The Nanny is Off Limits

Chapter One

“M r. Kincaid, I have your son’s school on line two.” My assistant’s voice bounces off the walls of my office. Panic and a flare of annoyance set in as I wonder what my ten-year-old did this time.

This is the third call this week. There were the fake cockroaches he brought in that incited a riot and screams from practically every fifth-grade girl on Monday. He did the same with a rubber snake on Wednesday. This is on top of his standard daily comedic routine that does nothing but infuriate his teachers for being disruptive.

He’s already a year ahead, having skipped kindergarten and he does exceptionally well in school, making the school psychologist believe he’s the textbook study of a child misbehaving because he’s not being challenged enough, on top of the trauma of the last year, but he’s barely ten years old and in fifth grade. I’m not ready to send him to middle school yet and I’m not about to send him there to force him to a maturity level he is definitely not ready for.

But you’re forcing my hand, Sawyer.

They haven’t exactly threatened to kick him out of school but the words better fit and elsewhere have been thrown around a few times in the last principal-parent conference and that was before the rubber snake incident.

Fuck.

I rub my temples in preparation for the headache this phone call is going to cause. “This is Rowan Kincaid.”

“Hi, Mr. Kincaid.” I hear the voice of his principal, Mrs. Dean, who I imagine has been in early childhood education since before I was born and therefore has the patience of a saint but also doesn’t take a whole lot of shit from anyone.

I take a deep breath, preparing for the worst. “Is he okay? Everything alright?”

I hear a sigh and the closing of a door. “Sawyer is fine. We have him here in the office. You’re going to need to come down to the school now though.”

Unease washes over me and I run a hand through my hair nervously because he’s never been sent home from school before. “And why is that?”

“Your son started a fire in the boy’s restroom.”

Thoughts of my ten-year-old being labeled an arsonist and banned from every private school in Maryland come charging through my brain. “Excuse me?”

“It has been contained and no one was hurt, but we did have to evacuate the building and he is suspended from school for the next three days. We are considering expulsion, Mr. Kincaid.” I don’t say anything because really what the fuck could I say? “We have been patient and understanding about your… situation , and Isla is lovely. She is thriving in first grade,” she says in reference to my youngest daughter, “but we need to have a serious conversation about your son’s future at Rosewood Academy.”

“Is Isla, okay? Does she understand what’s going on?” I don’t focus on the second part of her statement as I panic thinking about Isla being afraid and also not being able to find her brother when they were evacuated. This is another reason I haven’t moved to send Sawyer to middle school. It’s Isla’s first year at this school and I wanted her to have her brother close while she acclimated.

“Yes, the younger children just think they have a second recess.”

I look down at my watch to see the time and know it’s going to be annoying as hell getting out of D.C. at the moment. “Give me thirty minutes,” I tell her.

“Very well. We will see you soon.”

“Thank God,” I hear murmured as soon as I push through the door to the administration office. I turn to see my ten-year-old sitting on the couch in the corner with his feet propped up on the coffee table and his arms spread along the back like he owns the place.

“Oh, you better start praying.” I point at him and watch as he has the audacity to roll his eyes before standing up and making his way toward me. My son is the spitting image of me with dark hair and sometimes green sometimes hazel eyes, depending on the lighting, but he, like my other two children, has a more olive complexion due to their mother’s Italian roots. “You’re in big trouble.” I point at him before pointing a finger back to the couch. “Every electronic you own is mine for the rest of the month.”

“Month!? Dad—” he starts.

I only glare at him. He couldn’t possibly think he was getting off easier than that.

“You want to make it the rest of the year?” I glower.

“It’s September.” He deadpans.

“You’re telling me. You’ve been in school for two weeks.”

I watch as he huffs and moves back to the couch. He pulls his hood over his head and crosses his arms, and I already can picture him doing the same as a surly teenager in a few years.

God, help me.

“Mr. Kincaid.” Mrs. Dean’s voice cuts through the air and I suddenly feel like I’m the one in trouble. “Let’s talk in my office. Sawyer will join us in a moment.” I follow her into the room where another woman is seated holding a notepad in her lap on top of three textbooks. She gives me a warm smile and a nod. “This is Dr. Courtney Anderson. She’s the school’s psychologist.”

I resist the urge to groan because the last thing I need is her weighing in on all the ways I’m failing as a parent. I don’t respond because as an attorney, I know to never show my hand early on.

“I’m just here to try and get a better gauge of the situation. No one wants to expel Sawyer.”

“There are several parents in the parent-teacher association who would beg to differ,” Mrs. Dean says with a fake smile and a look that makes me believe I won’t be leaving this office without writing a check.

“We just want to help,” Dr. Anderson adds and I can already picture Sawyer’s resistance if they try to make him meet with her once a week. I had all three of my children in therapy throughout the past year and only Isla had a positive experience because she’s six and a chatterbox. She was thrilled to have someone else to talk to about the latest drama with her imaginary friends and the latest episode of Bluey . “We understand that this past year has been difficult for your family and we are so sorry for everything you’ve been through.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat thinking about my children losing their mother unexpectedly. While we had been divorced for three years at the time of her death, it has affected me in a way I never anticipated. I’m not quite a widower but the grief washes over me like I am one at times. It’s a weird feeling that the person responsible for half of my children no longer walks the Earth. I have no one to run things by and I suddenly feel like I’m failing at every turn. While we hadn’t worked as a couple, she was a great mom and we co-parented well.

“Yes,” Mrs. Dean says, and I hear the qualifier in that one word, “but we can’t keep making excuses when it’s affecting the other students here. Your son lit a stack of papers on fire and put them in a trashcan. We can’t just let that go without consequences even though we understand he is going through a difficult time.”

“I get that and I think the suspension is more than fair.” I nod, doing my best to divert the conversation away from the dreaded “e” word.

“It’s not just my decision if he’s expelled. My phone has been ringing off the hook for the past hour with angry parents,” Mrs. Dean insists.

“How much?” I grunt, giving her a look.

She shuts her eyes like she’s planning to chastise me and when she opens them, I can see the fire in them.“This isn’t about money, Mr. Kincaid. Your son is disruptive and it does not appear he has any motivation to change that.” I sigh in defeat but Mrs. Dean leans forward and laces her fingers together. “However,” she starts and I give her a look as if to say, ‘ uh-huh, that’s what I thought, get to it.’ “We would be delighted to move up the timeline on the expansion of our second library.”

“As well as meeting with me once a week,” Dr. Anderson adds with a weak smile. “We want to get Sawyer on the right track, and I think having someone to talk to will help.”

I snort. “He’s had someone to talk to. Multiple someones. He doesn’t open up to anyone but his older sister or me when he feels forced.” My son is my mini-me and up until last year, he didn’t want to be anywhere but in my shadow. Yet somehow living with me full time has put a strain on our relationship. Maybe because I wasn’t the disciplinarian before. I was the fun parent that never nagged him or made sure he did his homework and now I have to find the balance. I’m struggling with that, especially with these destructive behaviors he’s picked up.

“This isn’t an option. If he doesn’t want to risk expulsion, once a week after school, he’ll need to meet with Dr. Anderson.”

“Do you want to get kicked out of school? Is that what this is all about? Do you hate Rosewood?” I look at my son through the rearview mirror on our drive home as he stares out his window with a bored expression on his face.

“No.” The one-word answer gets under my skin and I want to yell, but that hasn’t been working, so clearly I need to try another approach.

“Then why do you keep acting out? They want to expel you, SJ,” I say using my nickname for him. He doesn’t say anything, and I go for another angle, hoping he’ll tell me more about why he’s been acting like this. “Did someone make you do this? Are you being bullied? What?”

“Good one.” He snorts and I feel a pang of unease that my son is probably the ringleader when it comes to mischief.

“Then what is it?” He shrugs, and I grip the steering wheel tighter as I take a deep breath. “You know I hate that. Try again.”

“It’s nothing. I thought it would be cool. I wasn’t expecting the smoke alarms to go off. I thought I had it under control.”

“You’re smarter than that. This was a cry for attention and now you have it. Great work,” I say giving him a thumbs up.

“I’m hungry,” he says, ignoring the topic of conversation completely.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes? I got hauled into the office right before lunch. Can we get Chipotle?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He looks at me through the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, may we get Chipotle?”

“You do realize how much trouble you’re in, right?”

“So, that means you’re not going to feed me?” He chuckles. “Man, Dr. Anderson is going to have a field day with that.”

“Sawyer Jack,” I warn him. I still have a brief to finish and while I do cook sometimes, tonight is not going to be one of them. “Fine, but this is not me rewarding your behavior. I want your PS5, your iPad, and your laptop. When we get home, you need to rake the leaves in both the front and backyard, take a shower, do your homework, and that’s it. No television either.”

He mumbles something under his breath and begins to chew on one of the strings of his hoodie. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Read a book.”

“Oh great, like I don’t do that enough,” he replies dryly and it’s times like this I hate having a ten-year-old with an IQ that very well may be higher than his older sister’s. I sometimes struggle with wanting to chuckle at his wit. “Am I allowed to go to soccer tomorrow?”

I want to tell him no because he shouldn’t be allowed to do anything he enjoys while he’s suspended from school but I don’t want to deny him the only healthy outlet I feel he appreciates. While he may be the youngest on the team, objectively he is probably the best and his mom always stressed the importance of nurturing our kids’ hobbies. “We’ll see.”

After we grab his food, we’re back at our house just before one in the afternoon. I’m shocked to see my oldest daughter, Margot’s, light blue jeep in the driveway because she should definitely still be in school.

“Oooh, someone is in trouble,” SJ sings through a mouthful of chips that he’s shoving into his mouth by the handful.

I narrow my eyes at her car before pulling up my phone and checking her location which is coincidentally off.

“What is with my children today?”

I open the door as quietly as possible to attempt to see what my sixteen-year-old daughter is up to. We have cameras so I am surprised that I didn’t see her come home; I’m guessing she disarmed one before she left this morning so it wouldn’t alert me when she came back in.

I am hoping, actually praying, that when I walk through the front door, I spot Margot lying on the couch watching television with a box of tissues surrounding her because she has a cold. Something that will tell me my sixteen-year-old has a real reason for being home in the middle of the day even if it is without my permission. What I do not expect, however, is my daughter and her boyfriend, Gabe—no, I am not crazy about this term— in the horizontal position on my couch.

The only— and I do mean the only thing —that is stopping me from having a heart attack and making my children orphans, is that they do at least have their clothes on.

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!” I shout and I watch as that little fucker jumps three feet from where he is lying on top of her, and my daughter’s terrified eyes meet mine as her head snaps up.

“Sick!” SJ says, and when I glare at him, he gives me a cheeky grin. “This means I’m off the hook, right?” he adds pointing at them.

“What…what…” I close my eyes to stop myself from exploding…and to collect my thoughts. “In what world, do you think this is okay? You ditched school…”

“We got out early!” Margot’s brown eyes are wide and I can see the terror and a bit of embarrassment washing over her features.

“Since when?”

“Since always?” She tilts her head as she stands up. “We had an early release today. You’d know if you checked your emails.” She winces when I shoot her a warning glare. She can’t possibly think this is somehow my fault for not knowing she got out of school early.

“So, that gives you permission to come here and do…this!?” I growl.

“Mr. Kincaid…” Her boyfriend starts, and turning my attention to him, I glare at his disheveled shirt. I’m only slightly relieved that it doesn’t appear that his jeans are unzipped.

“Are you still here?!” I shout.

He visibly shakes, and I admit, I’m happy he’s intimidated by me.

“Dad!” Margot scrunches her nose at me in the same way her mother used to and I cross my arms over my chest because she is not getting off that easily.

“Say goodbye to your friend ,” I tell her. She goes to take a step toward him like she’s going to kiss him goodbye and I shake my head. “Do you want to live until graduation?” I continue to glare at her boyfriend who takes a step back before giving her a look.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid,” he says, without meeting my gaze as he moves toward the door before closing it behind him.

“I don’t even allow you in your room with him but you think I’d allow this?”

“I…” she starts and she looks around the room like she’ll find the answer before she blurts out, “We weren’t doing anything!”

SJ snorts. “Lie better than that. ”

“And what are you doing here?” she says to her brother. “You couldn’t have texted that you were coming home early?” Margot and Sawyer are close and I know for a fact that he’s covered for her when she’s done things she’s not supposed to. I even have the sneaking suspicion he’ll help her sneak out when the time comes. This thought terrifies me. I’m glad they have each other’s backs, but a part of me wishes they’d just rat the other out sometimes.

“Dad took my phone, and what are you mad at me for? It’s not like I knew you’d be here sucking face with your loser boyfriend.”

“Both of you, ENOUGH! SJ, you have leaves to rake.” I point towards the back door. “Finish your food and then I don’t want to hear a peep out of you until it’s done.”

Peep, he mouths at me before moving towards the kitchen.

I let out a frustrated sigh and turn toward Margot. “You’re grounded.”

She bites her bottom lip and I see the tears forming in her eyes before she nods once. “For how long?”

“Until I say,” I grunt and one of the tears falls down her face. “Don’t even try it.” Her lip trembles and another tear falls. “I am not falling for the tears. Go to your room.”

“I have cheer practice at three.” She sniffles before she starts moving toward the stairs.

“There and back and turn your location on. If you turn it off again, I’m taking your keys,” I call after her.

Christ, I need a drink.

“DADDY!!!” I hear her scream, followed by the closing of the front door and then my six-year-old is busting through my office door even though she knows she should knock before entering. Luckily, I’m not on a call but I still give her a look as she skips around my desk and hops into my lap. “You forgot me at school!” Isla is six going on sixteen, unfortunately, and takes picking out her clothes very seriously and everything— everything —has to match the sunglasses she’s wearing that day. It’s somewhat of a new thing, I think, in response to her mother’s death, but the therapist says it’s a healthy form of personal expression and it’s nothing to be concerned with yet . Today she’s wearing light blue and white with accents of yellow and light blue sunglasses that are way too big for her face.

I pull her sunglasses off so I can see her eyes. “I did not forget you,” I tell her before pressing a kiss to her forehead and tightening one of her loose pigtails.

“You picked Sawyer up and not me!” Her brown eyes narrow and give me a scolding look.

“Sawyer got sent home.”

“Yeah, and why is that? Some hot mom at pick-up said there was a fire today. Does that have my nephew’s name all over it?” My younger brother, River, comes strolling through my office door. Three times a week he picks them both up from school for me before he has to be at football practice. He is the head football coach for one of the high schools in the county, and my house just happens to be on the way there.

“A fire?” Isla’s eyes widen and her mouth forms an o-shape.

“He’s not going to be in school for a few days, alright?” I tell her so she knows not to panic if she’s unable to find him.

Isla shakes her head and hops off my lap. “SAWYER!” she screams as she runs out of my office.

“I am this close to losing my shit,” I tell River as I hold my thumb and index finger close together. “Then we get home and Margot is in the horizontal position making out on the couch with her boyfriend.”

River’s eyes go from shock to anger in the span of a second as he closes the door to my office. “Uhhh what?! I’ll kill him. Did you already kill him? Where’s the body?” he asks before sitting down on my couch. He rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt revealing all the tattoos he has on both of his arms. “You didn’t know she was home?”

My head falls into my hands before I run one through my hair, trying my best not to pull it out. “She turned off her location and disarmed the alarm, so no.”

“Shit, dude.”

I drop my head into my hands. “Needless to say, they are both grounded.”

“SJ’s suspended?”

I nod and pinch the bridge of my nose as I think about what I’m going to do about him for the next three days. I could bring him to the office, but that could be a disaster. “Three days. They were considering expulsion but it was nothing fifteen grand and a recurring weekly meeting with the school shrink couldn’t fix,” I say sarcastically while rubbing my forehead.

He chuckles and scratches his jaw. “Fuck, and knowing him he’s probably pumped to be out for three days.”

“I’m giving him every chore in the world until he goes back. You want your car washed?” I ask, and he chuckles.

“Man, I’ve been telling you this since Bianca died; you need help.” His brown eyes are sincere but a little scolding.

“I have help. I have you.”

“No, you need real, live-in help. Like a nanny, bro. At least until SJ is a little older. You’re doing your best, and anyone can see that, but you’re not present enough and the lack of supervision is the reason behind some of this. The days I pick them up, I stay with them until five when Margot gets home from practice, and yes, she feeds them and makes sure they take baths and showers, but Isla and SJ barely see you those days because they’re asleep by the time you get home. I think they would do well with more adult presence.”

“A live-in nanny though? Isn’t that a bit much? My kids aren’t babies.”

“Isla is six and SJ is ten. They are still kids and you need someone to keep an eye on Margot before you have a baby in the form of a grandchild in the mix too.”

His words set in and I shift uncomfortably in my chair thinking about my baby having a baby. I still remember every second of the day she was born and sometimes it feels unfathomable that it was sixteen years ago. “How would I even go about that? How does one even find a nanny?”

“How do you think? Contact an agency, obviously. Or ask someone at that hoity-toity school you send SJ and Isles to. They probably all have nannies.”