I stalk through the house, trying to work off all the negative energy so that I don’t look like a monster when I open the door. Apparently, it doesn’t exactly work because the first thing Elizabeth does is shrink back.
“Whoa,” she whispers.
“Whoa,” I echo because I’m an asshole.
Elizabeth swallows so loudly that it’s quite obvious she’s nervous. Her hands clasp in front of her, and she’s wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and canvas shoes. Very hipster of her. I wonder if she’s into playing the bad-ass rich girl who does whatever she wants and gives her middle finger to the world or if this is just how she normally dresses. She has a huge black duffel bag looped over her shoulder and a designer purse hanging off the crook of her arm.
I suppose, up close, she’s actually passably pretty. She has long hair that tumbles over her shoulders and down her back. It’s dyed this strange ash blonde color that sets off her light green eyes, bow mouth, high cheekbones, and pale skin. How anyone can be pale in Florida is a mystery to me. Clearly, Elizabeth isn’t the outdoor type. She’s quite petite. She’s on the thin side, but her shirt and those tight jeans do outline some stunning curves. And she’s average height, around five-six.
Once I’m done with my body scan and overt scrutiny, which I know is ridiculously rude, I clear my throat. “So. Elizabeth.”
She winces. She probably doesn’t want me to know who she is. She gives me this no-nonsense, I’m not about to answer questions about my family, background, life, or myself if it doesn’t pertain to the job look she’s probably perfected for the media over the years. Maybe everyone else too. Her chin tilts defiantly, and her eyes flash.
I’m slightly surprised to find I’d describe her as adorable when she tries to be tough. It’s obvious she has some sass because running away from home, leaving everything behind, even if it is temporary—yes, I have all the details from a few phone calls—takes guts.
“Are you going to let me in, or should I call Sam to come and pick me up?”
“No, I’ll let you in. But I want you to know this is a favor. If you suck at being a nanny or you upset Shade or I find that you’re any less fit for the job than anyone else, you’re out.”
“Thanks for that warm welcome. Let’s try this again, like normal people.” Elizabeth sticks out a hand. “Hi. I’m Elizabeth. I hate that name, so please call me Feeney. Everyone does. I’m here for the nanny position.”
I very nearly break into a smile. Those who know me know what a major achievement that is and I’m slightly floored at the impulse, even though I check it before it wrecks me. I haven’t done a lot of smiling in the past two years. My son aside, there hasn’t been much to smile about.
I make some sort of grunting noise that sounds very troll-like and leave the door open. Feeney, and what a ridiculous name that is, saunters in behind me and shuts it noisily. I wince. That’s a strike against her. I can’t stand door slammers.
“Shit. Sorry. I mean, shoot. Yeah. Shoot.”
I have my back turned and that crazy urge to smile is back. It very nearly happens, but I bite it back. Maybe she won’t get that strike against her after all. Yet. I’m sure it’s coming. A spoiled rich girl who was born rich, raised rich, and handed everything, can’t possibly handle this. I’m torn between the urge to make sure it doesn’t, just to have some amusement in my life and be less of an asshole and make sure that it does because there’s more than just me at stake here. There’s Shade, and so many other things.
I’ve given myself talks about sucking it up and getting on with it. I’m going to have to start, and that means giving Feeney the benefit of the doubt.
I watch her with this strange periphery look as she follows me. She’s taking it all in. The house. It’s not very impressive. There’s a reason for that. I could afford much much better, but I like living low-key. I like giving Shade a normal life. I was raised with nothing. Came from nothing. Scratched a living out of nothing. This house is something. It might not be a mansion in some glamourous area. It definitely didn’t cost six figures, but that’s alright. It blends in. The neighborhood is nice. Ten years old. Normal. It’s all very normal. The house has a two car garage, four bedrooms, two baths and is two stories. Normal. No pool. Maybe that’s not normal for Florida. Open concept. Normal. Regular furnishings you can actually eat off of and sit on. Normal.
“Where’s Shade?” It’s the first thing Feeney asks as she lets her duffel bag hit the floor with a thump and a sigh in the living room. She doesn’t wait for me to ask her to sit. She just does. The couch is micro-suede and is overstuffed and nearly swallows her whole.
My lips twitch when I notice how very ungracefully she tries to arrange herself on it when she’s basically a tangle of arms and legs. She finally sits upright, tugs her shirt down into place, swings one knee over the other, sets both hands on it, and gives me a direct look that mean she’s ready to talk about the job.
Right. The job.
“He’s not here. I didn’t want him to be here for this in case it didn’t work. It’s confusing for him.”
“I get that. I wouldn’t want my kids meeting strangers either.” Her lips purse like the next words are going to come out bitter, but surprisingly they don’t. Her voice is full of genuine feeling. “Thank you for considering me for the job. I know I’m not very qualified. I know you’re doing a favor for Samantha, or something. I don’t know how that all works but thank you. For even interviewing me.”
I don’t bother to tell her that even if I wasn’t super desperate, she’d already have the position. I could tell her a lot of things actually but I choose to keep that to myself at the moment.
“You can cook?”
“Not really.”
“Clean?”
“I can figure that out.”
“Have you looked after kids before?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“Casually?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“Do you like them?”
“Kids? Of course! I don’t think I would be here if I hated kids. I would have made Samantha lend me money and I would have gone to live in some hole in the wall apartment- uhhh, never mind. Sorry. I just would have found a different job if I didn’t like kids. I know that I’m not overly qualified, but I’ll try ridiculously hard. If you find that it’s not a good fit, feel free to turf me out.”
“Oh, I will. I can promise you that.”
“You know, I can see why you’ve gone through a few nannies now. Sam told me.”
I make that grumbly noise again that sounds like chewing rocks between my teeth. “My demeanor isn’t the reason I’ve had to fire nannies. Them not knowing how to take care of my son, how to keep him safe, how to do the basics, is.”
“Basics. Hmm. We’ll see.”
Jesus. The way Feeney looks at me, her face perfectly innocent but somehow still challenging, makes me feel like I’m the one being interviewed. This girl has courage, I’ll give her that. Girl. I know she’s almost twenty-three. I’m thirty. That’s not that much difference.