Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
ROWAN
I pull up to the end of a quiet cul-de-sac and immediately feel like my van doesn’t belong here. It looks like the kind of neighborhood I imagined for myself in my old life.
Manicured lawns. Identical mailboxes. Wide driveways. The kind of community where packages are probably safe being left unattended.
I check the address on my phone.
Then the house.
Then the address again.
This is the place.
I turn off my van and sit for a second with my eyes closed, sending out positive vibes and gratitude to the universe.
Despite the somewhat rough start to my day, I’ve remained positive.
Didn’t let Mr. Grump in a Suit turn me into someone negative or angry.
And the universe rewarded me when, just minutes after I dropped off Bark Twain at the shelter, my phone pinged with a text from another volunteer asking if I was interested in a potential nanny job.
While nannying has never been a lifelong dream, my mantra kicked in before I could question it.
Say yes.
So that’s what I did.
I glance at the time. Two minutes early. Apparently punctuality is the one habit I’ve maintained from my old life, along with my ability to parallel park and an unhealthy fondness for pens in every color possible. And journals. And just office supplies in general.
I hop out of the van and head up the driveway, the crisp late autumn air chilly against my skin.
I climb onto the front porch and am about to ring the doorbell when I hear a wail, high-pitched and furious.
Definitely a toddler.
Then a man’s voice comes through. “Jemmy, you need to eat. No. Don’t throw that. What did I just say?”
It sounds like this guy has his hands full. It’s probably not the best time for a job interview, and I consider retreating.
Then again, chaos is part of being a nanny. If anything, this feels like a live audition.
I take a breath and ring the doorbell.
The tantrum continues uninterrupted.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I start to wonder if the doorbell was swallowed by the noise when the door finally swings open.
And my breath catches.
Because my potential boss is none other than Mr. Grump in a Suit.
Except he’s no longer wearing a suit.
He’s in gray sweatpants and a faded Northwestern t-shirt that looks like it’s been washed a thousand times. The fabric stretches across a broad chest, the sleeves clinging to his biceps in a way that feels extremely inconvenient.
And I thought he was sex on a stick in that suit.
Before he opened his mouth, of course.
But that has nothing on him in gray sweatpants.
Gray. Fucking. Sweatpants.
I’ve died and gone to gray sweatpants heaven.
For half a second, I forget how to breathe. How to think. How to speak.
Then he opens his mouth.
“Can I help you?” he barks out.
“I’m Dylan’s friend, Rowan. She mentioned you’re looking for a nanny and said to stop by at six.”
“Absolutely not,” he says flatly. “If you couldn’t control your dog earlier, there’s no way in hell I’m trusting you with my kids.” He starts to close the door.
I almost let him.
I don’t exactly need this job.
I could hop back in my van and follow my nose until I find my next destination.
But my hand shoots out and catches the door, as if some bigger force is at play, not allowing me to retreat.
His eyes snap to mine, startled.
“I’m not one to judge, but it sounds like you’re having a rough time,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can overthink them.
“It’s fine. He’s just tired. And hungry. I burned his grilled cheese. Again.”
I don’t break eye contact. “Let me help. I’m already here. You might as well get something out of it.”
He parts his lips and I can practically hear the refusal about to slip free.
That’s when the smoke alarm goes off.
“Shit,” he mutters. “The grilled cheese.”
He spins around and bolts inside, leaving the door open.
I hesitate for a second before I cross the threshold, toeing off my sneakers.
The house is big. Open floor plan. Tall ceilings. Neutral walls and floors.
But it feels…overwhelmed.
Tiny socks abandoned mid-stride. Sneakers kicked off without ceremony. Toys everywhere — blocks, Barbies, plastic dinosaurs, a rogue crayon crushed into the rug.
The farther I walk, the more it feels like life happens here faster than anyone can keep up.
Then I reach the kitchen.
Smoke billows from a pan on the stove. The smell of burnt bread hangs thick in the air. Mr. Gray Sweatpants (upgraded from Mr. Grump in a Suit) is standing on a chair, arms raised, desperately trying to silence the smoke detector.
At the table a few feet away, a little boy with a full head of dark hair sits in a high chair, his face and shirt covered in ketchup, his wails almost as loud as the smoke detector.
Beside him, a girl of maybe six or seven sits with her head bowed, hands pressed over her ears, making herself small.
Finally, the alarm stops.
Seconds later, the boy’s cries taper off and silence settles in the room. It almost feels louder.
Mr. Gray Sweatpants steps down from the chair and drags a hand over his face. He looks exhausted, like even sleeping for days on end wouldn’t be able to fix it.
“As you can see,” he says quietly, “now’s not a good time.”
Something in his voice cracks my chest open.
This man isn’t grumpy. He’s drowning, in desperate need of a lifesaver.
So that’s what I’ll be, even if just for tonight.
I move toward the stove and grab the pan, dumping the contents into the trash can, where there are at least three previous grilled cheese casualties, each one progressively darker.
“Why don’t you go clean up the little one,” I suggest. “By the time you’re done, I’ll have un-charred grilled cheese ready.”
“You don’t have to. I can—”
“Handle it yourself?” I arch a brow.
I try not to sound judgmental. We’re all on different paths, on different parts of our journey. He’s obviously floundering, but is too proud to admit it. As if accepting help makes him “less than”.
I know that feeling all too well.
“I thought I’d have it together by now.”
The words are barely audible.
But I hear them.
“Go,” I say softly. “I’ll keep an eye on…” I glance toward the petite brunette sitting at the table, her wide eyes seemingly glued on me. I get the feeling she’s a little shy, considering she hasn’t uttered a single word while the little boy hasn’t stopped babbling.
“That’s Presley,” Mr. Gray Sweatpants says, nodding toward the girl. “And the ketchup disaster is Jeremiah. Jemmy.”
I approach the table with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Jemmy.” Then I look to the little girl. “Presley. That’s a great name. My name’s Rowan.”
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she averts her gaze.
“She doesn’t talk,” Mr. Gray Sweatpants explains. “Hasn’t in almost a year.”
Something shifts in my chest, and it takes everything in me not to cry. No wonder she cowers in her own body. No doubt everyone looks at her with pity. But I won’t.
I know how it feels to have everyone whisper about you behind your back because of something out of your control.
“That’s okay,” I say brightly. “Talking’s overrated anyway. There are tons of other ways to communicate.” My eyes flick to her sketchpad. “Like drawing.”
She perks up, lifting her gaze to mine.
“Did you know people used drawings to communicate before written language even existed?”
Her posture softens a little, and I count it as a win. Anything to make her feel relaxed. Like she matters.
“I told you,” I say over my shoulder to Mr. Gray Sweatpants, who’s looking at me like I’ve grown three heads. “I’ve got this. Go clean Jemmy.”
He stares at me for several protracted seconds, and I expect for him to reiterate his argument that he doesn’t need me.
Instead, he steps toward the high chair and lifts Jemmy out of it.
“Come on, bud. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He presses a kiss to the little boy’s head, ketchup and all, and something warm flickers in my chest.
Gray sweatpants. Tight shirt. And good with kids?
My ovaries are officially on overdrive right now, but I do my best to keep my libido in check. After all, this man could soon be my boss.
I went into this interview not caring one way or another if it worked out, trusting the universe would make it happen if it was meant to be.
But now I’m praying it works out. I can’t quite explain it. I feel this pull inside me, telling me this is where I need to be right now. And not for these kids or Mr. Gray Sweatpants.
But for myself.
“Thank you, Rowan,” Mr. Gray Sweatpants says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Of course…” I trail off, furrowing my brows. “You never told me your name.”
His lips lift in a tiny smile. “Hayden.”
“Hayden,” I repeat quietly.
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary.
Then he leaves the kitchen.