Chapter 6
GRIFFIN
“Okay, buddy. Ready?”
I crouch in front of Sylas, straightening the collar of the shirt he picked himself. “Don’t forget to be on your best behavior.”
He grins. “Gotcha.”
“And we agreed: no testing physics on the candidates,” I say, fighting a smile.
“What if they like physics?”
“Then we hire them on the spot.”
He giggles, eyes crinkling in a way that makes something in my chest unclench. God, he looks more like Lila every day. Same blond hair, blue eyes, same smile. I clear my throat before the thought can finish forming and straighten, glancing around the living room.
We’ve made an effort. If you squint, it almost looks like two civilized people live here.
I vacuumed in lines, back and forth until they matched, shoved toys into baskets, even opened the curtains to let the morning light flood in.
The coffee table is spotless except for my notepad, a couple of pens aligned parallel, and a plate of cookies Sylas insisted on baking “for good interview energy.” The scent of chocolate chips and sugar still lingers in the house.
Sylas is buzzing with anticipation, bouncing on the couch, tablet in his lap. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m about to lead a board meeting. Except this time, the stakes are even higher.
Worth offered to help me filter through applications by running preliminary background checks and even asked his daughter’s longtime nanny, Maggie, for recommendations. Over a week later, we came up with a list of suitable candidates. Let’s see if they hold up to their resumes.
I check my phone one last time. But instead of messages, I open Instagram.
My thumb hovers over the search bar before I give in and type the name of the woman who’s been plaguing my thoughts for weeks. I feel like a complete idiot every time I do this.
She’s unattainable. But that doesn’t change the fact that she looks and sounds like a damn dream.
Her profile loads, and I tap her latest story. It’s from last night. She’s at a bar with a friend, laughing, glass in hand, music spilling through the screen.
She looks gorgeous. Shoulder-length brown hair tucked neatly behind her ears, dark brown skin lit up like gold under the bar lights, the curve of her chest framed by a dress that could ruin most men’s restraint. But it’s her smile that hits like a sucker punch.
You’re being a creep, Griff.
“What are you watching?”
I nearly launch my phone across the room.
My head snaps toward Sylas. He’s peering over the back of the couch, eyes narrowed curiously.
“No one. Nothing.”
“So why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve seen a scary ghost?”
I stare at him.
He stares right back.
Sometimes I forget he’s six and not sixteen.
“It’s nothing,” I say, locking my phone.
Sylas grins. “Uh huh.”
I point at him. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
The doorbell rings. “Saved by the bell, buddy.”
Sylas’s grin only gets wider.
I pocket my phone, roll my shoulders back, and drag in a slow breath. “Showtime.”
He pretends to zip his lips, but his eyes gleam with mischief.
Applicant #1 is Kendra. She sits ramrod straight on the couch, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I run a tight ship,” she says. “Color-coded schedules. We minimize screen time and maximize enrichment.”
“Love the structure,” I tell her, trying to sound engaged. “How are you with flexibility?”
“Structure is flexibility.”
Not sure what that means, but it sounds exhausting.
Sylas offers her a cookie. “Do you like robots?”
“Robots are fine within the STEM block.”
My son looks at me, unimpressed. I jot in my notebook: Talks in blocks. Might unionize against me.
Applicant #2 is Margo. A friendly twenty-two year old nursing student.
“I can do most mornings and some weekends.” She flips through a planner covered in pastel stickers.
“Mornings are our busiest,” I admit. “And I need nights.”
She hesitates. “I could maybe swap some clinical shifts.”
Margo is thoughtful, but I can already see the missed mornings, late starts, the inconsistency that snowballs, and the stress bleeding through. We need stability and a young nursing student can’t give us that.
Sylas leans forward. “Can you build a claw?”
She laughs. “I can build a first-aid kit?”
Applicant #3 is Shay. A former camp counselor, twenty-six, energy like a power surge.
“I’m big on outdoor time,” she says brightly. “Mud pies, tree forts, all of it.”
“Within reason,” I say.
Sylas bounces in his seat. “Can we make a flamethrower?”
Shay grins. “What if we made a safe science experiment that looks like a flamethrower?”
I choke on a laugh. “Hard pass on anything that ignites.”
Shay shrugs, unfazed. I like her spirit, until she casually mentions she’ll be gone most of July for a camping retreat and might be off on a few more spontaneous trips here and there.
Great. We need presence, not wanderlust.
Applicant #4 is Brielle. When she steps inside, her perfume floods the room. It’s too strong and it throws everything off.
“I’m great with kids. I like keeping things light and aesthetic.”
“What does a great day with a six-year-old look like to you?” I ask.
She smiles. “Cute selfies. Maybe matching outfits?”
“Do you like dinosaurs?” Sylas asks.
“No. But we can do fashion shows with colourful clothes!”
Sylas frowns. “That doesn’t sound fun,” he mutters.
I scribble pass in the margin, pressing a little too hard. The pen leaves an indent I can feel through the page.
Applicant #5 is Teresa. Mid-fifties, calm, and practical. She seems like the kind of woman who could fold a fitted sheet blindfolded.
“I cook, tidy up, handle school pickups, and I prefer long-term placements.”
I perk up. “Sounds great. Any limitations?”
Teresa checks her schedule. “I’m only available from noon to six.”
I sigh.
The last applicant is Jenna. We’re five minutes in when she leans forward, a smile edging from polite to suggestive. “So… what do you do for fun, Mr. Hayes?”
“I make sandwiches.”
She blinks. “Cool. I love sandwiches.”
Sylas leans over, whispering loudly, “Dad, I think she likes you.”
“Interview voice,” I murmur, shaking my head.
Jenna giggles. “He’s funny.”
He’s also right, and that’s exactly why this won’t work.
By the time she leaves, I’m overstimulated. The front door clicks closed and I lock it, then check it without thinking before stepping back. The silence that follows is very welcome.
I sink into the armchair, rolling my shoulders as Sylas collapses dramatically onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“Well, Sy?” I ask.
He rolls over, serious now. “None of them are like Joyce.”
“Yeah.” I rub a thumb over my wedding band, finding the nick again. I stare at the mess of notes on my page. Every scribble looks the same: Nice. Qualified. Not right. “It seems like that’s a lot harder to find than gold.”
He thinks about that, then adds, “And I want someone who doesn’t say within the STEM block. That was weird.”
I snort. “Agreed. We’ll find her.”
I have to believe that. I need it to be something I can fix.
“Yeah. We will.” Sylas brightens. “Can we have cookies now?”
“That’s the first great idea I’ve heard all day.”