by Misti Murphy
Shit. Now I have to find something appropriate to wear to a golf club so exclusive, membership is by invitation only.
***
“Hang on a second. You invited me to go to a golf store to buy clothes? For you? In what parallel universe am I living?”
Rolling my eyes at Danny, I head toward the back corner of a speciality store that smells like testosterone and plastic.
“Okay,” I say to my BFF, the golf-lover, “which outfit should I choose for my interview tomorrow?”
“Is this for your latest nanny gig? You said you had your interview today.”
“Yes, but tomorrow is a follow-up. I get to meet his daughter. And I need to impress the hell out of him. Out of both of them.”
“You’re going to look like an idiot if you show up in golf attire yet know nothing at all about the game.”
Gritting my teeth, I say, “He already knows I know nothing about golf. But we’re meeting at a country club, and I looked them up online. They have a crazy strict dress code.” I pull my phone out of my purse and Google the club’s website, then shove the device at Danny. “See? Read that.”
He pauses so he can look at my phone, and then he sighs. “Fine. But for the record, this is stupid. Why didn’t you suggest meeting at a park or something?”
“Because I could barely get him to agree to this. Now, which top?” But I’m distracted by the skirts. No, skorts. I lift the front flap of one of the garments. “Holy shit, I thought skorts went out of style when I was a toddler.”
Danny strokes the snow-white material. “This is what lady golfers wear. Hot as fuck, if you ask me.” He glanced at me. “Which means you should definitely not wear it. Here, try this.” He pulls a gray, sleeveless dress off the rack. “Conservative, not sexual, yet acceptable. Especially if you pair it with a cardigan. It screams, ‘I want to be your nanny’ rather than ‘I want to be the next golf groupie in your bed.’ I wish I could go to the interview with you. Man, I want Garrett Frost to sign my balls.”
“You want him to do what?”
“Golf balls,” he says, gesturing at a nearby display. “I have a couple I consider my lucky balls. Bet they’d be even luckier with Garrett Frost’s autograph on them.”
Shaking my head, I grab the garment and look for the dressing room. Ever since I mentioned Frost’s name, Danny hasn’t shut up about him. Apparently, in the golf world, he’s hot stuff. And he has a reputation off the links, too. When I begged Danny to help me shop for a suitable outfit, he droned on about Frost for so long, I actually considered cancelling my meeting and letting the agency know I want to keep looking.
Except that, based on what Garrett said, Abby’s mom took off, and now I’m desperate to meet this little girl, to make sure she isn’t suffering. To see if she needs me as much as I need her—rather, this job.
“Only if I nail this interview,” I point out to Danny before shoving my purse and jacket into his arms and heading into the dressing room.
“Promise me you’ll introduce us once you get this gig,” he calls out while I shed my jeans and T-shirt and pull the dress over my head. Glancing in the mirror, I smooth the front of the stretchy material. It isn’t half bad. Not my style, not even remotely, but I can tolerate it for a couple hours if it helps me become employed again.
I step out of the dressing room so Danny can approve. “That shouldn’t be a problem, since I told him you and I are dating.”
He spews the slug of Coke he’d just taken, and I jump to the side to avoid a direct hit. The brown liquid splatters across a rack of previously pristine white golf pants.
“Oh shit,” I say, trying not to laugh. Danny glances around and then places the bottle on a nearby shelf.
“Get changed,” he says, shooing me toward the dressing room. “Before someone sees this mess. I can’t afford to pay for all those pants.”
I hurry to do so, and when he wants to leave without buying the dress, I insist otherwise. He’s sweating and glancing over his shoulder the entire time I’m conducting my transaction, and by the time we leave the store, I’m laughing so hard there are tears streaming down my face.
“You’re just plain mean,” he accuses, which makes me chuckle even more.
“Come on, I’ll buy you dinner. Hopefully, with this dress, I’ll be employed again by tomorrow.”
That, at least, appeases him, a little. And when I notice our waitress making eyes at him, I subtly let her know we aren’t dating. By the time we leave, Danny with her number programmed into his phone, he’s completely forgiven me.
“I hope you get this gig, Erin,” he says while we’re brushing our teeth side by side in the tiny half-bath off the living room in the house we’re sharing with what feels like a bunch of pledges from the local university.
“The idea of getting golf tips from Garrett Frost makes me as hard as the idea of banging that waitress does,” Danny says after he spits toothpaste.
“No jerking off while I’m in the bed with you,” I warn him.
“Then get the hell out of the bathroom already.”
Ugh. I cannot wait to move out of this dump.
***
Because I usually don’t have to pay room and board and often I have three or more children under my supervision who need to be schlepped to various school and extracurricular activities, my disposable income gets dumped into my vehicle. I drive a newer model (thank you, lease options) Nissan Rogue, so I’m only slightly intimidated as I cruise along the tree-lined, winding brick path leading to the exclusive, private country club. There’s a bored-looking valet attendant hovering near the entrance to the clubhouse, so I veer to the left to self-park.
No one questions me until I step into the lobby. A cabana-boy type who’s probably my age gives me a full-wattage smile and says, “Can I help you?”
Darting around a nervous glance and ignoring the lint on my jacket, I say, “I’m Erin Sanders. A guest of Garrett Frost.”
The smile wavers. How many guests has Frost brought to this particular club, and exactly what sort of guests are they? “Of course. He’s on the driving range. Right this way.”
Shoulders slumped and feet dragging, Cabana Boy leads me through the lobby. I touch his shoulder and say, “We aren’t, you know... I’m interviewing to be his nanny. That’s it.”
“Oh. Cool. That’s a relief. Because he’s kind of, well, you know.”
“No, actually, I don’t know. What’s he like?” If he’s a golf pro and this is his preferred country club, it stands to reason the employees would be familiar with any quirks I need to be aware of.
Cabana Boy motions for me to hang a left at the end of the hall. “He’s all right, other than he hits on every hot, single woman in the vicinity. Which is mostly the staff. Like my ex-girlfriend.”
“Oh. Ouch.”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t like I was planning to marry her. I was just hoping the good time would last a little longer, y’know?”
Sure. I suppose.
“But otherwise, he’s pretty cool, I guess. Management hates the way he dresses, but he’s currently the number one golfer in the world, so they aren’t about to say a damn thing about it.”
Number one golfer in the world? What have I gotten myself into?
We exit the building and take a sidewalk that winds behind the golfers practicing their, er, putts? Crap, I really need to read up if I’m going to nanny for this guy.
“He’s down there at the end.” Cabana Boy points at a lone figure wearing white shoes, a white belt, a blue shirt, and blue and black plaid pants. Plaid. I can see why management grits their teeth every time he walks through the door.
As we stand there, he adjusts his stance, shifts his hips, and places the golf club on the ground before turning his head and staring out at the vast green lawn dotted with blue signs with big white numbers on them: 50, 100, 150, 200, 250. After a few seconds, he swings the club, sending the little white ball soaring past the 250 sign.
“He has the longest d
rive of all our members,” Cabana Boy whispers reverently.
A dark-haired little girl dressed normally in pale blue pants and a white top leaps from the table under a nearby willow tree, clapping her hands madly and shouting, “Bravo! Bravo, Daddy! Bravo!” He turns around, forms a fist, and holds it out, and she rushes up, touches her knuckles to his, and then flings her hand away, spreading her fingers at the same time.
“Oh God,” I mutter as I watch the father-daughter bonding moment.
“Yeah, we don’t usually allow such young kids out here, but since she’s his daughter and all,” Cabana Boy says with an eye roll, like Frost is a celebrity or something. Oh, wait.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ve got it from here. I’ll see you around maybe?”
“I get off at two.”
I bite my lip to keep from bursting into laughter and nod as solemnly as I can, and then I quickly make my way past all the other golfers, most of whom had paused what they were doing to watch that apparently impressive drive. Garrett notices me before I reach them, and he crouches so that he’s eye level with his daughter and whispers something in her ear. She giggles and I falter but force the polite smile to remain on my face as they both watch me approach.
“Um, hi,” I say, giving a little wave when I stop a few feet away.
Without straightening from his daughter’s side, Garrett glances at his watch. “Punctual. Good to see you again, Erin.”
“You, too, ah, Mr. Frost.”
“Garrett.”
“Right. Nice outfit.”
“You like it?” He glances at his plaid-covered knees. “I figured I should go conservative today since I’m meeting my potential nanny and all.”
“Um, right. So this is Abby?”
The little girl inches closer to her dad and offers me a tentative wave. I bend down so I’m at their level, tugging on the short skirt of my dress and pressing my knees together. “Hi there. I’m Erin.” I hold out my hand to shake, and she glances at her dad before sliding her hand into mine and pumping it with surprising strength. No dead fish handshake for this child. I’m impressed.
When she pulls her hand away, she stares at her palm, where a little barrette with a tiny pink rose now rests. “Oh-h-h, pretty,” she says, smiling.
“Clever,” Garrett comments, and then he straightens to his full height, which is probably a good eight inches taller than me. I follow suit, brushing wrinkles out of my dress as I do so.
“Abby,” he says. “This lady wants to be your nanny. Why don’t you take her over to your seat and interview her? When I’m done practicing, we’ll compare notes. And if you don’t like her, for whatever reason, I won’t even consider hiring her. Got it?”
Seriously? That’s a lot of pressure to put on a three-year-old. Not to mention me.
“Got it,” Abby says solemnly, and she grabs my hand and leads me to the two-top table where she had been sitting earlier. As soon as our butts are in wooden folding chairs, a server appears and asks if we need refreshments.
“Chocolate milk,” Abby says.
Nodding at the plastic cup with a lid parked in front of her, I ask, “Was that chocolate milk?”
“Yep.”
“Maybe you should have white milk this time.”
She makes a face but doesn’t argue.
“How about you, miss? Would you care for a mimosa?”
Would I, although it probably wouldn’t be appropriate at the moment. “Just water, thanks.”
After he leaves, Abby says, “What’s an interview?”
I chuckle. “You agreed to what your dad said even though you didn’t know what he was talking about?”
She shrugs.
“An interview is sort of a test. You get to decide if you want me to stick around and babysit you when your dad’s at work.”
“Got it,” she says, but her brow is furrowed and her lips are pinched. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t get it.
“Do you like golf?” I ask.
“Yep. Daddy says I’m a natural.” She’s distracted by something over my shoulder, and I turn my head in time to watch as Garrett makes contact with another golf ball, sending it soaring past the 250-yard sign again. Abby jumps to her feet, clapping enthusiastically, and I follow her as she runs up to once again bump fists with him.
“Hey,” he says to her. “Erin here doesn’t know anything about golf. I bet she can’t even swing a club. Want to show her how it’s done?”
Abby nods and rushes to the nearby golf bag while Garrett follows behind and plucks a miniature club from the depths. He then places a ball on the tee and hands the iron to Abby, briefly suggesting she modify her stance before letting her take a swing. The ball flies through the air, landing near the 50-yard sign.
“Is that good?” I ask dubiously.
“Considering she’s three, I’d say yes,” Garrett replies. She rushes up to him and he enthusiastically tells her how great she was, and my heart pitter-patters uncomfortably. Despite my discomfort, I want this job more and more with each passing moment. I’m already half in love with the kid, and the dad isn’t so bad either.
“Your turn,” he says, pulling another club from the bag and offering it to me.
“I’m good,” I say, waving it off.
“Hit the ball,” Abby says.
“Yeah, why don’t you play with my ball?” Garrett taunts, holding one with his thumb and forefinger and twisting it to and fro.
I take back my almost-positive thought about Frost. “Fine,” I say, shrugging out of my coat and snatching the club from his hand. “What do I need to do?”
I know he intends to stand behind me, snuggle up close, and wrap his arms around me, all under the pretence of giving me a golf lesson. And I don’t want him to because really, I want him to. I want to know what that hard body feels like pressed against mine. Will he develop a hard-on? Will he rub himself against me while he whispers in my ear? Will I be turned on?
What a silly question.
“Stand over there,” he says, pointing at the area between two plastic triangles that separate each practice area from the others. “Now grab a ball from the bucket and place it on the tee. Okay, spread your legs, about a shoulder’s width apart. Good. Now hold the club like this.” I copy what he’s doing and place the head of the club on the ground. “Now…” He goes on for a solid five minutes while he continually tells me to adjust my stance and then explains which foot I want to put my weight on and how to swing my hips and a whole bunch of other instructions that pretty much go in one ear and out the other until I’m itching to just swing the damn club already. And he does it all from ten feet away, so I literally get no pleasure from this interaction.
None. Nada. Not even—
“Swing.”
Automatically, I do as he says. The club connects with the ball and sends it soaring … And it plops down a few feet from Abby’s ball.
“Wow,” the little girl says. “That didn’t go very far.”
“You should probably keep your day job,” her dad says.
“First I have to secure one,” I snap back. Shit, I’ve just made a fool of myself and now he probably won’t give me the job.
“What do you think, Abby?” Garrett says. “Should we keep her?”
“I’d rather have a goat.”
My gaze flies to Garrett’s face, and he’s laughing so hard he has to swipe away a tear. When he finally manages to regain his demeanor, he winks at me and says to his daughter, “You and a goat, alone together, would cause more trouble than a barrelful of monkeys.” She giggles. God, she’s cute. I suppose it helps that she looks just like her dad.
“All right,” Garrett says, this time focusing on me. “Trial run. Today. I’ve got about two more hours of this. I’ll break for lunch, and then I need to play a round. I spoke to the agency this morning and they swear you’re trustworthy—with kids.”
Oh shit. They didn’t tell him about the incident, did they? They’re supposed to be bound by law not to tel
l.
“So why don’t you let Abby show you around the club? You keep her entertained and then meet me for lunch in the clubhouse, say, 12:30. After that, if everybody’s still happy, I’ll give you the keys and you can take her back to my place to hang out until I’m done here. Deal?”
“Deal.” I automatically thrust out my hand, and he glances at it for a moment before grasping it and shaking. It’s an odd sensation since he’s wearing a golf glove, but who cares? I got the job! “You won’t regret this,” I promise him, and then I grab Abby’s hand and ask her to give me the tour.
I can feel his gaze on me as we walk away, but I understand. He’s nervous about leaving his daughter in the care of a stranger, even if said stranger was sent to him from a reputable nanny-placement agency. He’ll learn soon enough that he has nothing to worry about.
His daughter is in good hands.
And these hands are going to stay away from him.
Chapter Four
GARRETT
Abby’s fast asleep, curled up in bed when I get back from the club. She snuffles and snuggles into her covers while I kiss the top of her head and inhale her fresh, clean smell. Huh. Erin can manage to get my daughter in the bath. A feat in itself.
Not that this was the new nanny’s only accomplishment today. She sent a half dozen images to my phone during the course of the afternoon to reiterate I’d made the right decision on extending her trial to a full week in my house. Pictures of Abby dancing and laughing. A snapshot of my little girl wearing incredibly dorky star-shaped sunglasses. Still, the fact that Abby already seems to like Erin creates a small knot of unease in my gut that I haven’t been able to shake off since we met at the club this morning. Erin’s young and she’s in a relationship. How long until I have to search for another nanny? I should have told the agency I only wanted mature women who have already raised their own kids.
Padding out of the darkened room that’s lit only by a golf ball-shaped nightlight, I shut the door partway and head toward the kitchen, my stomach rumbling. I ate dinner with Callum, had a couple of drinks while we’d discussed arrangements for the upcoming tour. If I don’t keep my sponsors happy though, there won’t be a tour for me. I couldn’t eat much while Callum outlined our plan to keep my benefactors happy and my iron in my hand. Being unable to compete would ruin my ranking. Even a season off from the professional league could affect my career. I’m thirty-seven now, and the field is getting younger.
