by Jewel E. Ann
“Swayze, I’m not calling to guilt you. Just wanted to make sure you’re feeling okay. Clearly you are, so tell me about the interview. Is this a job-job or just a temporary job until fall?”
“Not sure yet.” I put her on Bluetooth as I pull my black Elantra away from the curb. “It’s a nanny job, evenings and some weekends. I’ll let you know.”
“Is it here in Madison?”
“Yes, just a few minutes from my place.”
“How was your session?” Conversation whiplash.
“Fine.”
“Fine is good?” She knows me too well.
I sigh. “Fine is a second session booked.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
Why? I’m not the one who still cries at the mention of my father’s name. If I weren’t recognizing seemingly complete strangers and recollecting things about them that happened before I was born, then I’d say I’m perfectly normal.
“Has Dr. Bunz suggested you sell the house yet?” Howard Bunz. It hurts my brain to even think about his name. I never even made it to a first session with him for reasons that are obvious.
“No. You’re not a doctor, Swayze. I don’t know why you’re so adamant about me selling the house. Dr. B hasn’t mentioned it, and I don’t think he will.”
“Dr. B, huh?”
She clicks her tongue. “That’s what all of his patients call him.”
“I can’t imagine why.” I grin as I pull onto the street, my navigation talking over my mom.
“Stop it. You and your obsession with names. Even if you don’t think you have issues over losing your father, your name thing alone is enough of a reason to see a psychiatrist.”
Eyes flitting between my rearview and side mirrors, I parallel park between two much more expensive vehicles on the street. This is a really nice neighborhood. I’m shocked to see any cars on the street at all.
“And by ‘name thing’ you mean my astute observations into the quirks of humanity? The need for people to be unique at all costs? The obsession with trend-setting?”
“Goodbye, Swayze. And good luck with the interview.” That’s her way of ending a conversation she knows she can’t win.
“Bye, Mom. Love you.”
I’m early, so I wait a few minutes before making my way up the long, tree-lined drive to the brick house with a high-pitched roof and white pillars at the door.
I press the doorbell and wait, sliding my hands into the pockets of my black dress slacks then dropping them to my sides. I cross them over my chest and end with tucking them back into my pockets just as the door opens. Nerves are crazy little creatures.
My eyebrows shoot up as my head jerks back. “Nate.”
CHAPTER THREE
Nate blinks a few times before craning his neck out the door, surveying the area. “What are you doing here?”
My eyes follow his line of vision around the lush, manicured yard and tall evergreens dividing his property from the neighbor’s. Are clowns going to jump out? Are there hidden cameras? What am I missing?
“Well, I’m…” I pull out my phone and show him the email “…here for an interview. See?”
His back stiffens as I shove my phone in his face, not meaning to come an inch from smacking him in the nose. My nerves were a little shaky on the way here. Nothing crazy. Typical interview jitters. But Nate answering the door has me trembling like an earthquake.
“S. Samuels?” He squints at the screen.
The whole world doesn’t need to know my name. S. Samuels makes me sound more mysterious like an author who doesn’t want to reveal her gender—or one with a shitty name. “It’s Swayze. In case you forgot.”
Nate rubs his forehead like he needs to erase the day from his memory. Something must be going wrong in his mind if he needs Dr. Greyson. It might be a little pot calling the kettle black of me to think that. I feel sorry for him. It’s not my intention to be one more thing he doesn’t want to deal with today.
“I didn’t forget. My sister-in-law scheduled these interviews. Sorry, I didn’t make the last name connection from…” his lips twist “…earlier.”
Earlier. Not years ago. What is going on? I’m losing it. Cancer. It has to be cancer in my brain—or aliens. Every year I get a physical. Cancer seems unlikely, but they miss shit. Happens all the time. Aliens are a better possibility. They must be real. Why else would NASA spend so much money to search for life beyond Earth?
His lip trapped between his teeth and the nervous pull to his brow says he’s not comfortable letting a stalker into his house, let alone interviewing said stalker for a nanny position.
I don’t need this job. Even if money gets tight, I can take on a few extra design jobs to get me by until fall. But this is no longer a job interview; it’s a mystery I have to solve. Nate? Why are you in my head?
“I have to apologize for earlier. I figured out how I know you or ‘of’ you. My older cousin used to date your friend, Toby Friedman. She told me about the hockey story and where you grew up—four houses down from Toby’s house. I’ve been down that street a million times. The house is still green. Anyway, she had a photo of you and Toby. I think your blue eyes made you unmistakable and … familiar. Hope I didn’t freak you out.”
Toby grew up four houses down from Nate, and they were both on the pond the day of the accident. But I don’t have any cousin who dated Toby. I’m just praying to God that Nate finds my explanation believable.
After a few seconds, he returns a sharp nod. “I haven’t seen Toby in years. Not since we graduated from high school.”
“Neither has my cousin.” A non-creepy smile attempts to settle on my face. Damn! I hope he buys it.
“Please, come in.”
I step inside, slipping off my shoes because the dark wood floor before me doesn’t have a single scuff mark on it. Trapping my tongue between my teeth, I don’t tell him what a beautiful house he has and what a huge step up it is from the green two-bedroom house on Gable Street.
I’m dying to know what he does and how he can afford to live in such an expensive house. Nate swore he’d never be one of those rich, snobby people he always despised—like the bastard who had an affair with his mom, until she broke it off and begged for his father’s forgiveness; he forgave her and took her back. Like Nate, he’s awesome.
How the hell do I know all this shit about him?
“Follow me.” He leads me to a set of double doors to our right. The woody, slightly sweet bergamot and vetiver of his aftershave rattles my senses. It’s sharp and sophisticated like the man before me.
“Wow.” I inspect the story-and-a-half library or office. I’m not sure which it is. There’s an imposing antique desk surrounded by three walls of bookshelves and a ladder—the cool kind that glides on rollers along the shelves. The other wall is all windows, and the far ends have panels of medieval stained glass like something salvaged from a church. Slivers of late afternoon light cutting through the trees filter in as a splattering of Technicolor around the room. “This is an amazing space.”
“Thank you. Have a seat.” Nate sinks into the leather desk chair while I take a seat on the cream tufted accent chair in front of his desk.
“Nice skeleton.” I chuckle at the life-sized anatomical human skeleton on castors next to his desk.
He gives it a quick glance before opening his laptop. “I’m an anatomy professor.”
“Really? That’s awesome and to think—” I bite my tongue again. This is so hard.
“To think what?” His arched brow calls me out.
Nate wasn’t going to college. Hockey. That was his life.
“Uh … to think that for the longest time I thought these life-sized skeletons were real skeletons. You know, when I was younger. Crazy, huh?”
More blinks from him make me feel like my chance at getting this job is nil.
“You didn’t castle. What’s up with that?” I shoot a nod to the chessboard on his desk.
He eyes it and then frowns, apparently realiz
ing I’m right and he’s two moves from losing his king. “You like chess?”
“No.”
“No?” His eyes shoot up at me.
I don’t. Never played the game in my life. But looking at the board, it’s all very familiar. Just like Nate. “It’s long, tedious, and boring. No offense.”
A smirk plays across his lips as he leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach. Since I saw him at the shrink’s office, he exchanged his jeans and tee for gray pants and an eggplant button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up just below his elbows. God! He looks sexy as hell, which is insane because he’s aged so much since … I don’t know. But I can’t stop admiring his sophisticated sexiness. When did I start having a thing for older men?
“You have a degree in education, but no teaching position?”
I clear my throat. “I’m hoping to get one for this fall. I’ve put in several applications.”
“No current employment?”
“Freelance graphic design.”
“Married? Children?”
“No.”
“Experience with children other than working as an associate teacher?”
“In high school, I babysat for neighbors and worked as a nanny full time for two summers during college. It’s on my résumé.”
He nods, without looking at my application and résumé, which I assume is what’s on his computer screen.
“CPR? First aid?”
“It’s …” On the résumé. “Yes. Both.”
“Ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“Speeding tickets?”
I chuckle. “No.”
“Parking tickets?”
The lunacy.
“No.”
“Smoker? Ever used any drugs? Consumption of alcohol? Medical issues like depression, diabetes, epilepsy?”
Who is this guy? Nate Hunt was laid back. The world could have ended and he would have said, “It’s not as bad as you think.” He worried about nothing. Trusted everyone. Totally chill all of the time.
“Not a smoker or drug user. I like candy, but it’s never put me into a diabetic coma. No epilepsy. As you know, I see a psychiatrist, but I’m not depressed. I’m doing it for my mom. She thinks I need to talk to someone about my feelings since my dad died. But really, I’m good.”
“Do you have questions for me?”
It’s my turn. That wasn’t so bad. This guy is older than I am, yet I feel a tremendous sense of pride. That seems condescending. He’s asking all the right questions. I want to give him a ribbon or merit badge for a job well done. “How many children? Your ad didn’t say.”
“One.” Sadness washes across his face as he glances back over at the chessboard and the matte-silver picture frame. I can’t see the actual picture from my chair.
“How old?”
“One month.”
“Oh, wow. Short maternity leave.”
Nate flinches. “My wife died giving birth.”
Grabbing the arms of the chair, I start to stand then sit back down. Shit! My instinct is to hug him. What the hell? He lost his wife. But … we don’t know each other—supposedly. Nate got married. It’s been too long. There’s so much I don’t know in spite of all that I do know.
“Nate … I’m so sorry.”
He bites his lips together for a moment before meeting my gaze again. “I go by Nathaniel. I haven’t been Nate since I was a kid.”
“Sorry, my cousin said Nate. Probably because you were a kid when she was dating Toby.”
“I leave for work by noon Monday through Friday. My sister-in-law, Rachael, will be here until 4:30, so I’ll need help from 4:30 until 8:00, except for Friday. I’m home by 6:00 on Fridays.” He drums his fingers on his desk.
“Weekends?”
“Every other Saturday from 7:30 until noon. And I have several conferences I’ll be attending in July and August, and I will require some additional help during those weeks. Now …” He stands. “I have two more interviews tonight. I’ll make a decision by the end of the week. Thank you for coming.”
His hand hangs in the air waiting for me to shake it—the huge hand of a gorilla, with callouses and knobby knuckles from jamming fingers. A sizable mitt made to wrap around a hockey stick, not hold a red pen to grade papers. I stand and hook my purse over my arm and slip my hand into his. Part of me expects his touch to be familiar, but it’s not. I don’t think. No light bulb. No electrical tingling. I don’t think so anyway. My hand’s too shaky to really feel anything.
“Thank you, Nate—thaniel.” I bite my lip in a grimace.
“I’ll show you out.” He follows me to the front door.
I slip on my shoes as he opens it. “Do you have a son or a daughter?”
When he smiles, it’s the ghost of the boy that I recognized at Dr. Greyson’s office. For a few seconds, he beams with happiness and pride. “Daughter. Her name is Morgan.”
Once I step out into the warm June air, I turn. “Morgan. That’s a great name.”
“I named her after …” His eyes and mouth turn downward as he stares at his hands, his left ring finger still wearing a platinum reminder of what he lost.
After what? Now I need to know that too. But I can’t cause him any more pain by asking, and I can’t hug him even if he desperately needs a hug. And believe me, no human has ever needed a hug more than Nathaniel Hunt does at this very moment. He has the defeated appearance of an NFL kicker who just lost the winning field goal for the Super Bowl.
“I named her after …” He clears his throat and glances up at me again with a pleading vulnerability—nothing like the stranger shooting questions at me just minutes ago.
“Someone special or something meaningful?” I smile because it’s all I have to give to a man who doesn’t know me. My words are sincere, even if wholly inadequate to comfort him.
“Yes,” he whispers.
I take another step backwards. “I’d love the opportunity to meet Morgan. But if you find a better fit, then it was nice meeting you and good luck.” My teeth scrape along my bottom lip several times as I nod. “You’re going to be just fine, Nathaniel. I’m certain of it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The all-black Harley Davidson Breakout parked on my street brings a grin to my face as I pull in behind it. Two months ago I met Griffin Calloway, a Harley Davidson technician and mechanic with tattoos and muscles of a gym rat which my mom assumes come from steroids.
Griffin is clean. The guy owns some high-end blender, a juicer, and he’s always shaking a protein drink in one of those flip-top bottles with the stainless steel blender ball. I’ve gone grocery shopping with him twice, not counting our first encounter. Yep, we met at the grocery store. Over half of everything he buys is produce, and the other half is lean meat, nuts, and protein powder in bulk.
I forgot my wallet the day we met. He handed the cashier a fifty to pay for my bottle of wine, the bag of chipotle lime corn chips, two 55% dark chocolate bars, and a twelve count box of super absorbent tampons.
When I insisted he give me his address so I could send him a check, he wrote his number on the back of my receipt and told me to call him when I was ready to buy him dinner as payback. I was on day three of my five-day cycle. I called him two days later.
“I tried texting you.” Griffin keeps his gaze on the TV. NASCAR.
Eventually, I’ll stop pinching myself at the sight of this man in a sleeveless shirt and jeans as ripped as the body that wears them when I walk into my dinky one-bedroom apartment. He usually has a bandana covering his smooth shaven head, but not today. Griffin Calloway is two-hundred and thirty pounds of raw sex, and he’s mine.
Pinch.
“Sorry. I had my phone silenced, and I forgot to check it before I headed home.” That and an all-too-familiar stranger crashed into my world today, and I haven’t been the same since.
“Another lover?” The corner of his mouth quirks, but his eyes don’t move from the TV.
“Griff, I have many lovers. How do you think I pay for my groceries?” I slip off my shoes and hang my purse on the hook by the door.
He rubs his hand over his mouth, hiding his grin. “Get over here so I can fuck some sense into you.”
“I have to finish a website design by morning.”
“Then you’d better do less talking and more stripping.” Griffin shrugs off his shirt revealing a sea of taut, inked skin. Another pinch-me moment.
I’m an average girl. Average height. Average weight. Average boobs. My hair is just past my shoulders, an average shade of blond. My eyes are blue, not too dark, not too light—average.
Griffin is the opposite of average. I’m still trying to figure out his attraction to me. Maybe I’ll have to discuss my average self-esteem with Dr. Greyson at our next appointment.
“Tell me about your day.” He stands and removes his jeans and boxers in one fluid motion—still watching the race.
I’m not having sex with him while he watches NASCAR. Even this average girl has standards. Crossing my arms over my chest, I wait for him to make eye contact with me. He hasn’t shown me his sable eyes since I walked through the door.
Griffin sits on my black leather sofa. “Swayz, your day. Hop on and tell me about it.” He strokes himself.
Still no eye contact.
It’s not easy to act unaffected by his large hand fisting his thick cock, but who says “hop on?”
“You’re not one of your bikes you work on.” I grab the remote from the arm of the sofa and shut off the TV. “I’m not hopping on.”
Playful brown eyes finally focus on me, accompanied by a cocky grin.
“It looked like you were masturbating to NASCAR.” My teeth trap my grin. I want to be mad at him for this anti-romantic gesture, but he keeps stroking himself, and all I can do is squeeze my legs together.
“I love NASCAR.” White teeth peek out from his full lips. “How was your appointment with the new shrink?”
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.
I may need to figure out why he’s attracted to me, but I don’t have to figure out why I’m crazy about him. He’s sexy, comfortable in his skin, and so damn goofy it’s ridiculous.
