Nanny For The Players - Preview
I ’m facing off with a stove that looks like it belongs in a five-star restaurant, not a family kitchen. Chrome gleams under the overhead lights, reflecting my wide-eyed stare back at me. Ten thousand burners—or maybe just six, but who's counting—each with their own set of intimidating knobs.
"Okay, Aly, you can do this. It's just a stove," I mutter to myself, reaching out tentatively to twist a knob. But which one? They might as well be hieroglyphs for all the sense they make to me right now.
With a frustrated huff, I abandon the stove for now and swing open the fridge. It's stocked to the brim, shelves filled with fresh produce and rows of condiments. My gaze lands on eggs and bacon. Simple. Safe. But then I recall the scribbled note from Noah that's stuck to the fridge door with a magnet shaped like a hockey puck.
"Harlow loves pancakes on Sundays," it reads in his terse, clipped handwriting. A smile tugs at my lips despite the pang of pressure. Pancakes it is. I haven’t spent much time around him yet, but I’ve noticed Noah doesn’t say much. And when he does, it counts. So, if making Harlow's favorite breakfast ingratiates me with her, I'll brave the beast of a stove.
"All right…pancakes. You've done this a hundred times," I coach myself.
I spy the cheerful bunch of bananas nestled in the fruit basket. Perfection. I wasn’t a whizz in the kitchen, but I’d learned to fend for myself early on. And cinnamon banana pancakes were a specialty of mine.
"Okay, Aly, you can do this," I reassure myself, my voice barely above a whisper. "Just need to find the flour and...everything else." I open one cabinet after another, frowning at the array of spices and exotic ingredients that Noah apparently keeps on hand. Who knew a hockey player's kitchen would rival a five-star restaurant's pantry?
"Where are you hiding the baking powder?" I mutter under my breath, feeling like I'm playing an involuntary game of hide-and-seek with every essential item. Finally, tucked away behind what seems like a lifetime supply of protein powder, I find it. "Bingo!" I exclaim triumphantly.
I turn to the next challenge: hidden cabinets that seem to blend seamlessly with the rest of the kitchen décor. They might as well have been designed by a magician for all the secrecy they hold. I push on what looks like a decorative panel, and—aha!—it swings open to reveal the mixing bowls.
"Score one for Aly," I say with a grin. "Could've used a map along with his notes," I joke to myself, imagining an elaborate blueprint of the kitchen that Noah might've handed over if he weren't so...Noah. But then, there was no time for such things. My move-in was swift, the night before a blur of boxes as I settled myself into the room beside Harlow’s while the family was out at the Ace’s game.
"Settling in" isn't quite the term I'd use for the whirlwind introduction to my new home; more like "crashing" into the life of a live-in nanny. But I didn't come here for leisurely mornings or gradual adjustments. I came for Harlow, for stability, and maybe—if I dare admit it—for a fresh start far from the shadow of my parents' expectations. And their scheming ways.
"New day, new disaster to avert," I laugh softly, shaking off the thought. There's no time for dwelling on what ifs. There's breakfast to make and a little girl—and her father—to impress. And if I can navigate this ridiculous kitchen, surely I can handle whatever else this job throws my way.
I measure out the flour with a precision that would make a chemist proud, the white powder puffing gently as I level the cup. The cinnamon is next, the rich, warm scent wrapping around me like a cozy blanket, followed by a pinch of salt. A quick dance of whisk and bowl, and the dry ingredients are ready, waiting for their wet companions.
"Okay, eggs and milk, you're up," I murmur, reaching into the fridge. The eggs are cool in my palm, a promise of fluffy pancakes to come. I crack them with practiced ease—one-handed, because I'm feeling daring—and they plop into the mix without a shell in sight. A splash of milk, a drizzle of melted butter, and the batter comes together, smooth and promising.
"Harlow is gonna flip for these," I say to myself, slicing bananas with care, laying them out like tiny moons across the cutting board. The oven chimes its readiness, and I slide the tray of bacon inside, careful to avoid any splatters or sizzles that might mar my first day here. At least that part of the ridiculous contraption was straightforward.
The range stares at me like a beast with too many knobs, all shiny and complicated. "Right, so you're just a stove, not a spaceship." I flick a switch, and nothing happens. "Or maybe you are?" I fumble for a few more moments before the burners finally ignite with a whoosh.
"Ha! Take that, technology."
I set the pan on the burner to warm before I add the butter and batter. Snatching the towel from its place on the oven handle, I wipe my hands off and prepare to get started. As if on cue, my phone buzzes on the counter, vibrating against the granite with an urgency that sets my nerves on edge. The screen flashes "Mom" in stark, accusatory letters. My heart stutters. It always does when they reach out, a Pavlovian response to years of manipulation and disappointment.
"Deep breaths, Aly. You don't have to answer," I whisper, trying to convince myself more than anyone else. But as the buzzing persists, a clawing sense of dread latches onto me, squeezing tight. "You don't need their drama. Not today."
My thumb hovers over the decline button, trembling slightly. This should be easy—I should be able to press it and move on, focus on my new life here with Harlow and the glinting chrome beast of a kitchen. Yet, something keeps me rooted in place, the old fears mingling with fresh determination.
"Ugh, cheese and crackers, just stop already!" The words escape me in a hiss as I jab at the button, silencing the call. A shaky exhale follows, my grip on the kitchen towel tightening for a moment before I consciously relax my fingers.
"Okay, back to it. Pancakes won't make themselves," I say in a feeble attempt to reclaim the morning's cheer. But even as the first ladle of batter hits the pan with a satisfying sizzle, the ghostly vibration of my phone lingers, a reminder of the life I'm trying so hard to leave behind. I glance at it again, half expecting it to start ringing with another call—they don’t usually stop at just one.
The scent of charred fabric snaps me out of my trance. Smoke curls into the air, and my heart hammers against my ribs. A small flame dances on the edge of the towel in my grasp, its tendrils licking hungrily at the fabric. My brain short-circuits—what do I do? Water? Smother it? The answers are lost to me, swallowed by a thick fog of panic.
I whip around, eyes darting for a solution, but the kitchen morphs into a chaotic blur of gleaming steel and impending disaster.
“Shiitake mushrooms!” My voice cracks as I fumble desperately with what to do next. It feels like minutes pass, but it’s mere seconds at most.
“Oh, shit,” a masculine voice cuts through my fight, flight, or freeze moment.
I'm too stunned to speak, watching as he snatches the flaming towel from my hands with the ease of someone who's played with fire before. With a flick of his wrist, the towel arcs through the air and lands with a heavy splash in the sink. Water hisses against the heat, steam billowing up like an extinguished torch.
Coughing, I stagger back, eyes watering. The fire alarm jolts to life, a shrill, piercing wail that slices through the panic. The batter in the pan bubbles ominously, forgotten in the melee, threatening to add more smoke to the already suffocating room. I grab the spatula, intending to salvage what I can, but my hands are trembling too violently. The batter spills over the edge, sizzling and smoking as it meets the burner.
"Whoops," he says, a lopsided grin spreading across his face as he twists the knobs and kills the flames beneath the pan. "Looks like you've set more than just my heart ablaze."
His joke should probably annoy me, but instead, it's a lifeline tossed into the stormy waters of my own terror. I let out a shaky laugh, my pulse finally beginning to slow from its frantic pace.
“Oh my God, I'm fudging this up already!”
The fire alarm's relentless screech echoes through the house, a merciless soundtrack to my spiraling morning. I snatch a chair, drag it under the infernal device and climb up, heart pounding in my ears.
“Don’t worry about that. I can turn it off in the app.” He pulls out his phone and swipes at the screen. A tinny robotic voice comes through the speaker asking if everything is okay and demanding some kind of password.
The man hits a few more buttons on the phone and then silence crashes over me, heavy and deafening, broken only by my ragged breathing.
"Smoke isn't usually part of the recipe." His voice cuts through the haze, and he's suddenly beside me, all easy charm and quick reflexes. His green eyes are glinting with mischief. "But if you wanted to get hot and bothered in the kitchen, there are safer ways to do it."
A choked laugh escapes me.
“I’m Liam, by the way. And you’re the new nanny. Noah didn’t bother telling us your name, pretty girl.”
I can't help the blush that creeps up my cheeks or the way my lips twitch into a reluctant smile. Even now, smoke still dissipating around us, Liam Callahan is effortlessly turning a near disaster into something light and flirtatious.
“I—it’s Althea. I’m Althea. Hi.”
“So, what happened?”
"A rogue towel," I confess. "And a momentary lapse in attention."
"Ah, the treacherous kitchen textiles," he jokes, and I find myself laughing, grateful for the way he can make even my blunders seem less catastrophic.
"Guess I'll live to cook another day," I whisper, mostly to myself, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders.
"Or burn," Liam adds with a wink. "But don't worry, I'll be here with the fire extinguisher if needed."
"Let's hope it won't come to that. Are you always this calm under pressure?"
"Only when I'm rescuing damsels in distress from culinary conflagrations." He leans back against the counter with a casualness that belies the danger we were just in.
"Or when you're on the ice," I add, recalling how he moves with such confidence during games, never letting the tension show.
"True, true," he acknowledges with a nod.
I catch sight of the mangled towel soaking in the sink. There is no mistaking the mess I made of it. One side is charred through, a large chunk missing where it completely burned away.
My hands flutter to my face, covering my mouth as I try to stifle the torrent of words spilling out in a panic. My heart is racing again like it’s trying to break free from my chest. "He's going to kick me out, isn't he? On my very first day!"
I spin around to face Liam, who's still standing by the stove, an amused smile playing on his lips. He's all easy confidence and that infuriatingly charming grin, but I'm too wrapped up in my disaster to fully register the way his presence seems to fill the room.
"Hey, hey, breathe, pretty girl." His voice is a calm anchor in my storm of self-doubt. "You're not getting kicked out for a small mishap."
I gnaw on my lower lip, my gaze fixed on the blackened towel in the sink. "I swear, I know how to cook. I'm a fully functioning adult. I mean, I should be." My words come out rushed, a tangled mess of anxiety and embarrassment.
Liam chuckles, stepping closer. "I believe you. And Noah will too. You just got a bit...distracted, that's all."
"Right, distracted," I mutter, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks again. Not from the fire this time, but from the proximity of Liam. I can't look directly at him; if I do, I might get lost in the sea-green depths of his eyes or the easy curve of his smile. So, I keep my focus on the charred remains of my dignity instead.
I’m not sure Noah will see a brief distraction as a cute little story. A brief distraction with a three-year-old could spell disaster. I’m supposed to be responsible and mature and… oh, sugar honey iced tea!
"Besides," he continues, leaning in so close I can feel the warmth of his breath against my forehead, "everyone has jitters on their first day. It's normal."
"Normal," I echo, my voice barely above a whisper. His proximity is doing strange things to my pulse, sending it into erratic flutters. But I press on, determined to explain myself. "Noah just—he just makes me so dang nervous." I admit, finally daring to peek up at his face.
"Ah, the infamous Noah effect," Liam says with a knowing nod, though his tone is light. "Don't worry. The guy's bark is worse than his bite."
"Easy for you to say," I reply, trying to match his playful tone, but there's a tremor of sincerity beneath my words. "You’re not the one he hired to help take care of his kid and not burn down his kitchen."
"True," Liam concedes, his hand reaching out to gently nudge my chin upward, forcing me to meet his eyes. "But I am the one telling you that you’ll do great. Trust me."
"Trust," I murmur, the word feeling foreign yet comforting as it rolls off my tongue. It's been so long since I've had anyone to trust. And here’s Liam, looking at me like he means every word, like he believes in me despite the chaos.
The corners of his mouth lift in a lopsided smile, and it's then that I realize just how ridiculously handsome he is—how the light catches the stubble along his jaw, how his hair falls just so over his brow. It's disarming, and for a fleeting second, I forget all about the fire, the smoke, and the fear of failing on my first day.
"Okay," I say, more to myself than to him. "Okay, I'll try to trust." And maybe, just maybe, I'll learn to navigate this new life without setting anything—or anyone—else on fire.
"Seriously," Liam chuckles, breaking through my spiraling thoughts. "Noah's not going to kick you out for almost starting a little kitchen campfire. Besides, I've seen him burn water. You're already ahead of the game."
I exhale a nervous laugh, the sound shaky but genuine. "You mean he can't cook either? I thought with a kitchen like this..." My voice trails off as I gesture to the gleaming countertops and state-of-the-art appliances that seem to mock me with their complexity.
"Trust me, the only thing Noah masters in here is making reservations and ordering take-out," Liam says, his green eyes sparkling with mirth.
"Okay, okay, maybe I'm not doomed yet." My own laughter bubbles up now, easing the tightness in my chest. Liam's presence is like a warm blanket on a cold winter night, wrapping around me with comfort and reassurance.
"Exactly. And hey, if you do get fired, at least you'll have a great story for your next interview. 'What's your most memorable work experience?' 'Well, there was this one time I almost burned down an NHL player's house on day one.'" He delivers the joke with a perfectly deadpan expression, causing me to snort with laughter.
"Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence," I tease back, grateful for his lighthearted approach. It’s hard to stay anxious when he makes everything feel like no big deal.
"Anytime," he flashes me a grin that could melt ice. "It's what I'm here for. To save the day...and breakfast."
"Speaking of which, I should probably try to salvage what's left before Noah gets back." I move to tend to the stove, feeling lighter than I have since I'd first walked into the kitchen.
"Need a hand?" Liam offers, pushing off from the counter with a casual grace.
"Apparently," I reply, flashing him a smile. "Let's keep the fire extinguisher close, just in case."
"Deal," he says. And just like that, we fell into an easy rhythm, side by side in the kitchen, the earlier chaos giving way to something that felt surprisingly like the beginning of a friendship—or maybe, just maybe, something more.
No. Bad Aly. We have bigger things to worry about.
The ridiculous contraption that Liam swears is a coffee machine finally stops burbling, and I pour the brewed nectar into two mugs, the rich aroma of coffee filling the space between us. Liam leans against the counter, his eyes never leaving mine as he reaches for the sugar.
"Black for me, thanks," I say, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic.
"Ah, a purist," Liam chuckles. "Or is it a psychopath? I can never remember."
“I take it you like it light and sweet?”
“Oh, definitely sweet. The same way I like my ladies.” He winks and I turn away to hide the blush on my cheeks.
With the pancakes done and the bacon still cooking, we settle at the kitchen island, our knees almost touching. The tension from earlier has evaporated, replaced by an unexpected comfort. I take a sip, letting the bitterness of the coffee ground me.
"Never would’ve pegged you as a nanny," he says, curiosity lighting up his hazel eyes. "You've got this...intensity about you."
"Is that right?" I tease lightly, but his words stir something deep inside me. I hesitate, wondering how much to reveal. "Well, I always thought I'd be in scrubs by now, stethoscope in hand."
"Nurse?" he asks with a tilt of his head.
“Doctor,” I correct, feeling the familiar pang of regret. "Pediatrics was the dream. But dreams cost money—money I didn't have." I let out a hollow laugh. Turns out grifters don't make the best financial advisors. Thanks, Mom and Dad. “I ended up having to drop out during my first year.”
"Damn, I'm sorry to hear that." His voice softens. "I guess working with kids is the next best thing. Well, I’m sure you’re amazing at it."
"Thanks, Liam." I smile, appreciating the sincerity in his tone. "That’s kind of you to say."
"Kindness has nothing to do with it," he replies, his flirtatious smile returning. "Just stating facts. And speaking of facts, it's also a fact that you're incredibly attractive when you're flustered."
He reaches forward to push a loose strand of hair back from my face, the contact sizzling along my skin and igniting every nerve ending.
My cheeks heat, and I look down at my mug, suddenly very interested in the swirls of coffee. His words spin around me like a gentle caress, soothing yet exhilarating. I know I should focus on the job, on Harlow, on proving I can stand on my own two feet. But his attention is like a balm to the isolation I've felt for so long.