Home > Mr. Hot Grinch(3)

Mr. Hot Grinch(3)
Author: Lindsey Hart

“I can’t just freaking learn by watching videos on the internet. You have to have someone teach you how to cook.”

“That’s bull. You can definitely learn by watching videos. Anyway, should I call Luke or not?”

“I have zero references and experience.”

“That’s alright. He’d do it as a favor to me.”

I groan and sink down further in the passenger seat. “This sounds like it’s going to be a disaster.”

“Yeah,” Sam grins. “Probably. But at least you won’t have to marry some guy who probably has a shriveled up old weenus because he’s probably eighty.”

“Stop! My parents wouldn’t do that. Would they?” This whole thing kind of just proves to me that maybe I don’t know them as well as I thought. Or, like, at all because I never thought they’d pull something like this.

Sam digs out her brand-new phone in a very bright, sparkly pink case. She’s just had her nails done, and they basically match. They’re disgustingly long, a bit like talons, and they make a terrible clicking noise on the screen. Then Sam holds up the phone while I hold my breath. Maybe there’s still hope. Maybe Luke won’t answer. Maybe he won’t say yes. And maybe there’s some other way I can get on with my life without having to first undergo the ultimate humiliation.

But no, of course not. What little luck I might have had seems to have run out a long time ago.

Sam does some fast talking to this Luke guy. She mentions something about how his nanny quit on him over two weeks ago, and he’s been struggling. After a lot of convincing—in which I die even more inside, my heart shrinking into a hard kernel of nothingness—and Sam finally pulling the ‘it’s Christmas’ card, Luke agrees.

I know it because Sam hangs up with a big grin on her face. “You’re in.”

“Great.” I try to sound excited.

I am grateful. Truly. But I don’t know what my next move would be. Now, at least I have a safe place to go, and I don’t have to borrow money from Sam. Hopefully, it will take my parents a while to figure out where I am. And hopefully, they give up on their crazy ideas by that time. I can write my resume, search for other jobs, and apply. Fingers crossed I get one, so I can figure out what I’m going to do after that.

“I owe you,” I add because Sam doesn’t look convinced.

“You’re right. You sure as heck do.”

“I’ll treat you to a mani-pedi when I have some cash again. Girl’s day out. I promise.”

Sam snorts. “You don’t have to pay for that crap. My parents have an account. You know that. Treat me by coming out with me. You’re my best friend.”

“Okay, I will. Book a date and let me know when.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“Oh, and Sam? Can you wait a day to call my mom and tell her I’m safe but that I don’t want to talk to them? I know they’ll try and trace my freaking phone if I call.”

“You should throw it out the window.” Sam grins. “I’ll figure it out.” She holds out her hand. “Give it to me. I thought ahead and brought you one of my dad’s old ones. The number is private.” She produces a phone for me. “That way, they can’t track anything, and I’ll—accidentally on purpose—drop this one into the toilet.”

“Don’t flush it. For the love of all things holy, that’ll totally clog your parents’ sewer.”

Sam rolls her eyes and throws me that devious look she’s so well known for.

“I wasn’t going to flush it. There’s the pond by the house with the huge water feature. I was just going to chuck it in there.”

“You could donate it. That would be nicer.”

“You’re right. But that’s so not dramatic.”

I give her that look. My best friend look—the look I’ve been giving her since we were ten and ended up in the same boarding school. We were in the same school and classes until we turned eighteen. We even got into the same college, and she also studied business. She currently lives at home and doesn’t have a job even though we both graduated last year. I feel like we’re stuck in limbo, waiting for our parents to decide what we should do with our lives.

I also know Sam desperately wanted to pursue fashion design, and I wanted to be an English major. Both of those things were a big no-go with our parents, but maybe, I’m thankful. I don’t know. At least I have this degree to fall back on. I just really hate to admit how that was their argument all along.

Sigh.

“Don’t worry.” Sam sets her hand on my knee. “Everything is going to be fine.” She winks at me. “I’ll lend you some clothes. You can’t go and be a nanny while looking like a hobo with two outfits.”

“Jesus, Sam, that’s rude.”

She throws her head back and laughs. “I know. Sorry. Would it be better if I said you should go in looking like a boss bitch and not a basic bitch?”

“No! For the love of peanut butter and jam!” We weren’t allowed to swear in boarding school, and blaspheming was even worse, so those are our old go-to.

Hearing it just makes Sam laugh even harder.

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

 

Luke

 


This is a stupid plan. And not just the nanny bit. All of it.

I’m letting a stranger into my house. Never mind that I do know who she is because I’m computer literate, and I’m able to do a basic background search by putting her name into a few places. Never mind that I have Samantha’s recommendation. Ostensibly. Never mind that I do want my son to have someone there for him, especially because the past two years have been the worst kind of shit show. Never mind, never mind. Never mind that I need to do this because I’m out of other options.

I’m just worried about Shade. Worried he’ll get attached the way he does with the other nannies, and it will all go to shit.

Worried that our home is going to be thrown into chaos again.

Worried that after everything, this is just one more thing neither of us needs.

I guess, for the time being, I have to stuff my worries in a sack—that was my mom’s favorite saying—and get on with it because I really don’t have any other choice. I need a nanny, and Shade needs someone who is soft and compassionate to fill the void of not having a mother. I can be a lot of things, but being a mother is off the table. I just don’t know how to be one. Elizabeth Hardington needs to figure some things out. Hopefully, it will be a win-win, right?

Fuck. This is the worst plan in the history of worst plans.

I have zero time to worry about that, though, because the doorbell chimes, and I know she’s here. I know because I’m standing in the kitchen, and I have a security camera installed at the door. I can see her. I take a few seconds to observe the screen. She looks different from the odd photo I could find of her online. Her family is fairly private and is hardly ever in the media. While her father can easily be searched, it’s hard to find pictures of his daughter.

Elizabeth is not what I’d call beautiful in the Hollywood sense. Maybe in any sense. Or maybe I’m just a shitty judge because I haven’t looked at another woman since I met Brittany, and I have zero desire to do so now, even though she’s been gone for over two years.

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