The Nanny He Wasn't Built For
Chapter 1
GRIFFIN
My alarm explodes and I groan, cursing under my breath as I pat blindly across the sheet for my phone.
I finally catch the buzzing slab, kill the alarm, and flop back onto the mattress. I rub the sleep from my eyes then unlock the screen to check the time, only to land on the last page I was staring at before I crashed.
My thumb hovers over a sound-off reel I already watched multiple times last night. Flour dusts her forearms, light slipping over delicate arms as she presses dough with the heel of her hand.
I’m not a man who usually lingers. I’m not a man who does… this.
The phone warms in my palm. The caption is nothing crazy—three emojis and “cinnamon rolls for tomorrow”—but my chest heaves like I’ve sprinted up stairs.
Looking down at my sleep shorts, I notice a little tent forming. Goddamn it.
I readjust myself, scolding my cock to behave itself.
The past five years taught me a lot about outrunning hunger and lust, but lately it’s been catching me by the ankle.
I drag the video back to the beginning.
The sound of her laugh ghosts the room even when muted. She brushes hair off her face with the back of her wrist and a streak of flour kisses her cheek. It’s harmless content. Still, it feels like a hand under my pants.
I should put the phone down and take a cold shower.
“Dad?”
The spell detonates. I lock the screen so fast my hand almost cramps.
“Yeah, bud?”
I’m already on my feet, the phone face-down on the bed, the door open. Sylas stands there, his hair a storm, one fist rubbing an eye. “I had a bad dream last night,” he says.
“C’mere.”
He folds into me, and I squeeze him hard, giving his head a little kiss.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
He shakes his head.
“Okay then. Let’s get ready for the day, shall we?”
Before heading out to the hallway, I pick up the phone and stare at my reflection on the black screen.
I run a hand down my face. This habit needs to stop.
By seven, the house is already loud. The TV is blaring and the coffee machine is whirring. In the chaos, I pour a mug, forget to drink it, then pour another.
One of Sylas’s toys needs new batteries and he won’t let it go until I change them immediately, so I open the junk drawer to hunt for a screwdriver when a small white piece of paper snags on my knuckle. I stare at it for a few breaths.
If you find this, it means you woke up first for once *wink*
Kiss me before you leave.
Fuck.
I crumple the note in my fist and squeeze my eyes shut, letting out a rough exhale.
“What’s for breakfast?” drifts down the hall, interrupting my thoughts.
“Cereal,” I call back, tucking the note away.
Sylas groans. “Again? We had cereal yesterday morning. And the morning before that. And the one before—”
“I know, buddy. I’m sorry. I’ll do better tomorrow morning. Promise.”
Our nanny had to step away last-minute to take care of a family member, and the precise little machine my life runs on threw a belt the same day.
Joyce usually makes breakfast burritos, chops fruit into perfect stars, and leaves sticky notes on the fridge with reminders.
Since she left, I’ve been playing catch-up, badly.
“I miss Joyce,” he says with a sigh.
“Same here, Sy.” I scrawl my name on a permission slip I should’ve signed yesterday. “Only a few more days until she’s back.”
He grins with all his teeth. “Can’t wait!”
On the drive to school, Sylas tells me about the robot claw he’s engineering. I nod, add a materials list to the notes app when I stop at an intersection, and pretend I don’t see the social media thumbnail trying to lure me back into the dark.
Knock it off, Griff.
As soon as we arrive, I kill the engine. Sylas is already unbuckled, the door flying open, sprinting toward the schoolyard.
“Bye. Love you too!” I shout after him, and he gives me a backward thumbs-up without looking.
I shake my head with a grin when my phone buzzes.
“Hey, Joyce. We need you back, like yesterday.”
Joyce laughs, but it’s tight.
Fuck. That doesn’t sound good.
“I have bad news. And just know… this was my last resort.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, already bracing for impact. “Rip the bandaid, Jo.”
“I have to stay.”
My jaw tightens. “How much longer?”
She pauses. “Permanently.”
“What?” I bark, louder than I mean to. I immediately scrub a hand over my face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just—fuck, Jo. What am I supposed to do without you? We’re already barely holding it together. Sy hasn’t eaten a decent meal in days.”
“Griff. Breathe,” Joyce says gently. “This is the last thing I want, you know that. But I’m the only one close enough to take care of my cousin.”
The edge drains out of me just as fast as it came.
“Yeah,” I mutter, staring outside my car window. “Ignore me. I’m being a selfish prick.”
Joyce chuckles. “You are not a selfish prick, Griffin. You’re overwhelmed. But you are more than capable of surviving without me.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “But I don’t want to,” I argue like a kid who just got told his safety blanket disappeared and will have to sleep without it.
She sighs on the other end. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
After we hang up, I crawl into traffic, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. My mind won’t shut off. I exhale sharply and shift my hand, tapping twice against the wheel before stilling.
My phone buzzes again in the cup holder. A text from the group thread that’s been running since we were kids.
Worth
Griff. You alive, old man?
Look who’s talking. You’re the eldest of us three…
Henson
Haha. He got you there, bro.
Griff, you’re late.
I look at the time. It’s barely past eight.
Don’t be an ass. I’ll only be 5 mins late. I just dropped off Sy and headed to the office now.
Henson
Good. We need your scary voice for the concrete sub at Tower South. He thinks ‘timeline’ is a suggestion.
Worth
Also, budget review at 10. Bring your red pen and that vein in your forehead.
I scoff and roll my eyes at my friends’ antics.
I’ll be there soon.
I smirk despite myself. Worth, Henson and I have been friends since childhood —brothers in everything but blood.
We spent countless hours in Nantucket, running wild across the island and causing more trouble than we ever got caught for.
Our parents were perpetually fed up with us, but it never slowed us down. We were unstoppable.
That feels like another life, but the salt still lives in my bones. We grew older, swinging hammers on summer decks, with callused hands and a truck that only started if you swore at it. Then the Miller brothers came up to me with a pitch:
“Come build a firm with us.”
I trusted them enough to move across the country. The first year, I was still blue collar, working as a union carpenter by day and draftsman by night, teaching myself Computer-Aided Design in a rented studio apartment with bad heat. Then came night classes and licensure exams.
That’s when I met Lila —my neighbor. We shared a wall, then late-night takeout, her laugh cutting through the hum of my laptop as she sat cross-legged on my floor like she already belonged there.
I shut the thought down before it can take root; I’m already late as is.
Now, I’m COO at W.H.M. Construction, the guy who translates between the design team and the crews who actually make the drawings stand up.
It’s been insane, but good, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
The lightness of my mood dissipates when I see the Instagram thumbnail on my home screen.
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.
But I open the app anyway.
I type her name into the search bar and the profile appears on my screen. She’s always active, sunup to lights out, little squares of a life edited better than most movies.
I tap her story and watch. Then I watch the next. And the next.
Suddenly, the spell snaps when a car honks, the green light almost glaring at me. I toss the phone onto the passenger seat like it burned me and glance at my left hand, the gold band on my wedding finger catching a stripe of morning sun.
Guilt needles straight through the center of me.
I rub a palm over my mouth, jaw tight.
Enough.
I head toward the office, hating how much I’m already thinking about the next hit.