he wasn’t family. He could not be permitted to see the messy and undignified depths of her overactive emotional muscle. Anyway, she barely had to feign her hesitation, because there was one part of this otherwise unicorn-perfect notion that was giving her pause.
Living with and working for a guy like Nate Davis? Something about the idea felt… dangerous. Maybe because, even though her lamentable teenage crush on him had died, he was still undeniably attractive. But that shouldn’t make her feel strange—Hannah found lots of people attractive. In theory. You know, to look at. Like a nice picture. So, what was the problem?
While she sorted through her usual bog of emotions—heavy and messy and capable of preserving dead things for far too long—Ruth and Evan stared at her expectantly in that way couples had, like they were the same person in two different bodies.
She huffed again—Hannah was fond of a good huff—and said, “I suppose it would be acceptable. Theoretically. If it paid well. Perhaps.”
Evan grinned as if she’d just given enthusiastic consent. “Great! I’ll pass on your number.”
3
Hi Nate,
Not sure if you saw the emails I sent on Sunday, but I’m getting kind of nervous about this exhibition. Because everything’s shit. I have produced a pile of shit. Are you out of office right now by the way????
Regards, John
John,
You said your last collection was shit and it sold for fifty grand. Relax.
Nate.
“You call her yet?”
Nate gave a deep, deep sigh. So deep, it felt like it had come from his spine instead of his chest. And yet, it still was not enough to express how irritated he was by his little brother.
“No, Zach. I did not call Hannah in the thirty minutes since you arrived and gave me her number.”
Zach leant against the breakfast island and grinned, early morning sun gleaming off his jet-black hair. “It’s been more like an hour, mate.”
“An hour I spent unpacking while you hung around looking pretty.” Nate glared at his brother over the cardboard box of saucepans in his arms. “Feel free to help at any time, by the way.”
Zach’s grin widened. “I’m watching the kids.”
Beside him, Beth perched on a stool while Josh stood beneath her. She was merrily slathering his hair with butter.
Nate ground his teeth, closed his eyes, and took another calming breath. It didn’t work.
Maybe he should call Hannah. Right now. And hire her on the spot, regardless of references or experience, because after a week without the support network he’d built up in London, he was at the end of his fucking tether.
Aaaand his daughter was still dressing his son like a Sunday roast. He should probably focus on that, shouldn’t