Chapter 6

Christian

I clench the steering wheel, my knuckles whitening with the effort of suppressing my frustration. I can’t believe Dana passed Addison off to her friend like she’s a hot potato instead of my daughter.

The image of Hailey, all sun-kissed skin and youthful exuberance in that bikini at my father’s surprise birthday bash last summer, flits through my mind. I can’t deny the visual appeal, but it’s followed swiftly by a mental admonishment. This is about care for your daughter! And anyway, she’s too young .

Though as I navigate the morning traffic, my thoughts drift to Dana. She and Hailey must be the same age. How old is she again? Twenty-five, twenty-six? But what does it matter? Why am I even considering entrusting Addison’s care to someone who’s only planning on sticking around for a year? But then reality intrudes. The other nannies didn’t make it anywhere close to that long. Anya was the longest, and she only lasted three weeks. They couldn’t handle Addison.

“Damn it,” I mutter, weighing the pros and cons as the car hums beneath me. A fleeting presence has to be better than no presence at all, yet the thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. There’s an unsettling feeling about this whole arrangement. I’ve got this nagging feeling about Hailey, like an itch I can’t scratch.

Pulling into the staff parking area, I grab my phone, and hit Dana’s number.

“Hello?” Her voice is groggy, thick with sleep.

I picture her, probably still wrapped in her sheets, caught in the land of dreams.

“How old is Hailey?” I cut straight to the chase. There’s no time for pleasantries with rounds awaiting.

“Same age as me. Twenty-three.” Dana yawns into the phone. “We met during our first year at UBC.”

“Right.” Okay, so young , I remind myself again. “And why does she want to be a nanny?”

There’s a heavy sigh on the other end. “We went to lunch, and Addison really liked her…” She sighs. “Look, her grandmother left her a bit of money a few years back, enough to get her through UBC. But things went south for her. She had this boyfriend—a real piece of work—who convinced her to drop out. He’s a guy with big ideas and little ability.”

“Sounds like a solid person to take care of my daughter,” I retort.

“She’s a great person,” Dana counters immediately. “She’s on her own now. Her parents are off the grid in a Winnebago, and the boyfriend turned out to be a giant mooch. Blew through her inheritance on some ridiculous food truck idea and then took off. She’s broke. She needs a job. And you need a nanny.”

I kill the engine, my hands gripping the steering wheel. All this still sits uneasy with me.

“It’s only for a year,” Dana adds, as if reading my mind.

“I don’t think that improves the situation any,” I snap.

“Treat her nicely, be fair, and she’ll do a good job for you. That will make things more stable, and you’ll have some time to figure out a longer-term solution.”

I suppose that does make sense. “I just don’t know if she’s right for the job. The way she looks—"

“Christian, don’t even think about sleeping with her,” Dana’s warning is stern.

“Please,” I scoff. “As if I would. That’s not what I was going to say, and Hailey’s not my type anyway.”

“Good. I know she’s not, and that’s my point. She’s kind and sweet, and I won’t let you or anyone else break her heart. I know you have quite a recreational life, but keep it separate from this.”

“Obviously,” I snap. The image of Hailey in my kitchen this morning flashes, unbidden. I shove it aside. Focus, Bradford . “I have to go. I have rounds.” I end the call without waiting for a response.

Before I step into the hospital, I call the nanny service and ask for an update on where they are with finding me someone new. “It’s been over a week,” I say through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Bradford,” the receptionist says once she’s pulls up my file. “We’ve refunded your deposit. We don’t have any nannies who can work nonstop for weeks at a time.”

“Isn’t that a nanny’s job?” I fume.

“No, it’s not. Your contract was clear. They get a break every day for at least four hours.”

I look up at the sky. “I’m on call for forty-eight hours every three weeks. I’ve taken the two-a.m. feeding so they can sleep. That’s more than a four-hour break.”

She sighs. “That’s a sleep break. The break we require is four daytime hours, so that they can leave your premises and do something they choose without having to care for your child. I’m sorry, but that’s the law, and we have to follow it. We can’t provide you with what you want.”

She disconnects the call. So there’s the decision. I don’t have a choice about Hailey now. She’s the only one who didn’t balk when I told her what my schedule requires. She’d better be responsible. If she screws up, Dana, you’re going to hear about it nonstop.

As I stride into the hospital, I remind myself that I’m the best at my job, better than anyone else in this province and all of Canada. People beg to get on my schedule. I’m doing what I have to do, and there has to be a way to make this work. “ Addison liked Hailey ,” Dana’s words echo in my mind, a feeble attempt to soothe my nerves. Maybe if the agency isn’t involved, things can be a little more flexible to suit this particular situation.

I don’t have surgeries today, but that doesn’t mean my schedule is any less packed. At least I can monitor Hailey through those nanny cams. That’s just due diligence.

My first stop on my rounds is my patient from yesterday. I almost lost him on the table. When I enter the room, Ronald Jenkins is out like a light, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep. But something’s off. A cardboard box sits on the bedside table, reeking of grease and poor choices.

“Is that your breakfast?” I ask, pointing at the takeout container as I move to stand beside his wife.

She wrings her hands, her eyes darting between me and her husband. “He hates the food here,” she admits, sheepishly.

“Mrs. Jenkins,” I start, my voice firm yet not unkind, “your husband’s body can’t handle this anymore. He needs fresh, heart-healthy meals. Low salt, no grease.”

“He doesn’t like that.” Her eyes well up, brimming with fear. “I don’t want to lose him,” she whispers.

“Then it’s time to make some changes,” I insist. “Be strong for him. His life literally depends on it.” Scribbling a note, I call for a nutritionist consultation before moving on, another life nudged back on track, another crisis averted.

But as I leave behind the scent of saturated fats and step back into the cool, antiseptic air of the corridor, my thoughts drift involuntarily home—to Addison, to Hailey, and to all the ways this could go wrong.

I stride back to my office, the echo of my footsteps mingling with the mental checklist of tasks for the day. As I take a seat behind the desk, my hand instinctively goes to the mouse, flicking open the nanny-cam feed on my monitor. The livestream from home fills the screen.

And there she is—Hailey, splattered in an abstract painting of baby food, yet wearing a smile. It reaches through the pixels and tugs at something inside me. Addison is giggling, her cherubic face lit up in joy as Hailey makes a fool of herself just to entertain her. That makes me smile too, but then a visceral reaction stirs in my pants, unbidden. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s the temporary nanny. Keep it together.

With a deep breath, I shake off the unwelcome arousal and bury myself in work. Charts, referrals, follow-ups—they’re the distractions I need, the kind that don’t have legs I shouldn’t be noticing. Hours blur together until my watch beeps, a reminder of Addison’s schedule, which I’ve practically memorized.

I pause, considering. Then I pull up the app that tracks Hailey’s movements via the Air Tag on the mini van’s keychain. Still at the house. Frowning, I check the time again. They should be at swimming lessons now, not… I switch back to the nanny cam.

There they are, curled up together in the soft fortress of the bed in Addison’s room. Both asleep, peaceful. A wave of irritation crashes over me. The sight is not nearly as endearing as it should be. I grab my phone, ready to unleash a torrent of pent-up frustration. My thumb hammers her number before I can second-guess the impulse. She can’t just ignore the schedule!

It rings. And rings. No answer.

“Damn it,” I mutter, concern I refuse to acknowledge battling my annoyance. She’d better have a good explanation for this. She can’t just ignore me! I press redial, my impatience mounting with each unanswered ring.

Finally, I drop the call and, on impulse, dial my mother instead. “Mom,” I say as soon as she picks up, “I think I lost another nanny.”

“Christian, you need to pay them more,” she replies without missing a beat.

I clench my jaw. I don’t want her money solutions. I need to vent. “It’s not about the money, Mom. It’s—”

“Money solves a lot of things, darling. Maybe you’re not offering enough to keep them around.” She speaks like we’re discussing the weather, not my personal crisis.

“Hailey’s different.” I defend the girl I’m currently frustrated with. “She’s Dana’s friend. It’s complicated.”

“Everything with you is complicated.” Her sigh crackles over the line.

“Never mind,” I say tersely, ready to end the conversation I shouldn’t have started.

“Remember what your time is worth,” she advises before I can hang up.

Her words are meant to be comforting, but they scrape against my nerves. “Thanks,” I reply flatly and disconnect.

As soon as I’ve put the phone down, Joanne appears at the door. Concern wrinkles her brow. “Dr. Bradford, you have patients in all four exam rooms. You’re running behind schedule.”

“Right, sorry.” I stand so quickly that my chair rolls back and bumps the wall. “Let’s get to it.” Professional mode clicks into place, but not before I stab out Hailey’s number one last time. Nothing. Not even voicemail this time.

Frustration coils within me as I pocket the silent phone. They should be transitioning from swimming lessons to the playgroup now, part of the carefully structured routine I’ve created for Addison. Instead, they’re napping, off schedule and unreachable.

“Joanne, give me two minutes,” I say, trying to shake off my annoyance as I stride toward the first exam room.

“Of course, Dr. Bradford,” she replies.

Behind each door, patients wait, trusting me to have answers, to be in control. If only they knew how little control I have over a simple thing like a nanny following a baby’s schedule.

I check over the patient in the first room quickly and answer their questions, perhaps a bit more briefly than I should. But everything is fine here.

Then I slip back out of the exam room, my white coat a shield against the chaos blooming inside me. I pull my phone out as I walk to the next door. Hailey’s number stares back at me from the screen. I dial again, and each unanswered ring increases my frustration.

“Dr. Bradford, is everything okay?” Joanne catches my eye.

“Fine,” I lie and press call again. It beeps into the void.

I see patient after patient, but my mind is elsewhere, caught in the web of Addison’s failed schedule. Each minute that ticks by is a missed opportunity for my daughter’s growth, her happiness.

“Dr. Bradford?” A nurse’s voice brings me back as I step out of exam four. “Frances Chow is asking for you.”

She’s a patient. She can wait. But then I stop myself. “Right away,” I reply, each word measured, precise. I can’t let my personal life bleed into my professional one—not here. Not when these people need me.

But between heartbeats, between diagnoses, I dial again. And again, silence answers.

Finally, I steal a moment in my office to cancel my evening plans. I text the woman I was supposed to meet.

Me: Sorry, something came up.

When my patients have all been seen, I check my phone again. My date has sent back a pouting emoji and a picture of her bare breasts. It feels trivial. I mean, the plastic surgeon did a nice job, but there’s a fire I need to put out at home. The moment I’m able, I shut off my computer and race back to the house.

I don’t bother taking off my coat as I march through my front door. “Hailey!” My voice echoes off the walls, a commanding presence that brooks no disobedience. I find her in the living room, not packing, not flustered, just…there with Addison in her lap and a book open.

“Pack your things. You’re not following the schedule. This isn’t working. You didn’t answer any of my calls today.” My words are like bullets, meant to pierce any defense she might muster.

But she doesn’t falter, doesn’t crumple under the weight of my authority. “The phone didn’t ring. Not once.” Her eyes lock onto mine, steady and sure. “And Addison,” she continues, her voice softening as she speaks of my daughter, “is getting a cold. The pediatrician advised us to take it easy today.”

I blink, taken aback. “A cold?”

“Yes,” Hailey confirms. “Dr. Cordelia explained that her immune system isn’t that strong. We have to be careful.”

There’s conviction in her eyes, a steeliness that says she believes she did the right thing. It’s jarring, this unexpected resistance.

“Careful,” I repeat, though the fight slips away as the doctor in me acknowledges the sense of her actions. My shoulders slump slightly. “Okay. Just…keep me updated next time.”

“Of course,” she responds.

I turn away, emotions churning inside me. As much as I hate to admit it, maybe Hailey’s judgment was better than my schedule. I look back at my smiling daughter. Maybe she’s what Addison needs. “Where’s your phone?” I command, my voice betraying a hint of desperation.

Hailey reaches for it, the sleek device in her hand looking utterly benign, yet it’s at the center of my frustration.

Pulling out my phone, I dial the number I’ve been trying all day, watching Hailey’s screen for any sign of life. Nothing. No vibration, no ringtone, just silence hanging between us like an accusation. “What’s your number?” I demand.

She recites her number as if it’s something sacred.

A chill runs down my spine as the digits fall into place. I’ve been calling the wrong number. I inverted the last two digits. A cold knot forms in my stomach. My anger has been entirely misdirected.

Without a word, I turn and leave, a silent apology hanging in the air, too late to be uttered. The need for escape is overwhelming. I don’t want to call my canceled date, so instead I flee to Joe Fortes, seeking my friends. Maybe they can help me calm down.

My drive across town is a torrent of emotion. How can I agree to this? What other choice do I have?

When I enter the bar, I spot my friends, their laughter a beacon in the dim lighting, and I weave through the crowd to join them.

“Christian!” They greet me, slapping my back, pulling up a chair.

“Rough day?” Griffin Martin asks.

“You could say that,” I reply, mustering a tight smile.

“A drink will help,” Kent Johns chimes in, signaling the bartender.

Before long, a beautiful blonde sidles up to our group. “I’m Candy,” she purrs, introducing herself with a twinkle in her eyes, “and I like to be licked.”

We flirt, the banter light and meaningless, and it’s exactly what I need—a temporary soother for my bruised ego. Laughter comes easy, drinks go down smoothly, and when the night grows late, I find myself leaving with Candy, chasing the promise of forgetfulness.

But when we arrive at her place, I leave Candy at her apartment door. This is suddenly not what I want, so I return home.

The house is quiet, and my shadow long in the moonlight. There’s a note on the counter, written in Hailey’s neat script, informing me of dinner covered in the fridge. I hesitate before peeking inside, finding a simple ham sandwich. Hunger, unacknowledged until now, springs to life, and I take a bite. It’s pretty good—better than anything I would have managed. This is a welcome change.

Time slips away as I eat, and suddenly, it’s two o’clock, time for Addison’s feeding. I lift her gently from the crib, bottle ready, and as she suckles contentedly, I find myself humming a lullaby, soft and soothing. Her tiny hand wraps around my finger, a trust so complete it steals my breath.

“Everything’s okay, Addison,” I whisper. And in this moment, it truly seems it is.