Chapter 1 #3
I let her reach up, fumble, and open the door. Because you let your daughter with leukemia do pretty much fucking anything that gave them even an ounce of joy.
My daughter, my sweet, wonderful daughter, found joy in most things.
How that happened when I was a self-confessed miserable bastard, and her mother was an angry bitch was anyone’s guess.
Regardless, I treasured that joy, wished I could hold it in my hands if only to make sure nothing in this world touched it, took it away.
“Hi!” Clara greeted, slightly breathless as she opened the door.
My eyes darted down to my daughter, my body tense, on alert as I looked for any signs that she wasn’t feeling good, that she might collapse, might die right in front of me.
Her cheeks were pink, flushed. Her lips formed a wide smile, and she was visibly breathing hard. Although it could’ve just been normal childhood excitement, my mouth went dry.
I didn’t know what normal was anymore. Every change in her demeanor, every sniffle or sigh was a harbinger of doom.
I wondered if that would ever fade away. I doubted it. Not that I gave a shit. I’d deal with that for a lifetime if I got to watch Clara grow through it all.
“Well, hello.” I could feel the smile in the feminine voice. Not something I would’ve noticed or cared about, but it was so fucking warm, so fucking genuine it shot through my thickened skin.
After another probing glance to my daughter, I looked up at the last candidate.
Hannah Morgan. Twenty-four years old.
The youngest of the lot. I’d hesitated to even give her the interview because of her age, doubting I could trust someone so young with my daughter. But she was almost done with nursing school, had excellent references, and was the only one who was okay with the live-in option.
I didn’t love the thought of a stranger living in my house.
In fact, I abhorred it. But it was the only thing that made real sense with Clara’s upcoming transplant.
She would need to quarantine at home for sixty days.
In an ideal world, I’d be with her every moment.
But this was not an ideal world. Despite all the help we’d gotten from the community and having good insurance, her medical bills were piling up.
As much as I hated it, I’d eventually have to get back to work.
And though my family would jump at it, I couldn’t lean on them to take care of Clara during her quarantine; they’d essentially have to give up their whole life, isolate themselves.
So hiring someone, giving them the information up front, was the only option.
Hannah’s medical knowledge was a huge mark in her favor. I needed someone who would know what to look out for, who could properly take care of Clara.
Meeting eyes with Hannah Morgan, there was no way this woman—this fucking girl—was living at my house.
Because my cock jumped to attention at her sparkling evergreen gaze. My ice-cold insides turned lukewarm in response to her smile, the tendrils of chocolate-brown hair escaping what I guessed was supposed to be a sensible bun. She cracked something in me, just standing on my front porch, smiling.
Not because of the way she smiled at me. But the way she smiled at my daughter. With warmth, sincerity.
“You’re pretty,” Clara remarked.
She wasn’t just pretty. She was fucking showstopping. A heart-shaped face, full lips, a sprinkling of freckles across her delicate nose. Irresistible.
She was short, shorter than me by a lot. Petite curves that made me want to punch through a fucking wall.
“Why, thank you,” Hannah replied, giving my daughter her full attention. “So are you. Gorgeous, really. I love your shirt.”
“Thanks.” Clara looked down at her Nirvana shirt. “I’m gonna be honest. I don’t listen to them a bunch, but I wear it because my dad likes the band.” She tilted her head at me in a gesture that was so like a teenager, it socked me in the stomach.
Fuck. I hoped I’d get the opportunity to witness her as a surly teenager. I prayed for it.
When evergreen eyes darted to me almost playfully, my body shuddered. I was frozen in place, shocked at my body’s response to this woman.
“Your dad has good taste.” Though she was speaking to Clara, Hannah was looking at me. “Kurt Cobain was a poet of his generation.”
“Which couldn’t have been your generation. I doubt you know anything but songs painted on T-shirts at Target,” I half barked at her.
Though I was lacking in social skills, even I understood that growling at her without so much as a greeting was bad.
Very bad. But she pissed me off. By existing, by being so fucking stunning, for shifting my thoughts away from what was most important: my daughter.
Her needs. Mine meant nothing. I shouldn’t even have fucking needs at that point in my life.
Hannah didn’t look overly offended by my gruff tone and lack of decorum; she tilted her head to regard me, a sly smile forming on her plump, pink lips.
“Try me,” she challenged, waggling her eyebrows.
My cock twitched again as my body mistook her meaning. I found myself wanting to do just that. Try her. Taste her.
“Ask me to name any song off Incesticide,” she prompted.
I forced my eyebrows to stay where they were. I was surprised. Hannah Morgan knew Nirvana. And she was a fucking siren, calling to me with her playful gaze, the parting of her lips, the wisps of hair falling around her face. What would it look like tumbling down her back? Wrapped around my fist?
I cleared my throat loudly.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I was a grown fucking man, in the presence of my daughter, interviewing this woman—barely a woman—for a job. I was not a teenage boy, a slave to fucking testosterone.
“Nirvana trivia is not going to be a part of the interview questions,” I said tightly. “I’m Beau.”
I didn’t want to make contact with her, but I felt handcuffed by social graces. Children watched, imitated, and fuck it if having Clara forced me to be a polite goddamn person.
Her hand was tiny, dainty, clasped in mine. Again, my entire body reacted to her warm touch, to her holding eye contact, to that sly smile, to the flush in her high cheekbones.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Shaw,” she said, keeping her eyes on me.
Mr. Shaw.
I imagined her calling me that. On her knees.
Jesus fucking Christ. I let go of her hand like it was charged.
She didn’t seem to notice, which was good since Clara was done letting the adults talk, pulling Hannah into our living room slash makeshift interview space.
That gave me a perfect view of Hannah Morgan’s pert, round, peach-shaped ass.
I took a deep breath, thinking of baseball, hospital machines, and chopping raw chicken.
My cock calmed enough to be able to walk into my living room, where Clara was getting Hannah settled, offering refreshments as she had with the other women.
Hannah’s warm gaze on my child, the tender way she spoke to her, with all of her attention and no condescension, did different things to my body than the view of her ass had. But it still made me feel warm and interested in her when I shouldn’t have felt anything at all.
“Let’s get started.” I probably sounded feral, insane. Which was fine. Anything that would ensure Hannah Morgan left and never came back.
Hannah dipped her chin in acknowledgement, watching Clara climb up on the seat beside mine, clipboard in hand, expression serious though she smiled at Hannah. I watched her draw a heart beside her name.
I opened my mouth to ask the necessary questions, even though they didn’t matter. We weren’t going with her. She was too young to take care of my entire world. Too gorgeous for me to ignore.
“What’s your opinion on spiders?” Clara asked before I could open my mouth.
Hannah, to her credit, didn’t burst out laughing. She kept her measured, serious gaze on Clara. “Depends on the context and subspecies. But I think … misunderstood, powerful, and interesting.”
Clara smiled, scribbling on her notepad then adding a smiley face. “Tarantulas are my favorite. Daddy won’t let me get a real one.” She pouted. It was the most endearing sight in the world.
“Probably smart.” Hannah’s eyes touched on me, and I felt them on my skin like a fucking caress. “Men can’t handle spiders well.” She rolled her eyes at Clara.
I cleared my throat again. I needed to take charge of this interview, even though I had never been more content than watching the two of them interact.
“It says here you’re in your final year of nursing school,” I said, looking down at my paper.
Hannah nodded somberly, focusing on me again. “I am. I’m currently taking a … sabbatical.”
“Too hard?” I questioned harshly. I regretted it when I saw the wince on Hannah’s pretty face. Causing her pain hurt me. How did that happen? I didn’t go out in the world with the intent to hurt people; I wasn’t a monster. But as a rule, I wasn’t overly concerned with the feelings of others.
Clara’s feelings, her health, her happiness, that was all I worried about.
“No.” Hannah spoke strongly, her chin tilted upward, hinting at a stubborn streak. “It was a financial issue. I’m planning on working for a year or more to get enough funds to pay for my final year of tuition.”
Fuck. I really was an utter asshole.
Her situation aligned almost perfectly with our needs. I only wanted a full-time nanny these next several months, before Clara went to kindergarten. If she was well enough. If the transplant worked. If she made it to another birthday.
That was the goal, but having her away from me for that many hours of the day, under the care of underpaid adults watching a bunch of other children, had bile inching up my throat.
“I know you have nannied for other families in the past.” I steamrolled over the opportunity for me to apologize. I also didn’t mention the glowing recommendations from the families or the one mother who had cried on the phone about Hannah leaving the state.