Chapter Three
Fletcher
I'm supposed to be working, but instead I find myself staring at the front door, hoping the next stranger I let into my home isn't going to tie-dye my children or burn sage in the crawlspace.
The last one left a salt circle around my mailbox and tried to convince my youngest that gnomes were real. Henry's still afraid of pointy hats.
All right, that's my latest tall tale.
If the agency brings me another hippy, I'm going to start interviewing ex-military women. There must be a middle ground between Shamanic Mary Poppins and General Patton, but apparently nobody at "Millbrook Valley Nanny Solutions" got the memo.
I pace the hallway, phone in hand, waiting for the inevitable text.
On the kitchen counter is a printed schedule from the agency, with a yellow sticky note that says, "She's a real go-getter!
" The words are underlined three times. All that tells me is that she's either chronically optimistic or she once ran a triathlon in the rain.
My phone vibrates. I glance down, bracing myself. "Ms. Jennifer Cordell will arrive at your home within ten minutes. Please provide her with the usual orientation packet. Thank you and have a delightful day!"
Delightful? That must be the agency's little joke.
I allow myself precisely five seconds to prepare for what might await me.
Then I approach the coat closet and yank the door open.
A shoe avalanche greets me---Henry's sneakers, Charlotte's muddy soccer cleats, one of Amelia's sparkly sandals, and Joshua's slippers.
I shove everything back in there and slam the door shut.
Then, I check the hallway mirror and try to smooth my hair.
I look like a man who hasn't slept since 2018.
Sighing again, I lean against the wall and try to remember the last time I engaged in something resembling adult life.
I'm thirty-seven years old. My ex-wife abandoned me and our four children years ago.
That's not the sort of CV a nanny might look for in a client.
Our house constantly smells of either bleach or cheese for some strange reason.
I've taken the morning off from my general-manager position at the hotel strictly to ensure this nanny won't flee at cheetah speed.
Does a single father in need of childcare CV? No, you imbecile. She needs to impress you, not the other way around.
The doorbell rings, two sharp chimes. It's precisely 9:00. I blink, surprised by the punctuality, then march to the entryway. I take a breath, square my shoulders. Then I open the door.
And freeze. This charming woman is no crone.
She's not a hippie either. She is...Well, not what I expected.
She stands about six inches below my eye line, wearing a tidy skirt and a navy blue sweater that I imagine has survived at least two previous families.
Her auburn hair is pulled into a ponytail, but a few strands have gone rogue, framing her face.
She gazes up at me with the sort of polite determination usually reserved for flight attendants or social workers.
I freeze. She looks young. Might she have lied about her age to get this job? Or perhaps I'm simply old in comparison. Her green eyes draw me in, and I suddenly realize I'm blocking the doorway.
The beautiful woman gazes at me with confusion in her yes. "Mr. Fletcher?"
"Uh...yes?" I clear my throat and attempt a casual smile. "Hello, I---I'm Fletcher Murgatroyd."
She smiles, extending her hand, and for some reason I shake it. She has a solid, businesslike grip. "I'm Jennifer Cordell. The agency sent me to you. I hope it's all right that I'm a few minutes early."
I blink several times. "That's fine. The children are at school."
"Yes, I figured they would be." She peers past me, craning her neck. "Maybe we should sit on the sofa to discuss things."
"All right."
I step aside to let her in, and she moves past me with a confident stride that suggests she's used to dealing with panicky parents.
Jennifer swings her gaze to the hallway and the scuff marks on the walls, the backpacks hanging from hooks, the faint aroma of this morning's burnt toast still lingering in the air.
"You have a lovely home," she says.
I can't tell whether she's being polite or if she genuinely means it.
I lead Jennifer into the living room, gesturing to the sofa.
She sits on the edge, back straight, hands folded on her lap the picture of professionalism.
I take the armchair across from her and immediately regret it when I realize how far apart we are.
Am l conducting a job interview? I suppose I am.
"So," I begin, but then stop. How can I explain my lifestyle to her? Welcome to my circus? Please don't run away screaming?
"I read through your file," Jennifer announces, breaking the silence. "Four children, ages eight to fifteen. That's quite a handful."
"That's one way to put it." I smile weakly. "The agency probably told you I'm desperate."
She tilts her head a touch. "They said you've had some turnover."
I can't stop the bitter laugh that spills out of me. "Six nannies in eighteen months. Not my proudest statistic. It's been seven weeks since the last nanny ran away while screaming about demons and satanic rites."
Jennifer doesn't seem shocked by my miniature tall tale. Instead, she lifts her brows and asks, "Was that story a joke?"
"Sort of. I like to tell my children tall tales about things like rabbits as tall as skyscrapers as a way of directing their thoughts away from the fact their mother abandoned them. But it's true that all the other nannies resigned within two days of meeting my children."
Instead, she nods thoughtfully.
"Children can sense when adults aren't committed for the long haul, and they'll act out in anxiety. They need stability."
"Is that your professional assessment?" I ask, not meaning to sound sarcastic, but I'm tired and my mental filter has worn thin. "I don't want to put my children through another round of disappointment when you give up on us."
"What I said was just an observation, not a condemnation." She opens a small notebook and wields a shiny black ballpoint pen. "Tell me about your children."
I lean back in my chair. "Where to start?
Joshua's thirteen, going on thirty. He thinks he's the man of the house now.
Actually, he's quite helpful. But he carries a weight on his shoulders that no child should have to bear.
" I pause, watching her scribble notes. "Charlotte's eleven and brilliant---too brilliant for her own good sometimes.
She reads everything, questions everything, and has strong opinions about Brussels sprouts. "
Jennifer's pen stops moving. "The patriarchy?"
"Last week she informed me that doing her own laundry was perpetuating gender stereotypes.
" I run a hand through my hair. "I told her she could test her theory by washing Joshua's clothes for him.
She huffed and announced she would wear the same jeans every day until I gave in to her demands.
It's a cleanliness strike, apparently. But it only lasted for two days, then she needed to change into her soccer uniform. "
"Kids go through phases of all kinds." A smile tugs at the corner of Jennifer's mouth. "And the other two kids?"
"Amelia's fifteen and has an obsession with mermaids and other mythical creatures. She's also been taking baths for two hours at a time."
Jennifer's lips twitch with amusement, and her eyes sparkle in the loveliest way. Her pink lips are full and seem to beg for a kiss.
Bloody hell, man, stop fantasizing about the potential nanny.
I fuss with my shirt collar, which probably makes me seem dodgy.
"The last one is Henry, who's the baby of the family at eight years old.
Henry has a huge imagination, believes anything his siblings tell him, and he's obsessed with building forts out of every clean sheet in the house.
I found him sleeping under the dining room table last week. Oh, and he loves his electric scooter."
Jennifer bows her head as her pen scratches across her notebook. I can't tell whether she's recording my parental failures or simply taking notes.
"That sounds like a normal eight-year-old to me," she says. Oddly, her voice has a gentle lilt that makes me think of warm apple pie. "Children seek security in different ways."
I rub my face, abruptly aware that I haven't shaved properly in two days. "Look, Ms. Cordell---"
"Jennifer, please."
"All right, Jennifer," I correct myself.
"I'm not sure what the agency told you, but I need someone who's not going to leg it after three weeks.
The kids deserve consistency." I lean forward, elbows on my knees.
"Please be honest with me. Can you handle this family's chaos?
Because that's what we are. Pure, unfiltered chaos with occasional moments of joy. "
Jennifer closes her notebook and looks me straight in the eye. "Mr. Murgat---um, Murdatiroy?"
"MUR-guh-TROYD. I know it's a mouthful. Sorry."
"Never mind, I get it now." She lifts her chin, staring straight into my eyes. "Mr. Murgatroyd, I've handled everything from triplets with colic to a five-year-old who thought she was possessed by her grandmother's spirit. I don't scare easily."
"That's what all the nannies tell me." I can't hide the skepticism that creeps into my voice.
"Then Charlotte conducts her science experiments in the bathtub, or Joshua builds a catapult in the garage, and suddenly they're updating their résumés.
" I manage a tight smile. "By the way, I'm impressed with how well you managed my surname. "
She smiles, and something warm unfurls in my chest. Probably heartburn.
"You can just call me Fletcher," I say, finding myself oddly charmed by her attempt to wrap her tongue around my surname.
"And I appreciate your confidence, but I don't think you understand what you're getting into with my brood.
I have two sets of grandparents in the mix too---my parents and my former in-laws. "
I study her expression, searching for signs of weakness or hesitation. She meets my gaze steadily, and I'm briefly distracted by the flecks of gold in her green eyes.
"The agency says you're looking for a live-in position," I say, forcing myself back to business. "Our last nanny lived in the attic room that my ex-wife had done up years ago. It's small but private."
"That sounds perfect."
"Before you agree to anything, I should warn you about our schedule. It's...unpredictable. I work at the Millbrook Grand, which is a boutique hotel. I'm the general manager and sometimes need to rush back to the hotel after hours due to minor emergencies---or a not-so-minor ones."
"I can handle all of it, Fletcher, believe me. But you'll need to trust me one hundred percent if this arrangement is going to work." She lifts her brows, staring directly into my eyes again. "The question is, should I walk out the door? Or do you intend to hire me?"
It's do-or-die time. So, I rise and bend over slightly to offer my hand. "We have a deal, Jennifer. Welcome to the Murgatroyd household."
And I pray I've made the right decision.