Love, Unlisted (Kings of Lakeshore #1)

Chapter 1

Doing It All, Alone

Coleman

By the time I pull onto her street, I’ve already talked myself out of this meeting twice.

I’m exhausted. Burned out. Barely holding it together.

And I sure as hell don’t want to sit in another too-small chair across from another too-eager stranger pretending they can handle my daughters.

But I go anyway. Because I don’t have the luxury of walking away. Not anymore.

The car’s quiet without the girls. Too quiet.

Usually, by now, Paige would be rattling off some ridiculous TikTok story that I only half understand while Payton grumbles in the backseat about how basic it is and asks if we can put on Reputation instead.

I’d pretend to protest, and they’d roll their eyes and blast it anyway.

They’re ten going on fifteen. And I’m just… trying to keep up.

I don’t get half their references. I don’t know all the names of Taylor Swift’s exes or what it means when Paige says someone “ate” in a dance video. But I nod along. I listen. I try. Because they’re all I have. Because their mom sure as hell doesn’t try.

Stella.

The name still tastes bitter when it hits the back of my throat. I married her because she was pregnant. Because it was the right thing to do. Because I believed that with enough effort, you could build something out of duty and turn it into love.

I was wrong. She never wanted the girls. Not really. She liked what having them said about her. What it bought her. The lifestyle, the status, the illusion of being someone she never earned the right to be.

She was always leaving—nights out, trips, lies she didn’t even bother to make convincing. But I stayed. For years, I stayed. Because I thought maybe the problem was me. That if I could give more, work harder, create something perfect, she’d show up for the life we built.

She never did.

The night everything ended, the girls had begged to come home early. Paige wasn’t feeling well, and Payton wanted to finish her new sketchbook. I remember unlocking the front door quietly, thinking we’d surprise her.

Instead, we found her in our bed with some guy whose name I never even learned.

And she didn’t even flinch. Just rolled her eyes and asked why we didn’t text first.

Payton didn’t say a word for two days. Paige cried herself to sleep for a week. And I—I filed for divorce the next morning.

Since then, it’s just been the three of us. And if I’m being honest, I’m not doing a great job.

I try. God, I try. But the girls are too smart to be lied to. They’ve been through too much to believe in surface-level affection or smiles that don’t reach someone’s eyes.

And that’s the problem. I’ve had three nannies in the last 3 months. One quit mid-week. One made it a month and left a note saying the girls were too much. The last one walked out after Payton asked if she was going to disappear too.

They’re not bad kids. They’re just guarded. Sharp. Blunt. They ask hard questions and test people until they’re sure they won’t leave.

So far, no one’s passed.

But Lacey swears this one is different. Penelope said Remi didn’t flinch when the girls got snarky.

That she laughed when Paige over-explained a Taylor Swift conspiracy theory and challenged Payton to a silent treatment contest—and won.

Which is impressive, because Payton holds grudges like trophies.

Still... I’m not sure about this.

Remi is young. Too young. And if she can’t handle them—if she leaves, too— I don’t know what kind of damage that’ll do.But I’m out of options.

I pull up to the curb, shift into park, and sit there for a beat, staring up at the red-brick building with ivy growing up the side like it’s not some kind of metaphor.

This isn’t ideal. It doesn’t feel safe. But nothing about my life has been safe in a long time. So I grab my keys, step out of the car, and walk up to the building of the girl who might just turn all our lives upside down.

If I let her in.

The door swings open before I even knock.

“Hi! You must be Coleman.”

She’s barefoot. There’s glitter on her cheek. And she’s wearing a sweatshirt that says Professional Chaos Coordinator in pastel letters.

This has to be a joke. I glance down at the paper Penelope handed me. Remi Carter.

“Come in,” she says, stepping aside, all bounce and zero boundaries. “I just put on coffee. Don’t worry, I made the good kind. Not the sad, divorced dad kind.”

I blink. “You don’t know anything about me.”

She smirks. “Don’t need to. Your shirt’s still half-tucked, your phone’s at 3% and there’s glitter stuck to your shoe. I know chaos when I see it.”

I glance at my shoe. Damn.

She turns on her heel and heads to the kitchen, humming something off-key. I follow, because I have no better option—and because Penelope and Lacey practically bullied me into meeting her.

“She’s amazing with kids,” Lacey had said.

“She used to help out with the camp,” Penelope added.

“She’ll keep them alive,” Lacey concluded. “Mostly.” Mostly?

The kitchen smells like cinnamon and something else I can’t place. Comfort, maybe. Or trouble.

“Let’s get to it,” I say, sitting at the bar. “The last nanny quit.”

“I heard,” Remi says, pouring coffee into a mug shaped like a fox. She slides it toward me. “You burned through three, right?”

“Two.” She lifts an eyebrow.

“…And a part-time assistant who said the girls needed a drill sergeant.”

“To be fair, I’ve met your twins.”

I narrow my eyes. She grins wider.

“Look,” I say, “you’re not what I expected.”

“Let me guess,” she says, crossing her arms. “You were hoping for someone older, stricter, and preferably shaped like a boiled egg.”

Now is my turn to raise an eyebrow.

“I’ve been working with kids since I was fifteen.

Babysitting, tutoring, summer camp counselor, and part-time nanny for a family in Charleston with triplets.

I have a degree in early childhood education and a CPR card in my purse.

Want to quiz me on choking protocol, or can we skip to the part where you try to scare me away? ”

Her eyes dare me to push. But I don’t. Because I’m tired. Because I’m out of time. And because, for some inexplicable reason, my daughters actually liked her when they met her at Lacey’s studio.

“You come recommended,” I say. “But I run a strict household.”

She tilts her head. “Is that a warning or a cry for help?”

I hate that I almost smile.

“You’ll live in,” I hear myself say, and the words surprise me as much as they do her.

Remi blinks. “Wait… live-in?”

I nod, like that was always part of the plan. It wasn’t. I glance around her apartment while I speak, and instantly regret it.

It’s… messy. Not in a dirty way, just full of life, there’s color everywhere.

A bright green throw blanket hangs off the back of the couch.

There are open books on the coffee table, one upside down like she left in a hurry.

A pair of mismatched socks hang from a drying rack near the window.

And on the far wall is a corkboard filled with Polaroids—people laughing, hugging, mid-dance, mid-bite, mid-life.

It’s loud without making a sound. Color. Warmth. Personality. Everything my house isn’t.

“Yes. Second floor. Room’s furnished. Bathroom’s yours.”

Her smile falters for the first time. “I didn’t know that was part of the job.”

“I’ve had to make adjustments,” I say quickly. “I need someone available in case I leave early or get home late. With the girls’ school schedule and activities, it’s just… easier this way.”

She studies me. Not buying it entirely, but not challenging me either.

And I’m grateful, because I don’t want to examine the real reason I want her living in my house.

I don’t want to admit that the silence is louder when I walk in lately.

That the twins' laughter has been gone so long I stopped listening for it.

“I can make it work,” she says finally, glancing around her apartment like she’s already measuring what to take and what to leave. “Matthew won’t mind.”

And there it is. My brain slams to a halt. My throat tightens. Who the hell is Matthew? I glance down at her hands. No ring.

Still. Doesn’t mean anything. People don’t wear rings for casual things anymore. Is he her boyfriend? Roommate? Ex who still sleeps on her couch?

I should not care. I do not care. I grind my molars as my brain fires off three thousand irrational possibilities in the span of a second.

“You’ll have evenings free if the girls are settled by nine,” I continue. “Homework first, then screen time. No devices at the table. I expect consistency.”

Remi lifts one brow but doesn’t interrupt.

“No surprises,” I add, sharper this time. “No personal drama. I don’t care if your best friend gets dumped, your horoscope says the moon’s in retrograde, or you’re suddenly struck with the need to find yourself in Bali. I’ve had enough instability for a lifetime.”

There it is. The wall. The boundary I’m comfortable behind. But she doesn’t flinch.

Remi just tilts her head slightly, arms still folded over that ridiculous sweatshirt with glitter on the cuffs. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes—amusement, maybe. Or defiance.

“Are those all the rules?” she asks softly.

“For now.”

She studies me for a beat. “So, just to recap: Be perfect. Never feel anything. Keep your house clean, your daughters emotionally balanced, and your expectations managed. All without being too loud, too emotional, or too… me.”

Her tone isn’t angry. It’s calm. Even kind.

I open my mouth. Then close it. She pushes off the counter and walks a slow circle around the island, trailing her fingers along the marble.

“You don’t really want a nanny,” she says.

“You want a ghost. Someone to show up, do the work, and vanish into the walls.”

“I want someone dependable,” I say tightly. “My daughters don’t need another disappointment.”

“I’m not a disappointment,” she says. “And I’m not a ghost.” I say nothing. She smiles, just barely. “And if you’re afraid I’ll stir up too much life in this house, Coleman…” She shrugs. “That sounds like a you problem.”

She nods once, serious. “I can give them what they need. And I’ll stay out of your way. Unless you need help with glitter removal.”

I take a breath. Then another. Against every bone in my body telling me this is a bad idea, I say:

“When can you start?”

She winks. “I already did.”

Remi sets the mug down and leans against the counter.

“Oh, and for the record, your girls don’t need a prison warden. They need someone who won’t flinch when they test boundaries.”

I look up, caught off guard.

“They need structure, not a drill sergeant,” she continues. “And trust me, I know how to handle two ten-year-old girls who are smart, emotionally wired, and testing adults to see who’s going to leave next.”

Her words hit too close. She doesn’t flinch.

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“I was that girl,” she says simply.

And just like that, she’s not just glitter and chaos. She’s exactly what I didn’t know I was looking for