Big Trouble (Single Dads of Big Wood #3)

Chapter 1

chapter

one

Official Rules for Wind from the East Nanny Service

Winnie’s take away: Do not talk about penises when talking to your hot boss. Moreover, do not think about his penis while talking about penises.

Winnie

I’ve been fired from a lot of jobs. Too many, in truth.

I can’t say that none of them have been justified.

I did actually catch the Murphy’s kitchen on fire while dog sitting.

But it’s not my fault that the homemade dog treat recipe was so flammable or that their smoke detectors were so sensitive.

The fire was contained entirely to their oven, and there was (almost) no damage.

In my defense, I’d been seventeen at the time. You get what you pay for.

But a lot of the dismissals have been due to circumstances out of my control.

A power outage flipped a switch, and I didn’t know to check the breaker on the ice cream freezer.

Yeah, that had been a huge mess. I’d not only been fired, but strongly encouraged to not even return to Rosie’s Diner as a customer.

As for the job at the pet store … well, they never told me I couldn’t bring home the dying Beta fish and rehabilitate them.

The “company policy” of flushing them down the toilet seemed both cruel and environmentally irresponsible.

And it’s not like I was going to sell the fish myself once I got them healthy.

I had planned to bring them back! Honestly, I think Dale, the assistant manager, just used the Beta fish scandal as an excuse to fire me since I’d turned him down for coffee four times in a row.

Even if I had wanted to date a man twelve years older than me with halitosis, everyone knows you don’t date your boss!

But this scenario?

This current scenario is new for me.

For starters, I need this job. Like, need need this job. Like, I will be living out of my car if I lose this job. And since “my car” is a rusted-out Ford Focus that’s older than I am, that is not an option.

Secondly, this is a job that I actually care about and that I’m qualified to do. Over-qualified, if I do say so myself, since I have a degree in childhood development.

Thirdly, in the two hours since I’ve first showed up, everything has gone perfectly.

I was greeted at the door by Mrs. Billingsly, the cook/housekeeper, who was immediately friendly and gracious.

I met the dog, some kind of hyperactive doodle mix named Banana-Noodle, who slobbered all over me and rolled over to show her belly.

The obviously grumpy cat named SnickerDoodle only growled at me once. And then there’s Clementine.

Insert blissful sigh here…

Clementine Callahan, aka the girl I’m here to nanny for, is an adorable seven-year-old, with bouncy red curls, a sassy mouth, and more energy than… well, a hyperactive doodle mix.

She’s clearly too smart for her own good, and a trouble maker, and I am here for it.

Clementine has already given me a tour of the house, a sprawling, oversized ranch house that’s obviously been recently upgraded.

The furniture is as oversized as the rooms, and the views of the horse ranch and the surrounding mountains are simply spectacular.

I’ve seen the pool, the barn, and the chicken coop.

Hell, Clementine has already painted my toes and braided my hair. Only on one side before getting distracted, but still, I get it.

She wanted to show off her reading skills. A girl who would rather read than style hair is a girl after my own heart.

So there we were, me, Clementine, and Banana-Noodle, sitting on a mound of pillows by the window in the playroom, reading one of my favorite books, Mercy Watson Fights Crime–because, of course, Clementine has excellent taste in books–when he comes in.

He is Brody Callahan, Clementine’s father, and my new boss.

He takes one stoney-eyed look at me before growling that he needs to see me in his office.

The moment my gaze meets his, I know what’s coming. He’s going to fire me. I’ve been through this enough that I recognize the signs.

Despite my employment record, I haven’t had time to screw anything up. I’ve been at work for less than two hours.

Nevertheless, I follow him down the hall to a home office filled with bulky furniture and leather seating. Clearly a man’s room.

He throws his oversized body into an oversized chair and glares at me some more before standing up and pacing.

When he still doesn’t say anything, I go on the offensive. “I have excellent qualifications,” I blurt.

“I was expecting a man,” the huge man says, before I can list them.

“Oookay,” I draw out the word, putting together the pieces of this rapidly unfolding puzzle. “I might have picked up on that subtle undercurrent of testosterone-fueled disappointment.”

“I thought?—”

“That I had a penis?” I don’t give him a chance to respond before I add, “I’d say I get that a lot, but honestly, this has never happened before.”

“What kind of woman is named Winslow?” the man growls.

I stare at his angry, glowering, and yet still stupidly handsome face.

“You’d have to ask my parents. I’m told it’s because they’d been assured I was a boy and had already settled on the name,” I explain.

He just stares at me as if the words I’ve said are gibberish. “I hired a male nanny.”

“You thought you hired a male nanny. As you can tell, I am very much a woman.”

His gaze drops as he takes in my generous curves.

He growls, and I’m a little worried about that vein that’s bulging on his forehead.

“You cannot actually fire me for not being a man. That’s sexism, which I’m sure you realize is illegal,” I say.

“This is not a corporation we’re talking about. This is my home and my daughter.”

“Yes. You have a lovely home. Your adorable and, might I add, very smart daughter gave me a tour earlier.”

He jabs a finger at his own chest. “I get to decide who lives here and takes care of her.”

“Of course you do. You just cannot fire me based on the fact that I have a vagina rather than a penis. I already signed a contract. Are there some sort of tasks that require the Y-chromosome?”

I stare at the hulking man in front of me. He’s practically vibrating with anger, yet I feel zero fear being in his presence. Even though I’m sure much of that anger is directed at me, he doesn’t make me feel unsafe.

He’s impossibly tall and broad. The term ‘as big as a side of a barn’ comes to mind.

There’s nothing particularly unique about his brown hair.

But the brown beard he sports does nothing to hide the fact that his jawline is masculine perfection.

Like God carved it by hand on a day when He was feeling particularly generous.

And I can tell from the amount of glaring he does, that his jaw muscles are ones he works out on a regular basis.

He’s like part cowboy, part mountain man.

Wranglers mold to his thighs like they are stretched beyond reason to encompass his thick, thick legs.

I’m dying to see what they do for his booty, but I obviously am not going there.

Like I said, everyone knows you don’t date your boss. Nor should you ogle said boss’s tushy.

The black t-shirt is barely containing his massive shoulders and boulder-sized biceps. This man is legit enormous. I wish I could say that his grumpy face made me find him repulsive, but alas, that is not the case.

He’s rudely hot.

“This is not going to work,” he says with a defiant shake of his head.

Before I can respond, he stomps past me.

He pauses at the office door and snaps, without looking back at me, “I want you gone by the time I get back.”

A moment later, I hear the front door slam.

I sink into one of the nearby armchairs. No, no, no, no, no, no.

“I can not lose this job,” I mutter, burying my head in my hands, only to sit bolt upright when I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. “Clementine?” I ask. “Is that you?”

A blur of red hair dashes across the room and hits me square in the chest as she throws herself into my arms.

“He can’t fire you!” she screeches. “He always fires the nannies, and it’s not fair. You didn’t buy any animals or accidentally fall asleep in his bed or steal his pickles or anything!”

I wrap my arms around her, patting her back. “Don’t worry, Clem. I’m not going anywhere.”

I was already prepared to fight for this job, because it’s perfect for me, and I need it, and I’m too tall to sleep in my Focus! But now?

Now that Clementine is begging me to stay? Hell yes, I’m keeping this job.

Mr. Grouchy-Pants-Brooding-Brody will have to pry this job out of my cold, dead hands.

She pulls back enough to blink her tear-laden lashes at me. “Promise?”

I hold out my hand, little finger extended. “Even better. I pinkie promise.”

She gives me the side-eye. “What’s that mean?”

I take her hand in mine and fold in her fingers so that her pinkie is extended, then give her pinkie a shake with my own.

“It’s a special promise just between girls that says I’m not leaving, I’m not quitting, and I’m definitely not …

” I trail off, racking my brain for a third thing before latching on to what Clementine said earlier.

“... going to steal your father’s pickles. ”

I’m still thinking about that an hour later, when Mr. Broody-Brody still hasn’t returned, and I’m unpacking my things in the guest quarters that are located directly above the master suite of the house.

Mrs. Billingsly assured me that this is where I’ll be staying.

And I’ve even gotten a text from the lawyer who sent the original paperwork, assuring me that I am not fired.

What exactly did all those other nannies do to get fired? Sure, buying pets without a parent’s permission is clearly problematic.

With a man that looks like that? I’m sure that’s how one of the nannies “accidentally” fell asleep in his bed.

But stealing his pickles? What is that about?

Not that it’s any of my business.

I just need to do my job. Focus on Clementine. Keep my head down and my hands off his pickles. Whatever the hell that means.