Chapter Four
Four
LAILA
Two years ago
“Good night, little princess,” I whisper to baby Madeline as she stretches her arms above her head, yawning deeply as her eyes flutter closed. A sense of relief pours through me, knowing she’s finally going to sleep. Duchess Monica is lucky that her daughter sleeps through the night, but I’ve never met an infant who rebels against her bedtime like Madeline does. Even though I’ve been putting her to bed at a reasonable hour every day this week, she’ll literally just lie in her crib and stare at me, as if I’m her entertainment and she’s waiting for me to do a dance, which of course I end up doing. I have to admit, it’s flattering to have a royal baby think the world of you, but I think she’s just working through the fact that her mother, who normally puts her to bed, has been gone every night this week. I know from experience that when the nanny first steps in, there are always a few growing pains, no matter the age of the child.
I give the plush rabbit I’m holding a squeeze, pressing it to my chest for a moment. I have no doubt there are a million nanny cams in Primrose Cottage, but all they would see is the new nanny holding on to the stuffed rabbit before giving it to the princess. They don’t see that the rabbit gives me comfort too.
I reluctantly place the rabbit in the crib with Madeline, who is finally fast asleep, and smile, then take in a deep breath and steady my nerves. It’s funny how free and real I always feel when I’m with the children in my care, but the moment I have to step away, the mask slides back on my face. I’ve only been working for the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax for a week, and while everything seems to have gone well, I’m eternally aware that with one slipup I could lose my job. Every time I start a new position I walk on eggshells for months, and with a high-profile role such as this one, the feeling is tenfold. Even though the Fairfaxes have been gone most of the week, traveling in the US for charity work, I know I have to uphold a good image in front of the rest of the staff. I guess I’m fortunate, in a way, that my bosses are gone my first week at work—I’ve always worked better without constant supervision or micromanaging—but to me that means I have to try even harder to act like I deserve this job, like this is a test of sorts.
You’re doing good , I remind myself as I pick up the baby monitor and step into the hallway, closing the door until it’s almost shut. Lately I’ve been trying to counter every negative thought that pops up with something encouraging, but in my brain it’s always easier to believe the negative.
I turn around and run right into someone tall and solid.
A scream dies in my throat as the person reaches out and grabs my shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” a man says in a Scottish accent, and in the dimly lit hallway, it takes me a moment to realize this is James, one of Duke Eddie’s bodyguards. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He lets go of me, and I take a step back, pressing my hand against my chest.
“I didn’t even hear you,” I say, trying to calm my heart.
“Side effect of the job,” he says in a light voice.
I’ve seen James before with the duke, but obviously when he’s working there’s no time for small talk. When he’s on duty he’s all brooding and stone-faced, but now that I see him close up, I realize he’s not as serious as I first thought. There’s a small scar running up the side of his face, drawing attention to his dark brown eyes, with a seductive slant. His full lips curl into a slow smile, and I notice how lush they are, his teeth perfectly straight and white.
“You always work so late?” he asks, his accent giving him a deep, raspy voice, the kind of voice that tickles some pleasure spot at the back of my brain.
“She doesn’t know the meaning of bedtime,” I tell him. “I think she misses her mother.”
He nods and leans casually against the wall, the tie tucked under his tailored jacket and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. The jacket is unbuttoned, like he started undressing on the way to the servants’ quarters, his shift over.
“But the later she goes to bed, the more she sleeps through the night,” I admit, and he smiles, a bright smile that makes the dim hallway flicker a little.
“I’m James,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to be properly introduced.”
“Laila,” I tell him, reaching out, and he grasps my hand in his. His hand is warm and his grip is strong, not enough to cause me any distress but enough to hint at what he’s capable of. I catch a whiff of his cologne and it’s earthy, woodsy, like the pine forests of my childhood.
Damn. I knew he was good-looking already; I mean, there’s something about a bodyguard and the way they prowl and protect with utmost confidence that would make the most cynical person swoon, not to mention I’m a sucker for a guy with brooding dark looks, which I blame on an early obsession with Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre (who, in hindsight, is a bit of a problematic hero, but hey, we like what we like).
He lets go of my hand and nods down the hall. “Walk you home?”
I find myself biting my lip in coy response and nod. “Sure.”
My goodness, what the hell has come over me? I think back to my pep talk before I stepped into the hallway, the mantra I’ve been repeating to myself: You’re doing good, don’t mess it up (translation: the last thing I need to do is look all googly-eyed and hormonal the moment a handsome guy shows up in my life, especially if I’m working and living alongside said handsome guy).
I give my head an internal shake as we walk down the hall. I’m pretty tall, but walking beside him makes me feel like I’m in his shadow.
“So you’ve only been working here for about a week, right?” he asks, and I nod. “Where were you working before this?”
This should feel like small talk, but it genuinely sounds like he’s interested.
“I was a nanny for a high-profile diplomat in Sweden,” I tell him. “But they weren’t a great fit for me, so when my recruitment agency told me about the Fairfaxes, obviously I was interested. I’m still in shock that they actually picked me. The competition for this job was fierce.”
He holds open the French door at the end of the hall for me, and we step out into the night air. He wasn’t wrong about me working late; it’s dark outside save for a few fairy lights in the trees beside my quarters and the sconces lighting the path. The air smells like night-blooming jasmine and it’s pleasantly warm. The heat waves this July have had England melting all over the place, but you don’t really notice when you’re inside all day with the baby. Besides, where Primrose Cottage is, just outside London, some topography with the Thames and the surrounding hills makes it feel cooler than the city.
“Are you Swedish?” he asks. “You sound Swedish.”
“Norwegian, actually,” I tell him, trying not to get annoyed at being mistaken for a Swede since I can’t blame him for thinking so. “But my accent is a little morphed from working in so many different places over the years. I tend to mimic without realizing it.”
“Aye,” he says, his accent coming on thicker. “Wish I had that problem. When I worked in Belgium, I thought my brogue would lessen, but that isn’t the case with us Scots. Certainly not me anyway.”
I glance up at him, the lights casting shadows on his face, illuminating his features or casting them in dark relief. His jaw is angled, hard and sharp under a five-o’clock shadow, but his lips are soft and full. He is beautiful, and for a moment I feel like I’m a character in a movie and the director just told me to act smitten.
“I’ve always been a fan of the Scottish accent,” I tell him before looking away so that the light doesn’t show me being an utter simp for him. I clear my throat and focus on the stone path in front of us. “So how long have you been working for the Fairfaxes?”
“A few years,” he says. “I was with them when they moved to the island in Canada.”
“That must have been a trip,” I say. I remember that before Madeline was born, when Monica was being lambasted by the press simply for her Hollywood background and the color of her skin (though of course no one in the media would admit to the blatant racism), she and Eddie went overseas to a small island in British Columbia to escape the scrutiny. It seemed to work because after that I heard very little about them, like they finally got the peace they needed.
“It wasn’t London, that’s for sure,” James says. “I was more than happy to come back here. I need the city lights and the people to keep me going. Protection officers aren’t meant to relax.”
“That’s kind of sad in a way,” I tell him. “What do you end up doing for fun, then? I mean, you don’t work all the time. I know you have shifts with the others.”
When he doesn’t say anything I glance at him. He appears deep in thought, the light from the fairy lights making his eyes seem to glow. “Well, usually I try to make sure that I’m out and about when I’m not on duty. There’s a few pubs I like to visit, some friends I try to get a drink with when I’m off.”
“Must be hard to make friends as a bodyguard?”
“Aye,” he says, nodding. “It is. That’s why I think it’s important to try to get out and socialize when I can. I need the distraction. And you? Do you end up having much of a social life when you’re a nanny? Seems you work as many hours as I do.”
“I try not to,” I tell him. “I mean, I don’t know that many people here, and I don’t want to make enemies on my first week.”
He spits out a laugh that’s more of a bark. “Enemies, huh?”
I shrug, giving him a quick smile. I said it as a joke, but it’s kind of the truth. I imagine it would be hard to have a social life as a nanny, but I’ve always leaned into being a loner anyway. It’s easier that way when I feel I can’t let my guard down around people, and with my mask on, I still come across as odd sometimes, which makes making friends hard. Growing up in a tiny village where everyone not only knows your name but also what you eat for breakfast, I went from being Laila the Pitied (“Oh that poor girl, losing both her parents so young”) to Laila the Strange (“Oh that weirdo with her dark music and empty stare”). I was always branded as “different.” And if different stands out in a tiny village, you can imagine it stands out when you’re a nanny for a prestigious or royal family.
Which is why you better not view James as a friend , I remind myself, even though the way my body is reacting to him is not very friendlike.
“I’m just boring as hell,” I tell him. “When work is done, you’ll find my nose in a book.”
“Oh yeah?” he says, brows raised. “What kind of books do you like to read?”
Tell him the truth , a small voice says inside me, the voice I usually shut up.
“Psychological thrillers,” I say. This isn’t a lie, but my preferred reads are young adult and middle grade books, and at my age, if you tell most people that, they’ll look at you like you have two heads.
“Ah,” he says. “ Gone Girl and the like. Stories of complicated women who doff their husbands.”
“Something like that.”
The servants’ quarters is a modest building down a short path from the main one that looks like it used to be a barn before being converted. It’s made of the same stone as the main house, though its arched windows have mullions instead of diamond panes. A single door is in the middle of the front of the building, an art deco–patterned bronze, and has the family crest above it. James holds the door open for me and we step into the hall.
“You met the rest of the workers yet?” he asks, lowering his voice now since it’s late. The building is two levels, with four bedrooms down on the first floor and four more on the second, which is where my room is. As far as I know all the rooms have an en suite, so you never really run into people here.
“Just the cook and gardener,” I tell him. “They seem nice.” Well, the gardener is nice. The cook doesn’t say much and gives me the stink eye, but James doesn’t need to know how sensitive I am to things like that.
“Well, all us PPO live on the first floor,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll get used to us coming and going. For now, it seems like we’re on the same shift.”
“Wait,” I say, stopping at the foot of the stairs, a red velvet carpet running up them. “Why aren’t you with Eddie—I mean, the duke—right now if he’s in America? All that distraction seems right up your alley.”
He runs his hand over his jaw, his facial hair making a scratching sound in the quiet of the building. For a split second I wonder how that hair would feel on my soft skin, but I push that intrusive thought away. Totally not wanted.
“They gave me time off,” he admits, looking sheepish. “Frankly I don’t know what I did to piss him off, but…” He trails off and then straightens up, his face growing impassive, like he just caught himself telling me something he shouldn’t have. “I appreciate it, though. I’m such a workaholic I probably wouldn’t take any vacation if they didn’t make me.”
“I get it,” I say with a nod, because I totally do.
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward a door that I assume is the one to his room. “I was going to change and then head out into the city since I don’t have to be up at a certain time. Do you want to join me?”
My stomach does a strange flip, something I’m not used to feeling. I can’t recall the last time a guy asked me out, even just as a friend or a coworker, which is what I assume James is doing here.
“Wish I could,” I tell him, waving the baby monitor in front of his face. “But I’m on duty around the clock until they get back.”
He frowns. “There’s no backup nanny?”
I shake my head. “Technically nannies are the backup for the mothers.”
“And you’ve only been working here a week or so, right?”
“Launched right into the deep end,” I say, mimicking a flying motion with the baby monitor.
He gives the banister a quick tap with his long fingers. “Well, perhaps when Monica comes back and if we both happen to have a night off…”
I stare at him for a moment and his mouth quirks up sheepishly.
“You know, if you felt like making some enemies.”
I laugh loudly, then clamp my hand over my mouth, hoping I don’t wake anyone up. My laugh is very distinctive. “Okay,” I tell him. “That sounds like fun.”
I can feel my cheeks burning for no reason at all, so I shoot him a quick smile and head up the stairs before I laugh at something else he says. What is it about this guy that makes me feel like a schoolgirl?
“Good night,” he calls after me.
“Good night,” I say over my shoulder, trying to ignore the fluttering in my chest.
I quickly go to my room and shut the door, letting out a deep breath. Even though I haven’t been here long, I’ve already started to associate my room with a sanctuary. I’m aware that my room could be searched at any time, that it’s not really mine but comes as part of my employment, so I keep everything as organized as possible. Still, I go to the closet and bring out one of my stuffed animals—Knut, a fluffy polar bear that my grandmother bought me after she took a trip to Svalbard to visit a friend. It’s managed to stay pristine white over the years, though the eyes are worn down and have lost their shine.
I put the baby monitor down and hold Knut to my chest as I sit on the corner of my bed, trying to gather my thoughts. James seems like a nice guy. I mean, he’s definitely hot, and there’s something about his energy—the way he seemed to observe me like he was trying to see past my mask made my stomach flutter. But I know the last thing I need is to start feeling anything for anyone I work with, no matter how mild. Hell, I don’t let myself feel anything for anyone; the idea of having to keep my walls up seems exhausting at this point, and I’ve been burned too many times to let them down again.
“So that settles it,” I say in a hush, as if he could hear me from downstairs. When—if—he invites you into the city next time, say no. Easy as that. Better to stop this before it starts.
I give Knut a little squeeze, as if the bear just gave me a pep talk, then I put him back in the closet and get ready for bed.