Chapter One

Gray

Emery and I walk down Main Street with her swinging my hand, humming a tune. Wes, my best friend and Emery’s uncle, strolls on her other side. There’s a lot of history between us, betrayals, things we rarely discuss. But on this sunny Sunday, we don’t think about them. Emery is singing in her sweet voice, my seven-year-old daughter enjoying the sights and sounds, staring wide-eyed into the bakery’s window, stopping to tilt her head down at a line of ants.

“Do you think they’re friends, Daddy?” she asks, “Or do you think they have to walk all funny like that?”

I smile down at my daughter. She’s got shoulder-length black hair with a few braids woven into it and eyes the same shade of blue as her mother’s—which hurts to think about, and that pisses me off. Nothing about my daughter should hurt to think about.

“I don’t know,” I smirk. “What’d you think, Wes?”

Wes has black hair like Emery. It runs in the family. His sister was—is— was Emery’s mom. It isn’t easy to think of Wes’s sister as Emery’s mother because she said ‘ Adios’ years ago and hasn’t been seen since. Wes is tall and lean, with sharp cheekbones. Women have been known to call him a ‘pretty boy.’ “It’s mind control,” he says, smirking down at his niece.

Emery rolls her eyes. “Okay, Uncle Wes.”

“It is,” he insists. “There’s a man in a room in the city, and he controls all the ants on the East Coast.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

We round the corner. Emery breaks into a run when the diner comes into view. The Maple Diner has a classic look and serves the best pancakes in Maplebrook. Emery stops, looks twice before crossing the street, then keeps running.

“Daddy,” she yells, turning to face me. “Can I order? Please? I want to try.”

I reach into my jacket pocket and take out my wallet. “Sure, sweetness. Just stay in sight. Tell them we’ll eat out here.”

“The usual, Daddy?”

“The usual.”

She begins muttering items under her breath.

I never take my eyes off her, sitting so that I can look through the tall windows at all times and see her inside. Wes sits opposite me, drumming his fingers on the table. “Are you interviewing more nannies today?”

“Got to,” I tell him. “It’s been a nice month off, but with the plaza project coming up, I’m going to be busy. But after the last disaster, it makes me damn nervous. Emery deserves somebody who’ll foster her creativity and curiosity, not stifle it. The last nanny seemed to think Emery’s questions were her way of ‘acting up.’ She’s curious, enthusiastic. That’s a good thing.”

“Amen to that,” Wes says, nodding. “Sometimes, I think it’s a shame Sloane did what she did.” So much for not thinking or talking about the elephant in the room.

I betrayed my best friend by getting together with his sister. It was a slap in the face, and I hate myself for it. But Wes is more forgiving than most.

“Plenty of people run out on their kids.”

“Don’t do that,” Wes snaps.

“What?”

“Don’t minimize it just because she’s my big sister. It’s been almost eight years. You can’t keep living in guilt.”

I flash him a cocky smirk. “You sure about that?”

***

“I love our house, Daddy,” Emery says from the back seat as we return home.

Pride and love swell in me. Our home is a Craftsman-style manor, modernized but still honoring the town’s essence. The slate-gray clapboard and natural stone accents give it a permanent look as if it was here long before Maplebrook and will be here long after the town has gone. Emery used to joke when she was little, “House lookin’ at me, Daddy!” This was because of its oversized windows, trimmed with mahogany, that appear to be eyes from a specific view.

“Me too,” I tell her.

Each spacious room is flooded inside with light. I settle Emery in the library. She’s a precocious girl, reading as often as she can, her eyes scanning the pages so fast, sometimes I wonder how my angel can take it all in. But she can—she’ll sometimes ask me to quiz her.

After a quick workout in the home gym, it’s time for the nanny interviews. I make a jug of iced tea, carry it onto the porch, then watch the gate. Our inner courtyard verges on jungle-like, but a weekly visit from the gardener keeps it manageable and respectable.

I take out my phone and check the files the agency sent me. The first interviewee is a woman named Callie Monroe. She’s twenty-three, so a little younger than the others, but she’s worked as a nanny since she was sixteen. Her most recent stint was with a stockbroker in the city, where she worked for three years before the mother quit her job and became a stay-at-home mom. She has stellar references and a clean background, plus she’s trained in CPR and first aid.

Sometimes, I wish Sloane was here, but only as a mother. Not as my woman. Not as my wife. Maybe that’s what drove her away.

A notification appears on my phone. Somebody’s at the gate. I look over but don’t see a car.

Approaching the gate, I spot a woman standing near the intercom button. My breath catches when I get a good look at her.

A summer dress clings to her curvy figure, yet she wears it respectably and professionally. Her light brown hair is tied up in a bun at the top of her head, and a pair of stylish glasses perch on her nose. She’s not showing too much leg or cleavage, but her shape is enough to trigger something in me. I don’t let any of this show. But the temptation is there. She looks presentable and professional, considering the weather and her role. But damn, there’s something hot about her.

“Mr. Aldridge?” she says.

“Please, call me Gray,” I tell her. “I’ll open the gate now. You didn’t drive?”

“My car decided to break down last night,” she mutters.

“Your address is listed in the city.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“So how did you get here?”

“Two trains, three buses, and I walked the rest of the way.”

That shows serious dedication. As I use the app on my phone to open the gate, I say, “That must’ve taken all morning.”

“I don’t mind,” she says, touching her hair self-consciously. It’s been a long time since I’ve appraised anything other than buildings, but this woman is something else. Drawing my eye like a moth to a flame.

She steps onto the property, standing mere feet from me. She’s shorter than me, but that’s not saying much. I’m six-three, accustomed to looking down at people. When she looks up at me, I feel something new, an ache deep inside. Again, none of this shows. I can’t, won’t let it but it’s there all the same.

She offers her hand. “Anyway, it’s nice to meet you… Gray.”

I take her hand. It’s soft, warm. Warmth sparks up my arm. I wonder if she can feel it, too. Or I wonder if I’m a cliché, a forty-three-year-old man crushing on his nanny. Maybe this is how it always happens. The people inside the cliché don’t realize they’re working a playbook that’s been used countless times before.

“Please, join me on the porch,” I gesture.

She walks slightly ahead of me when I don’t move. Did I do that intentionally so I could look at her wide hips? The swell of her ass is hypnotic as the light fabric of her dress settles over it as her hips sway. But she’s not doing it on purpose. She’s not trying to ignite my lust or turn me into a savage, dirty old man. She’s just walking.

I motion for her to sit. She brushes her dress down, and again, I watch each subtle movement, her warm, soft hand gliding down the fabric of her dress, imagining her hand gliding—No, I refuse. I won’t do that. I can’t. I’m the architect of my own mind. I won’t go there. Ever. I make that promise to myself now.

Hell, maybe she’ll do terribly in the interview. Perhaps I’ll have a reason to send her away and never think about her again.