Chapter 2
~
Carissa
“Has it ever occurred to you, Carissa, that you might be a workaholic?”
I balanced the cellphone between my ear and shoulder as I merged into late-morning traffic. “No, Dad.” I kept my tone chipper despite rolling my eyes. “Not even once. And if I am, I got it from you.”
“Smartass.” Was the disgruntled, albeit fond, reply.
I stared at the blinker, tapping an impatient finger on the steering wheel. My father wasn’t pressing the topic, but I felt the need to defend my choices anyway.
“I can handle this, and besides, school won’t pay for itself.” I switched lanes, side-eyeing a speeding delivery van. “And, this gig means a place to live while I’m between apartments. It’s a win-win, really.”
My father hemmed and hawed on the other end of the line before finally saying what I had hoped he wouldn’t. “You know I’m happy to help you out financially, right? You should be focusing on school, not running yourself ragged taking care of someone’s kid.”
“I’m good, Dad, really.” I softened my voice. “You do too much for me already.”
My dad, ever the overachiever, grunted at that. “Not possible.”
“Yes, it is.” I scolded while the GPS announced my next turn.
“You bought me that headset I needed for flight training, you spend all of your spare time coaching me, you even fixed my car when the mechanic called it a lost cause.” I took the turn gently and switched the cell to my other ear.
“And I like my job, thank you very much.”
The faint muttering on the other end of the line told me I’d won that argument.
And it was true, I liked being a nanny. Growing up, Dad had done his job as a single parent, and he’d done it well, but somehow I’d still ended up lonely.
He couldn’t be everywhere at once. Being a nanny allowed me to be the person I needed back then, a friend and confidant to another lonely little kid.
Coasting down the road in what seemed to be an obscenely wealthy neighborhood, my GPS announced my destination coming up on the right.
“Uh, Dad? I gotta go,” I murmured, stunned by the sprawling lawns and fancy gates, every house standing three stories high and no doubt exorbitantly expensive.
“Alright, good luck, Whirlybird,” my dad grumbled, using the only pet name I approved of. “Just don’t let your studies fall by the wayside, okay? You’re so close to getting that pilot's license, and you promised me a helicopter trip, remember?”
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “I won’t get distracted, I promise.”
I hung up and took a corner, turning into the long, winding driveway that took me to a tall, white gate. Spying an intercom set up just outside, I wound the window down and was immediately hit with the dry, scorching impact of the Arizona summer heat.
“God,” I groaned as I hit the button on the intercom, already sweating in my modest shirt and skirt.
To my absolute horror, the intercom buzzed to life faster than expected, and a bored voice crackled over the line. “God? Sorry, you must have the wrong gate.”
“Shit, no. Wait—” I nearly toppled through the window, clawing at the intercom. “Sorry, it’s Carissa. The nanny…? We spoke on the phone.”
There was a long pause before the gates opened, and the voice responded with a flat sigh. “Come on in, I guess.”
The driveway curved through immaculate landscaping like something out of a magazine spread, and then the house came into view.
The place was enormous, all clean white walls and long glass panels, sharp lines and dark accents.
It was the kind of modern mansion you only see on TV shows, complete with blinking security cameras and a front entrance that could comfortably fit an elephant.
I parked beside a contemporary rock display and stepped out, unsticking my shirt where the heat had glued it to my back. The front door was already cracked open and nobody stepped out to greet me, so I let myself in.
Inside was quiet and cool (no doubt every air conditioner in the building was working overtime to compete with the heat).
The entryway soared upward, and black marble floors stretched deeper into the house.
I padded softly down the hallway, passing a sleek staircase, a few framed certificates, and black and white photographs blown to massive proportions.
One depicted what looked like a hockey team, a big group of guys in bulky sportswear grinning together on the ice. I didn’t know much about ice hockey, or any other sport, really, but it occurred to me that my new employer might be one of the big shots in the NHL world.
I was so absorbed in my ogling that I didn’t see the figure right beside me until the guy cleared his throat, and I jerked back with a yelp.
“Oh! Hi,” recovering quickly, I tucked a hair behind my earring, trying and failing to regain some sort of professional composure. “I’m—”
“Carissa,” the guy cut me off gruffly.
He was tall, with dark hair and deep brown eyes to match, and he was noticeably shirtless.
I could see every inch of his washboard abs and the dark line of a treasure trail leading down beneath the seam of his boxers.
Standing before me, half-naked and unashamed, with a bowl of cereal balanced in one hand, the guy was undoubtedly gorgeous.
Headphones hung around his corded neck, and faint music bled out as he tilted his head toward a doorway on the left. “I’m Gage,” he said. “If you’re looking for Dawson, he’s down that way.”
“Uh, thanks.” I followed his gaze. Dawson Barnett was the guy who hired me. Though we’d spoken over the phone when he first contacted me for the job, I had yet to meet my new employer in person.
The distant sound of raised, irritated voices reached me from the direction Gage had pointed, and I flicked him a hesitant look. “Is now a bad time—?” Gage, however, was already striding away, headphones over his ears and a spoonful of cereal shoved in his mouth.
I thanked him, because it was the polite thing to do (not that he could hear me, nor likely cared either way), and followed the sound of bickering voices through the doorway.
Inside, I found two men who were so alike in their looks I did a double-take.
Each bore the same sharp jawline, the same shade of blond in their hair.
The same furrowed brows over vibrant green eyes as they both raised their voices in unison, arguing over each other and completely unaware of my presence.
“I’m just saying,” the left one vented, distinguishable from the other by the length of his hair, tugged back into a short, choppy ponytail. “Deciding to foster some kid on a whim, right before the start of the season?! That’s insane, Dawson. You’ve officially lost it.”
I flicked my gaze to the other guy; slightly taller, with a grim set to his mouth, blond hair trimmed short and curling at his ears. So this was Dawson Barnett. Part of me had been worried I’d taken a wrong turn and wandered into Pretty Boy mansion.
“I know what I’m doing, Boone,” Dawson bit back at the other guy, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve thought this through. Everything is going to be—” Those exasperated green eyes finally noticed me standing there, and Dawson Barnett choked on his words.
“Sorry!” I blurted out before he could speak. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” I stuck out a hand toward him, wincing at his mortified expression. “I’m Carissa. You hired me to take care of your kid...”
“Your kid?” Boone, the shorter blond, turned on Dawson with incredulity. “I thought this was a temporary foster situation.”
“It is,” Dawson hissed, before directing a 100-watt smile in my direction. He shook my hand genially, elbowing the other guy as he did so. “Miss McCabe, pleasure to meet you. Sorry about the, uh… all that.”
“No problem,” I hurriedly assured him, captivated momentarily by the piercing intensity of his eyes. I looked away as he released my hand, kicking myself internally for swooning on the job. “So, this kid of yours… is a foster child?”
Before Dawson could respond, Boone seemed to register—all of a sudden—that he was in the presence of the opposite sex, and his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Well, hello beautiful,” he pushed past a grimacing Dawson and scooped up my hand to shake. “Dawson, dude, if I’d known you’d be hiring a hot nanny, I would have been on board with this from the beginning.”
“Um…” I let the guy shake my hand with extreme enthusiasm and looked over to Dawson for help.
Dawson, to his credit, was looking at Boone like he was weighing up jail time for murder, and quickly stepped in to yank the other guy back by his collar. “That was a whole three seconds before you let your dick think for you. A new record under your belt, Boone.”
Boone let himself be hauled away, winking at me over his shoulder as Dawson herded him toward the door. “See you later, Carissa. I’ll be around whenever Dawson’s gentleman shtick bores you to tears.”
Dawson slammed the door in his face, and then it was just the two of us.
A beat of silence followed before Dawson blew out a breath and turned back to face me, fatigue in the slump of his broad shoulders. “Sorry about my brother. I think he was dropped on his head as a kid.”
That comment drew a short, sharp burst of laughter from me, and I felt myself relaxing just a little. “It’s alright, he’s not the first guy to fantasize about the nanny.”
Dawson cracked a smile too and ran a sheepish hand through his hair. “I swear he’s not usually so…” he paused, giving up the pretense with a shrug. “Actually, yeah, he’s always like that.”
“At least he’s consistent?” I offered, and Dawson snorted under his breath.
“Unfortunately.” He stood there looking at me for a moment before seeming to remember that I was there on business, and clapped his hands together. “Anyway, let me show you around. Your room is on the second floor, and I guess you’ll want to meet Henry…”
Henry, I learned soon enough, was the foster kid Dawson had taken in, and the source of much tension amongst the residents of the mansion.
As we walked, Dawson explained the job. He needed someone to take care of Henry while the guys were busy with the hockey season.
As part of the NHL Hockey League, the Las Vegas Golden Knights, specifically (Dawson had been shocked to learn I knew next to nothing about them), he wasn’t able to be around nearly enough to keep an eye on the kid.
He did promise, however, that he would contribute as much as he could, and he had appointed Boone, his twin brother, as well as Gage, the unapproachable half-naked man I’d met earlier, to help with taking care of Henry.
Neither Boone nor Gage was happy with the idea of a seven-year-old living in their house, but Dawson was team captain both on and off the ice, and his decision was final.
Despite his polite, slightly stiff tone, I noticed the way Dawson’s eyes softened when Henry himself came racing into the living room, barreling toward us with a model helicopter clutched in his hand.
“Dawson!” He wrapped himself around Dawson’s leg, looking up at the hockey player with a gap-toothed smile. “Can we play helicopters?”
“Hey, champ. Maybe later.” Dawson unwound the kid from his calf and crouched down to speak to him. “This here is Carissa. She’ll be keeping an eye on you when the rest of us are busy.”
“Cool.” Henry lifted his little chin to blink at me. “Do you like helicopters?”
I eyed the scatter of toy planes and choppers littering the rest of the room and crouched to inspect one. “Oh, I do. I’m actually learning to fly one for real.”
Henry’s eyes practically bulged out of his head, and even Dawson glanced down at me in surprise.
“I’m a pilot in training,” I clarified, sneaking a glance up at him and flushing when I saw the awe on his face. “I’m working my way up to getting my license. My dad flies too, gives tours of the Grand Canyon, and such. I guess it runs in the family.”
Dawson’s jaw flexed, impressed, but he quickly masked it behind a stoic expression. Henry, meanwhile, was absolutely delighted to meet a ‘real-life pilot’ and was already gathering all of his favorite models to present to me.
“Well then,” Dawson cleared his throat, watching the two of us pore over the plastic figurines. “Now that you know what you’re dealing with, do you think you’ll be able to handle living in this house with all of us?”
He said it as a joke, keeping his tone light and even, but the slight crease in his brow told me he was more anxious than he let on. He needed help desperately, and something told me that if I turned down the job, things in that household would spiral out of control.
I glanced between him and Henry, the latter of whom was looking at me with wide, pleading eyes. I ruffled his ginger hair and offered a smile to Dawson.
“Well, it looks like somebody has got to keep this team in order,” I said. “It may as well be me.”