4. Chapter 3
Liv Strauss
The phone rang, and I was elbow-deep in a crate of limes when I heard it.
Not my phone. The bar's landline, the ancient rotary thing mounted behind the register that we kept more for ambiance than function. It rang maybe twice a month, usually telemarketers who hadn't updated their lists since the Clinton administration.
I wiped my hands on my apron and grabbed it on the fourth ring. "Clockwork Tavern."
Silence. Then a woman's voice, clipped and professional: "I'm looking for Liv Strauss."
"Speaking."
"This is Petra Varga, executive assistant to Zoltan Boros. We have a situation."
I leaned against the bar, watching the afternoon light cut through the windows. The name landed somewhere in my chest, unwelcome. Three weeks of him sitting on that stool, watching me work, leaving tips that bordered on insulting in their generosity.
Three weeks of me pretending I didn't notice the way he never looked at his phone when I was talking to him, which was more than I could say for most people.
"What kind of situation?"
"His daughter's school called. There's been an incident, nothing serious, but she needs to be picked up immediately. Mr. Boros is unavailable for the next ninety minutes, and the usual emergency contacts are either unreachable or overseas."
I frowned. "And you're calling me because?"
"Because Missy asked for you."
The words hit differently than I expected.
"She remembers me?"
"She called you 'the lime lady.' Mr. Boros confirmed you'd met.
" A pause. "I understand this is unorthodox.
But Missy's current emotional state is, frankly, concerning, and she specifically requested someone she knows.
The school is Whitmore Academy on 84th Street.
I can have a car there in four minutes if you're willing. "
I looked around the bar. Tuesday afternoon, dead as a doornail. Kevin wouldn't be in until five, and the prep work was mostly done.
"I'm not a nanny," I said.
"I'm aware. Neither is anyone else available in the next ninety minutes."
Something in her voice cracked, just barely. The professional polish thinning at the edges.
I thought about Piper at that age, the year our mother's first relapse hit. The school calling, the social worker's clipboard, the way my sister had gone completely silent for three days afterward. Kids needed people they recognized. Kids needed to not feel abandoned.
"Fine. What's the address?"
The black sedan pulled up before I'd finished locking the front door.
Whitmore Academy looked exactly like I'd expected: old brick, iron gates, the kind of manicured lawn that probably had its own dedicated staff. A woman in a blazer met me at the entrance with a clipboard and a look that said she was cataloguing every thread of my bar apron.
"You're here for Missy Boros?"
"That's what they tell me."
She led me through hallways that smelled like floor polish and money, past expensive looking artwork. We stopped at a door marked COUNSELOR'S OFFICE.
Inside, Missy sat on a chair too big for her, legs dangling, a backpack clutched to her chest like a shield. When she saw me, something in her face shifted. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Hi," I said, crouching down to her level. "Remember me?"
She nodded. Her fingers were white-knuckled on the backpack straps.
"Your dad's stuck in a meeting, so I'm going to hang out with you for a bit. That okay?"
Another nod. Then, quietly: "There was yelling."
"At you?"
"At everyone. Mrs. Patterson was mad because someone broke the fish tank."
"Did you break the fish tank?"
"No." A pause. "But I was closest when it happened."
"Well, that's just bad luck, isn't it?"
She considered this. "Maybe."
The counselor, a woman with kind eyes and a name tag that said DR. CHEN, handed me a folder. "Missy's been having a difficult transition this semester. Nothing disciplinary, but she tends to withdraw during conflict situations. We thought it best to have her collected early today."
I took the folder without opening it. "Got it."
Missy slid off the chair and reached for my hand. Her palm was small and slightly sweaty, and I felt something shift in my chest that I didn't have time to examine.
"Come on, lime lady," she said. "I want to go home."
The house was exactly wrong.
Not wrong as in bad. Wrong as in everything about it made sense on paper and nothing about it felt like a place where people actually lived.
Clean lines, natural light, furniture arranged with geometric precision. The kitchen was enormous and spotless, all marble countertops and chrome fixtures, and I found myself wondering if anyone had ever actually spilled anything on that floor.
Missy led me to the kitchen table and climbed into a chair that had clearly been chosen for aesthetics over function. She had to sit on her knees to reach the surface.
"Are you hungry?" I asked.
"There's stuff in the fridge. Maria puts it there."
"Who's Maria?"
"She cleans. And cooks sometimes. But she's not here today."
I opened the fridge and found containers labeled with dates and contents in neat handwriting. TUESDAY: CHICKEN AND VEGETABLES. SNACK: APPLE SLICES WITH ALMOND BUTTER. Everything organized, everything anticipated, everything efficient.
I pulled out the apple slices and set them on the table. Missy ate one without enthusiasm.
"You know what I do when I've had a bad day?" I said, sitting across from her.
"What?"
"I count things. Helps my brain settle down."
Her eyes brightened slightly. "What do you count?"
I reached into my bag and pulled out the jar of change I'd been meaning to deposit for three weeks. Bar tips, mostly quarters and dimes, the random pennies customers left behind. I dumped it on the table between us.
"Let's start with this. You sort, I'll count."
For the next hour, we separated coins into piles. Missy was meticulous, examining each one like it might be counterfeit.
She asked questions: Why did some quarters have different pictures? Why were dimes so small when they were worth more than nickels? I answered as best I could, making up half of it, watching her shoulders gradually drop from where they'd been hunched near her ears.
At 4:23 PM, I heard the front door open.
Missy's head came up. "Papa."
Footsteps in the hallway, measured and precise. Then Zoltan Boros appeared in the kitchen doorway, still in his jacket, phone in hand, looking like he'd run the last block.
His eyes found Missy first. Something passed over his face, quick and unguarded, something that looked almost like terror held at bay by sheer force of will. Then his hand flattened against his jacket pocket, fingers spread, and he stood completely still.
Three seconds. I counted.
Then his phone buzzed and the mask slid back into place.
"Missy." He crossed to the table and crouched beside her chair. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Liv and I counted all the coins."
He looked at the piles on the table, then at me. "All of them?"
"Every last penny," I said. "Turns out your daughter has strong opinions about currency design. She thinks the eagle on the quarter looks angry."
"It does look angry," Missy said.
Zoltan's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. "Thank you for coming," he said to me. "Petra explained the situation."
"She said you were unavailable."
"Government briefing. The kind where leaving early raises questions I'd rather not answer."
I started scooping coins back into the jar. "Well, crisis averted. The fish tank incident has been thoroughly processed through the medium of numismatics."
"Fish tank?"
"There was an incident," Missy said gravely. "I was closest."
Zoltan looked between us, clearly missing context and deciding not to pursue it. He stood, his hand briefly touching Missy's hair before he stepped back.
"Petra has been conducting interviews for a replacement nanny," he said to me. "So far, the results have been underwhelming."
"Missy mentioned."
"Six candidates. Missy refused to acknowledge any of them."
"They smiled too much," Missy said. "Fake smiles. Like the people who ask if I miss my mom."
The words landed in the kitchen like something dropped. I saw Zoltan's jaw tighten, saw the hand flatten against his pocket again.
"I should go," I said, standing.
"Wait." He moved to block my path, which might have been intimidating if I were the type to be intimidated. "I have a proposal."
"Is that what they're calling it these days?"
He didn't react to the sarcasm. "A temporary arrangement. Until a suitable permanent candidate is found."
"I'm a bartender, not a nanny."
"I'm aware. But Missy trusts you, which appears to be a rare commodity. The hours would be afternoon, after your morning shift. The compensation would be appropriate."
"Define appropriate."
He named a figure. I kept my face neutral through sheer force of will, but something must have shown because his eyes narrowed slightly.
"That's for childcare?" I said. "Or are you also expecting me to solve cold fusion?"
"For your time. Your flexibility. And your discretion."
I looked at Missy, who was watching us with the focused attention of a child who'd learned early that adults talked around important things.
"This isn't what I do," I said.
"I know. That's why I'm asking."
There it was again. That direct, outcome-focused way of speaking that should have been off-putting but somehow wasn't. Like he'd already calculated every objection and found them insufficient, and was simply waiting for me to catch up.
"You could hire anyone," I said. "Agencies. Specialists. People with actual qualifications."
"I could. Missy rejected all of them."
"So I'm the default option?"
"You're the requested option. There's a difference."
I thought about my checking account. About Piper's textbooks, due next week. About the rent increase my landlord had mentioned with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"One week," I said. "Trial period. If it doesn't work, you find someone else."
"Agreed."
He extended his hand. I shook it, trying to ignore the warmth of his palm, the faint scent of coffee and something dryer. Cedar, maybe. The same smell I'd noticed at the bar, the one that had started showing up in my dreams uninvited.
"I'll have Petra send the details," he said.
"Fine."
I turned to leave, grabbing my bag from the counter. Missy waved from the table, looking more relaxed than she had all afternoon.
I was almost to the front door when a voice stopped me.
"Ms. Strauss."
A man stood in the hallway, tall and angular, with the kind of face that suggested he'd practiced looking neutral in a mirror. His suit was expensive, his smile was calculated, and everything about him made my spine straighten.
"I'm Marcus Webb, COO of Boros Industries." He extended a hand I didn't take. "I understand you'll be spending time in Mr. Boros's home."
"News travels fast."
"It's my job to stay informed." He produced a folder from somewhere, thin and official-looking. "Given the nature of the arrangement, our legal team requires certain protections. Standard procedure for anyone with household access."
I took the folder, flipped it open. A lot of legal language, clauses about confidentiality, provisions about professional conduct.
And there, on the third page: "The undersigned agrees to maintain a strictly professional relationship with Mr. Boros and all members of his household, avoiding any personal involvement that could constitute a conflict of interest."
"Personal involvement," I repeated.
"It's happened before." Marcus's smile didn't waver. "Previous staff members have misinterpreted proximity for something else. The agreement protects everyone."
I looked at him, at his pressed suit and his practiced expression and his folder full of boundaries.
I thought about every customer who'd ever assumed my smile meant something it didn't, every boss who'd taken "friendly" as "interested," every man who'd looked at me like my job was to make him comfortable.
I signed without reading the rest.
"There," I said, handing it back. "Strictly professional. No personal involvement with my employer. Happy?"
"Delighted." He tucked the folder under his arm. "Welcome to the Boros household, Ms. Strauss. I'm sure you'll find it enlightening."
He walked away, and I stood in that pristine hallway, the cedar scent still clinging to my jacket, the conduct agreement signed and filed, and thought: what the hell have I gotten myself into?
Outside, the afternoon had turned grey. I pulled out my phone and found a text from Piper.
mom's asking about thanksgiving again
I typed back: tell her I'm working.
Then I deleted that and wrote: we'll figure out thanksgiving later.
The black sedan was still waiting at the curb.
I waved it off and started walking toward the subway instead.
I needed the air. I needed the noise. I needed something to drown out the image of Zoltan Boros standing in his kitchen doorway, hand flattened against his pocket, looking at his daughter like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
That look had no business making my chest feel tight.
The conduct agreement said strictly professional. Fine. I could do strictly professional. I'd been doing strictly professional my whole life.
But as I descended the subway stairs, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just signed something far more complicated than a legal document.
In addition an unplanned ache and heat was toying in my lower belly, this was no place for this to happen.
I'd agreed to walk into his world every afternoon. His kitchen, his daughter, his cedar-and-coffee presence filling up the air in the room.
Strictly professional.
Right.