by Aria Ford
“Yes,” she answered slowly, trying to recover from the surprise of my less than conventional greeting. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Fine. Good, then come in. Please follow me back to my office. That’s where the interview will be conducted.”
She did as she was told, another quality I appreciated in a woman, and she did so without saying another word. I could feel her behind me, though, checking out the house and trying to figure out if this was the kind of place she could see herself working. I wanted to laugh at that and tell her that impressing my daughter was the only thing she needed to concern herself with, but I kept my mouth shut too. My daughter’s denial of this woman was inevitable, as inevitable as death and taxes, but that didn’t mean I wanted her out almost as soon as she stepped inside. If nothing else, I wanted to get another good look at her, maybe see if there was a way I could get her number before I had to show her the door. I waited to talk to her until I was back behind my desk and she’d taken one of the smaller chairs across from me.
“So, why don’t we start by you telling me your name?”
“Jessica. My name is Jessica Larson.”
“Right,” I answered, only half listening as I looked over her resume. “And tell me, Ms. Larson—”
“Oh please, just Jessica. I’m not used to being addressed so formally.”
“And I’m not used to being interrupted, but I guess we all have to get used to change. That’s fine though; it’s your right to be called whatever you like. So, Jessica, why don’t you tell me what someone with a double major in French and art history is doing applying for a job as a nanny.”
“Honestly? I need the money. It turns out that none of the galleries are hiring at the moment, and when I graduated from school, my university job was no longer an option. I can assure you, though, I’m very good with children. I spent a good deal of time babysitting when I was in high school, not to mention taking care of my siblings. And I’ve taken care of children from divorced homes plenty of times, so I understand the delicacies that come along with that.”
“Anna’s mother and I are not divorced.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry; I don’t know why, but I just assumed her mother was no longer in the picture.”
“She isn’t. My wife passed away a couple of years back. She died of a heart attack due to a previously undiagnosed congenital heart defect.”
“Oh my God! I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to be so insensitive. Really, I’m appalled at myself. And I’m so very sorry for your loss too.”
“Please,” I held up a hand, trying to stop her flow of words and maybe also put her out of her misery, “you don’t need to apologize. It was a reasonable assumption, based on the position you’re interviewing for. And there’s no need for your condolences, either, although it’s a kind gesture. I still miss my wife, I do, but I’ve already done my grieving for her. That may sound insensitive, but it was necessary in order for me to keep caring for Anna the way she deserves.”
“Of course,” she answered quickly, her beautiful green eyes still wide with shock and perhaps a little bit of shame to go on top of it. “I mean, that makes sense. I don’t want to say that I understand because I’ve never been in that position, but I hope you know what I mean.”
“I believe so.”
This girl, this Jessica, seemed nice enough, and Lord knew I ached to get her into bed, but I had my misgivings about hiring her. The fact that she hadn’t worked with kids since high school didn’t exactly inspire worlds of confidence, nor did the idea that she would only jump ship the moment she found a job that was actually in her field. I got ready to vocalize these doubts when Anna wandered into my office. I was sure she would put an end to our interview in her own painfully unique way.
“Who are you?” Anna asked around the thumb that still found its way to her mouth more often than it should in a girl her age. I watched her closely, waiting for the ax to fall, and although she hadn’t started screaming yet, I was completely confident that she would do so at any minute.
“Jessica. But you can call me Jess if you want. That’s what my friends call me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“That’s right; you don’t. So maybe it’s better if you call me Jessica, at least for a while.”
As stupid as it would seem to me later, I held my breath as I watched this exchange take place. My eyes darted from my daughter to Jessica and then back to my daughter again. With the other three women I had interviewed, Anna had already been flipping her shit by this point. She hadn’t even let any of the other three get that many words out before she’d started screaming and crying and telling anyone who would listen how much she hated them. With Jessica, it was different. Instead of starting to shout, she actually took another step into the room, another step, and then another, and then another after that. Pretty soon, she stood so close to Jessica that she could have climbed into her lap easily, something I half expected her to do. Although she didn’t do anything quite that presumptuous, she did reach out with one chubby little hand and touch Jessica’s hair, stroking it gently with wide eyes.
“This is pretty.”
“My hair?” Jessica asked gently, her voice full of the smile that slowly spread across her face. “Thank you, Anna. That’s very nice of you to say. You know what?”
“What?” Anna asked her, sounding as if she was about to learn the greatest secret of the universe.
“I think your hair is pretty too.”
“You smell nice too,” Anna went on, still stroking Jessica’s hair lightly. “You smell pretty.”
“Thanks!” Jessica laughed, never moving or disrupting Anna’s exploration once as the two of them had this oddest of all first meetings, “You’re very sweet, Anna. Very, very sweet.”
“I’m gonna call her Jess, Daddy, okay? And I’m gonna get some milk.” She announced these two things as if they were somehow related. As soon as Anna delivered her message, she gave Jessica’s hair one last longing stroke and then retreated from my office as if what I had just witnessed hadn’t been some small miracle. When I looked at Jessica, she still smiled, her face a little bit flushed. To me, it looked like a particularly juicy steak I would love to sink my teeth into. I had no idea if she could tell what I was thinking, but I very much hoped not. It wouldn’t do to start things off that way with her, not with my daughter’s new nanny.
“She’s adorable,” Jessica started, looking as if she had plenty of other positive things to say, things the three applicants who came before her would never have associated with my little daughter.
“You’re hired,” I said in reply, ignoring the frank surprise all over her face. “Can you start on Monday morning? I leave early, which means you’ll have to be here earlier. Does that work for you?”
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My daughter’s babysitter just asked me to take her virginity - and it’s screwing with my head.
The reasons I can’t f*ck Jessica:
She’s my employee.
She’s a virgin.
She’s twenty one.
I will only want more and more.
Saving lives for a living is what I do.
But running a medical practice and being a single dad means my life is chaotic.
I needed a babysitter – and I got so much more than I bargained for.
I want her so f***ing bad, but I’ll have to keep my d*ck in my pants.
Maybe there’s a reason we met.
I’m seeking funding to research a cure that will change lives.
And the head of the philanthropic organization will only support married couples.
Taking Jessica’s virginity is a bad idea – but faking a marriage isn’t. I just hope I’ve got the self-restraint to pull this off.
PREVIEW OF: UNEXPECTED
A Secret Baby Romance
CHAPTER ONE
Caleigh
I’ll never make it there in time, and then Dominic will dock me a fu
ll hour’s pay for being ten minutes late. I can’t believe my stupid alarm didn’t go off.
Oh. Maybe I should try charging my phone so the alarm will work and stuff. Shit. My fault.
I scramble into my uniform and pull my blond hair into a high ponytail. I love my long hair, but customers don’t exactly want long hair in their food. I always feel like wearing it in a bun would mean I’m either a ballerina (I’m not) or that I’m old (I’m twenty-two). So ponytail it is. I nearly crash into my roommate, Amy, as I rush down the stairs from our apartment. Amy works nights at a nursing home, so she’s just now coming home. We mostly pass each other in the hall like this.
“Please tell me you’re running late because you hooked up.”
“Forgot to plug in my phone.”
“Come on, Caleigh. Give me some hope—pretend you went out and picked up a hot guy.”
“I stayed up bingeing season one of This Is Us.”
“Oh my God, you’re killing me. I never meet any guys under the age of eighty because of where I work, but you’re with the public all day. Pick up a guy once in a while. Let me live vicariously through you.”
“Trust me, the guys I meet at the restaurant—they try to grab my ass and then don’t leave a tip,” I told her. “I gotta run. Sweet dreams!”
I ran to the bus stop and barely made it. I was at work only three minutes late. I tied my apron on and went to unload the dishwasher and polish the water glasses. When Dominic came in, he was talking on the phone and barely noticed me. The kitchen was crowded, which gave me some cover. I let myself relax a little and kept busy.
“Hey, North,” my boss said, “go change the specials. We’re doing Bucatini all’Amatriciana.”
I dried my hands and got the glass chalk out of a drawer. I love doing the lettering on the specials board. I chose orange for the letters because it’s a fiery sauce, and a little red for a drop shadow on the curls. I used to get this excited about sketching skirts in my intro fashion class, but that was before everything went to hell and the highlight of my week became writing the name of a pasta special on a notice board by a door.
I would have graduated a month from now, would have had my degree if everything hadn’t gone wrong. I was three semesters in when a drunk driver crossed the center line and took out my parents and my little brother on a Sunday night. They’d taken Josh to see a monster truck show because he had turned twelve the week before. They were just driving home, not hurting anybody, and some jackass who’d downed too much cheap booze totaled their Jeep and my life right along with it. I try not to think about school too much, the classes I had to drop, and the credit card debt they had, which I hadn’t known about—the debt that had eaten up their life insurance payoff and then some.
Just for the fun of it, I put an extra swirl at the end of the A on Amatriciana, giving some flair to a task that was the closest I came to a creative outlet these days. I reluctantly capped the orange and started the delicate business of adding a highlight here, a drop shadow there, a small flourish beneath the price. I stepped back, pleased with my work.
I couldn’t help but smile. I was in a good mood when the first customers came in, and I made sure their bread basket was full of hot deliciousness while they looked over the menu. We’re not really supposed to give them bread until they order food, but I always think greeting them with goblets of ice water and a basket of warm bread is a better way of welcoming them, so I do it whenever I can.
“Miss?” the woman said.
“Yes? I’m Caleigh. What can I help you with?” I said.
“I’m allergic to dairy. Is there any way I could get a chicken parmigiana without cheese?”
“Absolutely. I’ll see to it. No problem,” I said, taking her husband’s order and heading to the kitchen.
“North, you’re supposed to enter the orders in the computer,” Dominic droned.
“Yes, but this one’s got a special dietary need. I just need to talk to Marco.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Marco, is there parmesan in the breading for the chicken?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“This lady at table three is allergic to dairy. I need chicken with just breadcrumbs. Seasoned is okay, but not cheese.”
“There’s not that much parmesan in it. I’ve already got them made up,” he said in a low voice.
“Please? Otherwise I have to go tell her we don’t have a dairy free chicken…”
“Fine,” he said, a little grouchy, but I see him take down plain breadcrumbs and dump some parsley in a bowl.
I wait for the sous chef to give me the garden salad for her and the Caesar salad for him. I tell them it would be a few extra minutes on dinner because of a special dairy-free breading for her chicken, so if they needed more bread to give me a wave.
“Thank you so much,” the wife said, and I give her a smile.
“It’s no trouble. I just want you to have a good experience and not have to worry about any hidden dairy in your meal. That would be so stressful,” I said.
“Caleigh, I’m quite glad you’re our server today. Thank you for taking the time,” she said.
I was happy to bring their dinners, happier still that they both ate every bite. It feels good to know that woman had a delicious lunch without having to worry she’d end up in the ER from accidentally eating dairy. As I bring their receipt, she presses something, a tip and a business card, into my hand.
“My name is Marilyn Wells. I own Epicurian Advantage Catering. I’d like to offer you a part-time job as an event server. An attentive waiter with an eye for detail like yours, committed to customer service, can make excellent wages. Give me a call.”
“I—thank you. I’m not sure that I—thank you,” I stammer.
Did I want to take on a second job? I’d heard of this woman’s catering company—they were top flight. It would be a good opportunity, but I was already working about fifty hours a week. The thought of taking on more made me feel tired. But the phrase ‘excellent wages’ turned my head. I was a good waitress. I cared about my customers, and I could start saving some money if I took on extra work. Maybe even save enough for tuition, for a few classes at a time until I could finish my degree and say goodbye to waiting tables.
I tuck her card into my apron with the ten-dollar bill. I know I have to put it in the tip jar, and we’ll split them at the end of the night. Part of me wants to keep the ten because it’s mine. I sigh and go drop it in the jar. Immediately my shoulders relax, and I feel better. It bothers me that I even thought about keeping that ten-dollar bill a secret.
After my shift, I go home and shower and flop onto the couch. I look at Marilyn’s business card and then at the remote control that was basically my plans for the weekend. If I pick up, say, two parties a week, I could make my bills easier to deal with. I could put back a few hundred dollars a month and be that much closer to a life I actually like and want.
I pick up my phone and dial the number, hearing her voice when she answers surprisingly. She gave me her actual personal number?
“Hi. This is Caleigh North. I was your waitress today at Benito’s. I called to tell you I’d love to come work for you. My schedule now has me working weekdays from ten-thirty to eight, and Friday from two till close.”
“Excellent. That puts you free for Saturday evenings and Sunday luncheons. Would you be able to work this Saturday night?”
“Yes. I’d love that.”
“Be at the Rose Tattoo no later than seven p.m. and wear black pants and a black blouse, hair pulled back, no bright lipstick, small earrings if any, no other jewelry apart from a wedding band if you have one.”
“I don’t. Thank you. I’ll take note of that. I appreciate the opportunity,” I tell her.
I’m so excited I can hardly sleep. I look up all the reviews of her catering service and the sample menus and the price per head on even their cheapest events is stunningly high. I wonder what I’ll be earning, if there will be tips. A peek into the message
boards for banquet servers leads me to believe I’d be able to make a hundred dollars a weekend if I could do two events. If I took one weekend off a month, I could use the first hundred to pay bills without scrimping and save the rest of the money, maybe for college courses.
I worked the rest of the week just living for Saturday so I could see if working for a fancy caterer for a private event in one of the hottest clubs in the city would be the great opportunity I hoped for.
CHAPTER TWO
Griffin
I’m glaring at the traffic jam. I do not have time for this. I look at the time on my phone and see the screen light up with caller ID. It’s Simpson again. I bet he’s trying to back out of our meeting.
No way in hell am I going to let him get away with it.
I ignore the call, ask my driver how long this is going to take. Delays make me crazy.
I can turn Pirate’s Fancy—Simpson’s stupid theme club with the prime location—into the latest jewel in the Rose crown. Every one of my string of nightclubs from coast to coast has been a takeover like this. I’ve never had to bother with a new build. I have an instinct for locations and trends, sharpened by a lot of experience now. I know what I’ll do. This one will be called Thorns. It’s going to be black and red, of course, to fit the brand, but I’m thinking a coil of barbed wire above the bar, black roses on the flocked wallpaper behind the DJ setup. Baroque, not goth, more edgy and punk than vampire chic.
