Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Freddie
ONE WEEK LATER…
It’s not even eight a.m. and Penny’s already coated in applesauce and righteous indignation because I cut her banana slices the "wrong way."
"Daddy," she says, voice trembling with toddler betrayal, "they’re not round. They’re… long!"
I kneel down, hands sticky, patience thinner than the toast she licked clean and fed to the dog. "Sweetheart, they’re the same banana."
She narrows her eyes. "No. They’re ugly now."
Okay. Sure. Let’s call the fruit aesthetic police.
Then a knock hits the door.
Penny freezes mid rant. "Is that the babysitter?"
I stand, wiping my hands on a towel and praying it’s not my neighbor Karen returning my tools and giving me her opinions.
Instead, when I swing the door open, the biggest, sharpest curveball of my week is standing there in ripped jeans, a faded black hoodie, and the kind of bedhead that looks like it’s seen some shit and decided to keep going anyway.
Ivy Fletcher.
And fuck me, she’s even hotter in daylight.
I mean, yeah, I’ve seen the occasional photo. Her and Jesse on some rooftop in New York, Ivy making faces, hair dyed red back then, a little more wild… but this version? Real life Ivy? She’s storm weather pretty. You know it’s gonna hurt a little, but you want to stand in the rain anyway.
I lean one arm on the doorframe, casual as hell even though my pulse just did a weird little skip.
"Hey," she says, voice a little scratchy like maybe she hasn’t had her coffee… or sleep, judging by the shadows under her eyes.
"Morning," I say, stepping aside to let her in. "Welcome to the chaos."
She hesitates a beat, just long enough that I notice, then steps inside.
Penny’s peeking from behind the kitchen island, applesauce war still fresh on her cheeks. "Are you the babysitter?"
Ivy crouches down, not all the way, just enough to make eye contact. "Depends. You planning on biting?"
Penny blinks. "Not today."
"Well then," Ivy says, lips twitching. "I guess I can stay."
Okay, so that’s hot. And funny. And I’m absolutely not ready for the way my kid instantly beams at her like she’s just met a Disney princess with edge.
"You want coffee?" I ask, already heading to the kitchen to do something with my hands before I do something stupid with my mouth.
"Ugh, yes."
She follows me in, scanning the living room like she’s mentally cataloguing every Cheerio stuffed crevice and juice box crime scene. She’s not judging, not exactly… more like taking stock. Strategic. Calculated. Smart.
"You ever nannied before?" I ask, sliding her a mug.
"Not professionally," she says, wrapping her hands around the cup like she’s stealing its heat. "But I used to be the unofficial babysitter for my building. And my ex had a kid."
Her voice goes tight on the last part. Quick shift. Almost too quick.
I nod like I didn’t hear the tension there. We all have ghosts.
"Plus, as I’m sure my brother told you, I do have the qualifications."
Penny tugs at Ivy’s hoodie. "I can show you my room if you want."
"I’d love that," Ivy says, smoothing a hand over Penny’s curls. "But maybe after your dad asks me weirdly specific questions about my criminal history."
"I was gonna ease into that," I say, flashing a grin. "Start with something simple. Like your stance on bribing toddlers with fruit snacks."
"Strongly in favor," she deadpans. "Especially the blue ones."
Penny gasps. "Those are the best ones!"
"Obviously."
They’re already a team.
"So," I say, nodding toward the couch. "Here’s the gist. I work early shifts at the shop a few days a week and take walk-ins on weekends. My business partners are scheduling tyrants, so hours might move around a bit. You’d have Penny Monday through Friday, maybe the occasional Saturday if I’ve got overflow.
I prep most of her meals, so it’s mostly snacks, games, a couple meltdowns. Standard chaos."
Ivy takes a slow sip of her coffee. "What about her mom?"
The question isn’t cruel. It’s gentle. Careful.
"Not in the picture," I say, tone clipped without meaning it to be. "So it’s all on me."
I see something flicker in Ivy’s eyes. Is it pity? It doesn’t feel like it, which is nice.
But she just nods once. Doesn’t push.
We move to the couch, and Penny plops herself down between us like a self appointed chaperone, still holding Trouble the bunny like he’s her emotional support attorney.
Ivy sinks into the cushions like she’s not quite sure if it’s okay to get comfortable… legs crossed, mug balanced in one hand, her eyes flicking around the room like she’s taking notes for a mental escape plan just in case.
I tell her more about the schedule. How Penny doesn’t eat bread without a fight, how nap time is more of a "vague hope" than a guarantee, how bedtime requires at least three books, two lullabies, and one negotiated treaty.
She listens. Actually listens. Doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t fill the silence with fake enthusiasm or performative "oh wow"s like some of the other interviews I’ve had.
She just nods, asks smart questions, scratches Penny’s back absentmindedly while she talks.
And I hate how much I notice that.
The way her fingers are gentle but firm. The way Penny instinctively leans into her. The way Ivy softens, just a fraction, when the kid laughs like she’s not used to being the safe one. Like she’s used to bracing for impact.
I ask her if she has any other work lined up in town and she says no, not yet. Says she’s just… taking a break. Doesn’t say from what. Doesn’t have to. There’s a heaviness in the way she says it. The kind that doesn’t come from a bad job or a bad week.
She’s been through something.
I should back off. Should just take the interview for what it is.
But curiosity’s a bitch. And so am I.
"So," I say, "what brought you to Coyote Glen? You know… besides the thriving nightlife and endless opportunities."
That earns me a look. Dry. Amused. A little dangerous.
"My brother. And well… my life fell apart."
I blink. "That’s… honest."
"You asked."
I grin. "Fair."
She shrugs, but her mouth quirks like maybe she’s not totally immune to my bullshit.
"I mean," she adds, glancing at me over the rim of her coffee mug, "I don’t have a car yet, but I’m walking distance from here, so schedule wise I’m wide open. Early mornings, late nights, whatever you need. I’ve got nowhere else to be."
That hits me in two places at once. Relief, because the shop has been a scheduling nightmare lately. And something more dangerous. Interest.
I try not to let either show.
"Flexible nanny hours," I say, raising a brow. "You realize that’s a single dad’s fantasy, right?"
Her lips twitch. "You realize you shouldn’t say that in an interview, right?"
I shrug, grinning. "I said it was a fantasy, not a proposition."
She gives me a look… flat, dry, but not entirely unfriendly. And I know that look. It’s the one women give me when they’re amused but not sure if I’m a decent guy yet. The jury’s out, and I’ve got five minutes to prove myself before I’m sentenced to jackass.
Penny climbs off the couch and starts lining up crayons on the coffee table like she’s about to host a preschool summit. Ivy glances down, then back at me, brushing hair out of her face as she tucks one leg underneath her.
Her knee bumps mine.
Not intentional. Not overtly.
But I feel it.
And I definitely don’t move.
Ivy doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. Either way, I watch her watching Penny… really watching her. Not just checking a box or putting on a show, but tuned in. Engaged. Present in a way that’s rare as hell.
It shouldn’t hit me in the gut. But it does.
Because I’ve done this solo for three years. And no matter how good you get at being both parents, it still feels like you’re treading water with a kid on your shoulders. Watching someone else step in without fumbling? It feels like a damn miracle.
I’m just starting to think maybe Jesse wasn’t exaggerating when he said his sister could handle anything.
But of course, I have to mentally remind myself that this is Jesse’s little sister, and therefore off limits, especially if she’s gonna work for me, when the doorbell rings.
Penny freezes mid crayon organization. Ivy glances at me, curious.
I scrub a hand down my face and mutter, "That’ll be my ride."
I push off the couch and cross the living room, pulse ticking up again, not because of the door, but because the second I walk through it, I’m leaving Ivy Fletcher alone in my house. With my kid.
And for some reason, that doesn’t terrify me.