5. Addy
CHAPTER FIVE
Addy
Oh.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
Absolutely not.
This is not happening.
There are approximately eight billion people on this planet. Probably more. I don’t know. I didn’t Google it before walking into this interview because I assumed, foolishly, that basic statistical probability was on my side.
And yet…
Here he is.
The man from the plane, from the bathroom, the man who…
Nope. Not finishing that thought. Not in what I'm increasingly realizing is the most important job interview of my entire life.
I stop dead in the doorway like someone just hit pause on my existence.
He’s sitting behind a desk because clearly the universe looked at my already fragile mental state and said, you know what would really spice things up? Let’s make the one-night stand billionaire pilot the same man interviewing her for employment.
Love that.
Big fan.
Really enjoying this journey for me.
I consider pretending I’ve walked into the wrong room. Like, just slowly backing out.
Except he’s already looking at me.
His gaze locks onto mine with immediate recognition, entirely too aware, and I feel it all the way down to my toes.
Cool, cool, cool. We’re both remembering. Fantastic.
This is exactly the kind of shared memory you want with your potential employer.
I swallow.
Do not panic.
We're going to act like a professional, we’re going to pretend we’ve never seen this man before in our lives, we're going to…
“Miss Clarke?”
His voice.
Oh, that’s worse, significantly worse, because it’s the same voice. Calm. Controlled. Deep in a way that feels unfair.
Nothing about him suggests anything happened.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think I imagined the entire plane situation.
Except I didn’t. My body would like to confirm that I didn’t.
“Yes,” I say quickly, stepping forward, aiming for composed and landing somewhere closer to mildly possessed. “Hi. Hello. That’s me. I’m… Addy. Adeline. Clarke.”
Smooth, so smooth, absolutely nailing this.
I take another step toward the chair in front of his desk and immediately trip.
Over absolutely nothing.
There's no obstacle, no rug, no hidden hazard. Just my own two feet, which have apparently chosen this exact moment to betray me in the most public and humiliating way possible.
“Oh my…”
I manage to catch myself halfway down, grabbing the arm of the chair like it’s a life-saving device, my knee knocking into something solid as my dignity flies out of my body and lands somewhere under the desk.
Amazing. Really strong entrance. Ten out of ten. Absolutely the kind of impression you want to make in a job interview.
And then… silence.
I freeze, still slightly bent forward, like a woman who’s forgotten how standing works.
If I don’t move, maybe this didn’t happen. Maybe we can all just agree to erase the last five seconds and continue as though I walked in here like a normal, coordinated adult who deserves employment.
Yes. That seems reasonable.
Let’s all go with that.
“I’m fine,” I say, a little too brightly as I straighten. “That was intentional.”
There’s a brief pause.
Then a flicker. Not quite a smile, but dangerously close. His mouth shifts, just slightly, like he’s making the decision not to react.
Oh, I hate that.
I hate that more than if he’d actually laughed, because now I know he’s capable of laughing. He’s just choosing not to, which feels worse.
“Of course,” he says, perfectly evenly. “Please, have a seat.”
Right. Yes. Seating. A normal, everyday activity that I've successfully completed many times before without incident.
I lower myself into the chair with extreme care, like it might suddenly develop opinions if I move too quickly. Everything about me is controlled, deeply focused on the simple goal of remaining upright.
We're not falling again. That's no longer part of today’s agenda.
I fold my hands in my lap, posture straight, expression what I hope reads as professional and not woman actively reliving every bad decision she’s made in the last couple of weeks.
He watches me, assessing, remembering.
Stop that.
Stop looking at me like that.
I clear my throat.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I say, because words are good. Words are calming. Words are something I can control. “I know this was last-minute, and I really appreciate the opportunity.”
Professional.
Yes. We're professionals who have never been in a plane bathroom together. That isn’t something that’s ever happened.
He nods once, leaning back slightly in his chair.
“You came recommended,” he says. “The agency doesn’t make adjustments to the schedule without reason.”
Oh, okay. That’s… good, very good.
“Yes,” I say, nodding a little too eagerly. “I’ve worked with them before. Not this branch, obviously, but similar placements. I have strong references, long-term experience, and I…” I stop myself before I start rambling. “I’m very adaptable.”
Understatement of the century.
He studies me with an intensity that's a little unsettling, like I’m a problem he’s already halfway to solving, and he’s just waiting to confirm the final variables. It’s the kind of focus that suggests he doesn’t miss anything, which is not ideal, given our shared history.
“Tell me about your previous positions,” he says.
“I’ve worked with several families over the last few years,” I begin, settling into what I know. “Mostly long-term placements. Children between three and eight, structured routines, school schedules, meal prep, emotional support, behavior management…”
As I talk, everything shifts.
The panic loosens its grip, easing back just enough for me to breathe properly again. This, I know how to do. This is my space. Structured, familiar, entirely mine in a way nothing else about today has been.
I explain how I handle transitions, how I manage difficult behavior without escalation, and how I build trust with children who don’t immediately want a stranger in their world.
And he listens.
He’s actually paying attention, asking questions that are specific, precise, and just a little too perceptive.
Which is both reassuring and terrifying.
“Routine consistency,” he says at one point. “How do you maintain it without rigidity?”
I tilt my head slightly.
“By understanding why the routine exists in the first place,” I reply. “It’s not about control; it’s about predictability. Kids need to know what comes next. But that doesn’t mean you can’t adapt when needed. It just means you communicate the change.”
His gaze sharpens, just slightly.
Okay, good. We like that, like being competent in front of the man we accidentally had a life-altering experience with at thirty thousand feet.
“Oliver,” he says suddenly, glancing down.
Down.
Under the desk.
I follow his gaze just as there’s movement. A small shift, the scrape of something plastic, and then, to my complete surprise, a child climbs out like he’s been quietly living there this entire time.
Oh.
Right. Yes. That makes sense. This is a nanny interview. Of course there's a child. There's always a child. The child is, in fact, the entire point.
He straightens, completely unbothered, holding what appears to be a toy plane, and looks at me with wide, observant eyes like he’s been watching this whole interaction unfold and forming opinions about it.
“Hi,” I say, softening immediately, shifting in my chair to face him properly now that I'm aware of his existence. “You must be Oliver.”
He studies me with an intensity that feels wildly disproportionate for someone his size.
Seriously, like a tiny, highly judgmental professor who’s about to decide whether I pass or fail as a human being.
“Yes,” he says.
I nod. “I’m Addy.”
“I know,” he replies.
“That’s a cool plane,” I add, nodding toward the one in his hands, because if there's one universal truth, it’s that children appreciate recognition of their interests.
His posture shifts almost immediately, like I’ve just said the correct password.
“Impressive,” I reply, completely serious. “That’s a big one.”
He nods, clearly pleased with both himself and the plane, which feels like a strong start for all of us.
“I have three,” he adds.
“Only three?” I say, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “I feel like you could do better.”
That gets a reaction.
A tiny smile. There it is, connection. The familiar rhythm. The easy shift from adult conversation into softer, more intuitive words.
“I could get more,” he says.
“I fully support that plan,” I reply.
Behind the desk, I feel Ethan watching, like this is the part that matters most.
Which, to be fair, it is.
“Do you like planes?” Oliver asks.
I glance briefly at Ethan.
Then back at Oliver.
“Yes,” I say. “But I think you probably know more about them than I do.”
He considers that and accepts it.
“I can teach you,” he says.
“I would love that,” I reply.
And just like that, I settle.
The tension loosens, my shoulders drop a fraction, and everything clicks into place in that familiar, reassuring way.
Which is exactly why the universe decides to intervene.
There’s a sudden blur of movement, fast, golden, and absolutely not appropriate for an office setting. Before I can fully process what’s happening, something large barrels into the room with complete disregard for personal space, furniture, or basic physics.
“Oh, hi…!”
A dog.
A very enthusiastic dog.
A golden retriever, all limbs and pure joy, skids slightly on the floor before launching directly toward me.
“Captain,” Ethan says, tone firm but not raised.
Captain doesn't care.
Captain is already halfway into my lap.
“Okay, yes, hello, this is happening…” I laugh, bracing myself as he licks my cheek like I invited him to do so.
“He likes you,” Oliver says, as if that explains everything.
“I can see that,” I reply, trying not to fall off the chair this time.
Captain settles against me like we’ve known each other for years. I scratch behind his ears automatically, and he melts.
“Traitor,” Ethan mutters under his breath.
I blink.
Wait… was that humor? From him?
I glance up. He’s watching, and there’s something different there now.
More human.
That’s dangerous, very dangerous.
Focus.
“I’m good with dogs,” I say, because again, professionally. “Part of the job sometimes.”
“Clearly.” There’s a pause. “I think that will be all for today.”
Oh.
That’s it?
That was… fast.
Too fast?
Did I mess it up? Was it the falling? It was the falling, wasn’t it?
I stand, carefully this time, very aware of my feet.
“Thank you,” I say, smoothing my cardigan again. “I appreciate the opportunity.”
I glance at Oliver. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” he says.
Captain wags his tail like I’ve just made a lifelong commitment to him.
“I’ll walk you out,” Ethan says.
Of course he will.
Because clearly this situation hasn't yet reached peak awkward.
We step into the hallway, leaving behind Oliver, the dog, and the only version of this interaction where I felt remotely competent.
I can feel him beside me.
Too close. Too familiar.
“Well,” I say lightly, because silence is worse, “that was something.”
“Something,” he agrees.
We reach the door.
I turn to face him, and there it is again. That same charged stillness from the plane. Unresolved, unspoken, dangerous.
“About…” I start, then stop.
Nope.
Nope, we're not doing that.
“We’ll be in touch,” he says, cutting in smoothly, like he knows exactly where that sentence was going.
Of course he does.
He’s him.
“Right,” I say. “Of course. Professional. That’s great.”
I nod.
Too many times.
Stop nodding.
“Have a good day,” I add.
“You too, Miss Clarke.”
Miss Clarke.
Wow.
I turn and walk away before I say something catastrophically inappropriate.
Out of the building, into the street, into fresh air that feels significantly more breathable now that I'm no longer in the same room as my past mistakes.
I keep walking.
And walking, until…
“Okay,” I say out loud, stopping on the sidewalk, staring at absolutely nothing. “What the hell was that?”
Because seriously.
What the hell was that?
I just interviewed for a job with the man I had a one-night stand with. A man who's apparently a billionaire. With a child. And a dog. And control issues.
And eyes that look at me like he already knows everything I’m thinking, which is unacceptable.
I drag a hand down my face.
“Great,” I mutter. “Love that for me.”
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to think like a rational adult instead of a woman currently one inconvenience away from a full emotional spiral.
Objectively, the interview went well. I didn’t completely embarrass myself, aside from the falling, and arguably the existing. Oliver liked me, which matters. That matters a lot. Captain liked me, which also feels important, possibly more important than it should.
Ethan…
I pause.
Ethan didn’t send me away on the spot, which feels like a win. A confusing, complicated, deeply inconvenient win.
I start walking again, my brain already spiraling ahead, because here’s the thing: if I get this job—not that I’ll get the job—I’ll have to live with him, work for him, see him every day.
I let out a short, slightly hysterical laugh.
“Cool,” I say to the universe. “What could possibly go wrong?”