Chapter 5
Sebastian
Cold - Chris Stapleton
If you’d asked me a week ago whether Olivia Mitchell would become my son’s babysitter, I’d have laughed. Hell, I would’ve bet money against it. Yet here she is, sitting at my kitchen table, cutting Teddy’s toast into strange little shapes like it’s a sport. Like she’s always belonged there.
Which is ridiculous, because until yesterday, she didn’t.
And until four days ago, there wasn’t even a job ad to respond to.
Turns out, that part was all Sandra’s doing.
A sneaky little move she claimed was necessary.
“Because if I didn’t do it, no one would,” she’d said, arms crossed, eyes daring me to argue.
Maybe she was right. Because I wouldn’t have thought to post a flyer on the Wattle Creek bulletin board.
Hell, every other sitter I’d hired came by word of mouth.
Locals. People I trusted. The only live-in nanny we’d had was Tara, and she was from a few hours out—someone I met through an old colleague who doesn’t even work at the station anymore.
So, as always, Sandra took matters into her own hands.
Slapped her phone number on that flyer, which would explain the texting situation, left it vague, just enough detail to draw someone in without scaring them off.
And somehow, it worked. Because Olivia Mitchell showed up at my door with worn-out boots and a look on her face like she wasn’t taking no for an answer.
And against my better judgement, I’d let her stay.
Yesterday, she wore a white tank that clung to her like it had no business doing so, faded jeans that sat too well on her hips, and a wide belt buckle that caught the sunlight with her every move.
Her boots were scuffed. Her eyes were sharp.
And her hair—an unruly mane of light brown waves spilling over her shoulders, wild like her mouth, like her presence.
Now, in my kitchen, she’s in similar attire. Her hair’s twisted back today, half-up in some chaotic knot she probably didn’t spend more than thirty seconds on. Loose strands curl at her temples and behind her ears. She was beautiful yesterday. She’s even more so today.
Which is a problem.
Because I shouldn’t be thinking that. I can’t think that.
It’s wrong. Weird. Complicated as hell. I should’ve just kept to my word.
In saying no. There are rules about things like this.
Unspoken ones. She’s off-limits. She’s Bradley Mitchell’s little sister, and I’ve known her since she was in her early teens, too young to be in a house alone without someone watching her.
Back when her teeth were in braces, and her laugh was way too loud.
It was Teddy who changed my mind. He didn’t melt down when she came in.
Didn’t go stiff like he did with Tara, or full-on panicked like the others before her.
He just… stayed himself. Quiet. Focused.
Guarded. But not unravelled. And that alone feels like a goddamn miracle.
Something about her sits right with him.
Not perfect, but steady enough that I notice the way his shoulders don’t tense.
The way his hum stays soft under his breath, not sharp and broken.
Just as he did yesterday, and for me, that matters more than anything else.
So, I talk. I ramble, actually, pacing the kitchen like a madman while she sits, calm as ever, nodding along.
“Breakfast is always cereal or toast. School drop-off’s at eight-thirty sharp.
Pick-up’s three. He lines up his cars after meals.
Don’t touch them until he’s done. He hums if he’s unsettled, but he also hums if he’s comfortable.
You’ll have to learn the difference. Bedtime’s usually around six-thirty.
He knows the routine, and he’ll walk you through it.
Just stick to what he says. And no surprises… They don’t end well.”
She soaks it up like a sponge, repeating it back to me, asking questions when I pause, like she’s actually listening. Like she wants to get this right. When I finally stop talking, when I’ve said more than I meant to, she just smiles and tells me she’ll be fine.
I want to believe her.
Yet, I grab a pen, scribble my number on a Post-it, and slap it on the fridge. “Call me,” I say, voice rougher than I intend, “if anything happens. Anything at all.”
That’s how I leave them. Olivia Mitchell at my table, casually cutting Teddy’s toast crusts, while he hums to himself, lining up Lego cars beside his cereal bowl, and me walking out the door with a tightness in my chest that hasn’t let up since she arrived.
Because the truth is—Olivia Mitchell shouldn’t be in my house.
Shouldn’t be in my space. Shouldn’t be anything to me except Bradley’s kid sister.
But she’s something else now. My son’s babysitter.
And I have no goddamn clue what the hell to do about it.
The station is loud. Louder than usual.
Hudson Wood, though nobody calls him anything but Woody, is halfway through some heroic retelling of his weekend footy match.
I’d put good money on the story ending with him tripping over his own boots, but he’s carrying on like he won the bloody grand final.
John Reynolds, known just as Reynolds, is laughing too hard, and Tom Wilson, better known as Stokes, because the bloke says “stoked” at least twice in every sentence, is already nursing his second long black.
These are my people. My team. My family in a way that doesn’t need explaining.
Hell, I’d take a bullet for any one of them, and not just because it’s the job.
Normally, I’m right in the middle of it all—stirring the pot, tossing out one-liners, playing the golden retriever to Bradley Mitchell’s broody Rottweiler.
That’s our thing. He scowls, I grin, balance restored.
But today? My head’s not in it. Today, my head’s back at home.
More specifically, on Olivia Mitchell being in my space.
“You’re quiet,” Reynolds says, pointing his pen at me. “That’s never a good sign.”
Woody leans forward. “It’s not Teddy, is it? Kid’s alright?”
“Yes and no.” My hand scrubs down my jaw, like that will settle the unease gnawing under my ribs. Across the room, Bradley’s eyes cut to mine. Not glaring. Not scowling. Just watching. Which is worse, because it means he knows I’m up to something. And I am. Sort of.
I push out of my chair. “Back in a sec.”
Bradley’s already in his office. I follow, shut the door behind me, and drop into the chair opposite his desk. He leans back, arms folded over his chest like he’s been waiting for me to confess something.
“This can’t be good,” he says flatly.
“Depends on your definition of good.” My grin feels thin, stretched over nerves that won’t quit. He doesn’t bother replying. Just sits there with that Mitchell stare. So I rip the Band-Aid. “Olivia’s working for me.”
“Pardon?” His brows pull tight. “Working for you how?”
“Babysitting Teddy. She, uh, started this morning.”
The silence that follows is so heavy, it presses against my ribs. Bradley leans back further, jaw ticking hard. “No.”
I can’t help it. I grin. “Bit late for that, mate. She’s already making art out of his toast crusts.”
“Sebastian.” Bradley’s voice is a warning.
My hands spread wide. “What? She wanted a job, and I just happened to desperately need someone I could trust.”
He sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. “So I’m guessing that means no good news from Tiana leaving?”
“Tara, you mean?”
He nods once, and I shake my head from the lingering disappointment.
“Nope. She’s gone for good.”
He exhales through his nose like that’s exactly what he expected, but it still pisses him off. Then something shifts in his expression. His brows pinch, jaw tightening. “I don’t understand. My sister already has a job,” he snaps. “Working for Xavier. Does he know about this?”
I shrug, leaning back in the chair. “Dunno. She didn’t say anything.”
His glare sharpens. “You didn’t ask?”
“I didn’t think it mattered. She showed up, said she wanted the job, and Teddy didn’t scream bloody murder. That was enough for me.”
He lets out a sharp exhale, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like unbelievable. And maybe it is. But I stand by it. Because whatever Olivia Mitchell’s doing in my house already, it seems to be working.
His eyes narrow. “Daniels,” he warns, “she’s my little sister.”
“She’s also an adult,” I say, keeping my tone even as I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. “And for the record, I’m not some rookie on your beat you get to micromanage. I needed help. She showed up. End of story.”
Bradley’s stare doesn’t waver. “You know that’s not what I’m getting at.”
A rough laugh escapes me as I rake a hand through my hair.
“What you’re getting at is you don’t trust me.
Which, honestly, is bullshit. I’ve had your back for years, and I’ve never given you a reason to doubt that.
I’m not planning on seducing your sister, mate.
I’m not even sure I like her.” I pause. “She’s loud.
Talks too fast. Takes up way too much space. ”
He raises an eyebrow.
“But Teddy didn’t shut down around her,” I admit. “Not once. He didn’t flinch, didn’t panic, didn’t go stiff, like he did with Tara or Lisa. He was himself. And that counts for something.”
Brad’s jaw clenches, that muscle in his cheek ticking hard. I know that look—it’s the one he gives before he either punches a wall or grits his teeth and swallows it down.
“Look,” I add, my voice softening, “she’s not some long-term solution. I don’t even think she wants to stick around, but she seems keen, and I’ll be paying her for her time.”
Bradley’s silence says more than words, but the fire in his eyes dims just a touch. He’s remembering the calls, the panic, the times I had to leave shift early because no one could handle Teddy. He’s seen it first hand. He knows.
“You’ve got no idea what you’re getting into,” he mutters, running a hand down his face.
“Maybe not.” I let a half-smile creep in, dry and worn. “But desperate times, right? Plus, I can sense she doesn’t scare off easily.”
“Are you surprised?” Brad’s brow rises. “You forget who raised her.”
How could I forget? I’m reminded every time I look at the woman. Two older brothers and a father tough as nails, from everything I’ve heard. That woman was forged in fire. I nod, swallowing the truth of it. “I haven’t forgotten. But I think she’s exactly what Teddy needs.”
“And you?” he presses, brows climbing higher.
“It’s not about me.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods once. “Good answer.”
I laugh under my breath because on the outside, it looks like I’m still in control, still my usual sunny self. But inside? I know this is going to be harder than I anticipated. I know Bradley’s warning isn’t unfounded. And I know I need to keep this professional. Strictly professional.
Bradley studies me for a long moment, then murmurs, “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably,” I agree, pushing to my feet. “But hey, I can only try for my boy.”
Bradley’s eyes soften at that, just for a second, before I turn to walk out. With my hand on the door, I stop short, catching his voice behind me. “Daniels.”
I glance back.
“No funny business.”
I smirk, mostly because I know it pisses him off. “Mate, have you met your sister? I don’t think I’m her type.”
He glares at me, unimpressed by my answer. “I mean it.”
“No worries, boss,” I say. “I’m way too tired these days for funny business anyway.”
I smirk, mostly to cover the way my gut tightens. But even as I say it, part of me wonders how long I’ll be able to keep that promise.