Chapter Five
Gabriel
There it was—the unmistakable stench of defeat.
A whiff of something suspiciously floral, cut with a tang of juice, clung to the air like a guilty conscience.
My living room? Ground zero. Lego castles toppled in defeat.
A unicorn, deflated and slumped, looked like it’d lost a bar brawl with a balloon animal.
Megan’s crayon murals blazed across the coffee table in colors found only in the wildest dreams of kindergarteners and interior designers with a grudge.
She’d gone full Jackson Pollock, and I’d missed the warning signs. My daughter: five going on cyclone.
Next door, I imagined my new nanny, Cate, flat on her back in a meditation pose.
Or maybe she’d finally mastered the art of napping through a Category Five.
Porcelain shattered somewhere nearby, but nothing ruffled her Zen.
“Looks like the miniature Hulk paid a visit,” Fitz called, his tone all velvet mischief.
He propped himself up in the doorway, mug of artisanal coffee unscathed, looking so relaxed I wanted to file a complaint.
He had the gall to look comfortable. How?
“Miniature Hulk?” I shot back. “Fitz, this is the Hulk after a rave in a glitter factory. There’s nothing miniature about it except my patience.
” I tiptoed around a one-armed teddy bear, a casualty of war.
“And I’m telling you, Cate’s the mastermind behind it all.
Most obstinate woman I’ve ever met. Uncultivated.
Unorganized. Look at this place! She’s turned my home into a Jackson Pollock crime scene. ”
Fitz barked a laugh, the bookshelf seeming to vibrate in response. “Come on, Gabe. You can’t blame the nanny for Megan’s creative genius. Artistic expression. Pure and simple. That girl’s got talent.”
“Artistic expression?” I snorted. “She’s redecorated the TV with glitter glue. There’s enough sparkle in here to blind a disco ball. And the only thing that survived is a sticky remote.”
I picked up a mystery-stained building block.
Cookie dough? Maybe. I chose hope. “Know what the worst part is? Cate’s probably next door, humming away, immune to the fallout of a domestic mutiny.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck cleaning up what looks like the aftermath of a toddler coup d’état.
” Why did I feel a grudging sense of admiration sneak in with my annoyance?
Cate survived Megan’s chaos. She didn’t just endure—she kind of owned it.
Who was this woman?
Fitz sipped his coffee and smirked. “Obstinate? Uncultivated? Gabe, that’s half the population of New Haven. Besides, Megan—she’s got your brand of mayhem. And Cate kept the house standing. That’s a win.”
“A win would be a house that doesn’t need a hazmat crew.” I kicked a lonely Lego. “And a nanny who doesn’t treat glitter glue like wallpaper paste. Or cheese puffs everywhere, like tiny orange landmines. Nothing says competent parenting like artificially dyed snacks spread across your living room.”
Fitz’s laughter bounced around the room. “Relax, Gabe. Your little ball of fury has scared off every nanny on this side of Connecticut.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Megan doesn’t run them off. She tests them.” I hesitated, a reluctant smirk forming. “And Cate—she passed. Didn’t even flinch at Megan’s art attack. Actually, she seemed to enjoy it. Who does that?”
I found myself wanting to ask Cate where she learned her brand of chaos-wrangling.
Navy SEALs?
Clown college?
Fitz’s eyes glinted. “Maybe she’s perfect for the job. Got just the right mix of grit and madness. And she defended Megan’s art in the face of your death stare. Most people would have blamed the kid. Not her.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please. She yelled at me when I questioned her methods. More sass than a Broadway diva on Tony night. I’m amazed she didn’t flee straight to the nearest bakery to drown her sorrows in cinnamon rolls. Or plot her escape with the neighbor’s dog.”
But admiration crept in.
I hated it.
I also kind of needed it.
Fitz waggled his eyebrows. “So, she’s hot then. Be honest—how hot is the new nanny?”
“No comment, Fitz.” My patience was running thin, but curiosity about Cate kept snagging at my brain. “I’m too busy plotting a return to order. Maybe I’ll call in for professional wall cleaning. Or let Megan take over as the décor consultant. She’s clearly got vision.”
Fitz snorted. “Alright, no more nanny gossip. But I’ll wager a week of my best single malt she lasts longer than the last three.
She sounds spirited. And, let’s face it, Megan’s brand of mayhem requires Olympic-level spirit.
” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Just don’t scare her off before she turns the guest bathroom into a glittery masterpiece. ”
I groaned. The idea of another glitter bomb or mural in my home made my head spin.
“Don’t even joke, Fitz. I’m one disaster away from digging a moat around the living room.
Maybe recruit a squad of trained dust bunnies.
” The smell of artificial cheese and juice wafted through the air.
“Honestly? I need a drink. Or maybe an exorcist. Preferably one specializing in crayon removal.”
It was late enough that even the dust bunnies seemed to have packed it in for the night when I finally collapsed onto my bed. The house— bless its architectural heart—was almost back to its pre-dawn state of austere order. Almost.
Tomorrow, of course, was a whole other story. The kind that involved glitter bombs and questionable frosting choices. My bedside lamp, set to its ‘moody brooding’ setting, was doing its best to make the shadows look as dramatic as possible, which, frankly, felt a bit like overkill.
My day had already been dramatic enough, thank you very much.
I flopped onto my bed, a sound that could have been mistaken for a whale beached on a particularly plush shore as I burrowed into the sheets, hoping for the sweet oblivion of sleep.
Instead, my brain had apparently decided it was time for a late-night rerun of “Today’s Greatest Hits,” and the director was clearly a sadist.
Her.
Cate.
The nanny.
She wasn’t just a nanny; she was a full-blown retro siren, plucked from a sepia-toned movie poster and deposited into my meticulously scheduled life.
Honestly, striking didn’t quite cover it.
If she’d walked onto a movie set in the 1950s, they’d probably have thrown a ticker-tape parade at her.
Think Marilyn Monroe, but with the added threat of wielding a juice box like a weapon. Curves that belonged on a vintage postcard, a build that suggested she could wrestle a bear and win, and then, oh lord, her eyes.
Electric blue, they were.
Capable of a look that could melt glaciers or, apparently, the carefully constructed cynicism of a man who thought he’d seen it all.
And her wit!
Oh, her wit!
It wasn’t just sharp; it was razor-sharp as it sliced through my usual carefully constructed facade with the effortless grace of a ninja buttering toast, or a chef’s knife that had been meticulously sharpened by a tiny, sarcastic squirrel.
She could slice through the fluffiest pretense with an ease that was both completely disarming and, if I were to be brutally honest with myself—and who else would I be brutally honest with at 2 AM—utterly intoxicating.
My first encounter with her this morning had been less of a ripple and more of a tidal wave. When I opened the door, I expected Mary Poppins with her sensible dress and umbrella in hand. Instead, I was greeted by the human embodiment of a rock concert mixed with a carnival.
A walking, talking caution tape.
Cate was the kind of woman men dreamed about, or at least I did. But it wasn’t just her bombshell looks that truly had my van-Johnson standing at attention.
It was her defense of my daughter.
The way she’d gone full Khaleesi, mother of dragons, spitting fire and defiance, when I was about to unleash a verbal tongue-lashing that would have made a drill sergeant blush.
But it was her fierce protectiveness tangled up with what looked like delightful chaos when she’d defended my daughter.
She’d stood her ground, a tiny, fiery whirlwind of protectiveness, and I’d seen a spark in her, a refusal to be intimidated, that was.
.. well, it was strangely interesting considering the woman looked like she could charm the socks off a statue.
She was a walking, talking whirlwind of chaotic energy and perfectly timed retorts, a far cry from the impeccably sane doctors who usually populated my professional life.
But there was also a magnetic pull to her, a whisper of something deeper beneath the surface sparkle, and I wondered, with a peculiar blend of dread and a frankly alarming flicker of anticipation, if this woman, my new nanny, was about to be the unexpected bulldozer that finally leveled my meticulously constructed world.