3. ZARA
ZARA
The New Boss
New York swallows me whole the moment I step off the train.
Not in a bad way—more like being pulled into something alive, something with a pulse that matches the nervous thrum in my chest.
People move around me in a choreographed rush, nobody making eye contact, everybody knowing exactly where they belong. I clutch my carry-on strap and let the current push me toward the exit, my rolling suitcase bumping against my heels.
Outside, the noise hits differently.
Car horns layer over construction drills, a busker's saxophone weaving through it all like a thread trying to stitch chaos into melody.
I stand on the sidewalk for a full thirty seconds, just breathing it in. The air tastes like exhaust and hot pretzels and possibility.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket.
Danny:
You there yet? Don't get kidnapped.
I smile at my brother’s text despite the ache that tugs beneath my ribs. Type back quickly.
Me:
Just arrived. No kidnapping yet. Will keep you posted.
Danny:
Cool. Miss you already.
I shove the phone away before the homesickness can sink its teeth in. I'll call him later. Tonight. After I've settled in and can pretend I'm not terrified out of my mind about this new chapter.
The address burned into my memory leads me twelve blocks north, past coffee shops with chalkboard menus and boutiques displaying clothes that cost more than my monthly rent back home.
Each step takes me further from everything familiar, closer to the gleaming high-rise that will become my new reality.
When I finally stand at the entrance, I have to tilt my head back to see the top. Glass and steel reach toward a cloudless sky, the kind of building that whispers money in every polished surface.
A doorman in a charcoal uniform nods as I approach, and I catch my reflection in the revolving door—wild curls escaping my bun, cheeks flushed from walking, eyes wide like a kid at Christmas.
Get it together, Winslow.
Inside, the lobby hushes everything.
Marble floors, modern art on the walls, a security desk manned by a guy who looks like he moonlights as a linebacker.
I approach with my best professional smile.
"Zara Winslow. I'm the new nanny for the Halberg residence."
The linebacker checks his screen, makes a call, hands me a visitor badge. "Thirty-second floor. They're expecting you."
The elevator ride feels eternal.
I watch the numbers climb, my reflection staring back at me from polished brass doors.
Somewhere around floor twenty, my fingers find the silver heart pendant at my throat—Danny's gift from years ago, back when everything fell apart and he was the only good thing left. I rub the worn metal like a talisman.
You've done this before. You're good at this. You belong here.
The doors open to a private vestibule. One apartment per floor. Of course.
I knock, and the door swings open almost immediately. A woman in her fifties stands there—gray hair pulled back severely, crisp white blouse, eyes that assess me in a single sweep.
"You must be Miss Winslow." Not a question. "I'm Mrs. Henriksen, the housekeeper. Come in."
The apartment stretches out behind her like something from a magazine spread.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, late afternoon light spilling across hardwood floors and leather furniture.
But what catches my attention are the touches of chaos—a pink backpack tossed on an armchair, drawings taped to the refrigerator visible through a kitchen archway, a pair of tiny sneakers abandoned by the couch.
This is a home. Underneath all the polish, somebody actually lives here.
"Your room is down the hall," Mrs. Henriksen says, already walking. "Mr. Halberg is at practice. He'll return for dinner. Until then, I'll show you around and introduce you to Lily."
Lily. The little girl I’d been hired to care for. Six years old, according to the agency file. I’m not sure if her mother is in the picture—there wasn’t anything about that in the file.
A burst of giggling erupts from somewhere deeper in the apartment, and something warm unclenches in my chest.
Kids are my territory. Kids I understand.
Mrs. Henriksen leads me through a living area, past a dining room with a table that can seat twelve, into a kitchen that gleams with professional-grade appliances.
And there, standing on a step stool at the marble island, is a small tornado of blonde curls and flour-dusted cheeks.
"Lily," Mrs. Henriksen says, and the tornado spins around.
Blue eyes. A gap-toothed grin. Chocolate chips smeared across her chin.
"Are you my new nanny?" she demands.
I crouch to her level, ignoring the flour now drifting onto my jeans. "I'm Zara. And you must be the famous Lily I've heard so much about."
"I'm not famous." She considers this. "Yet."
I bite back a laugh. "Fair point. What are we making?"
"Cookies." She holds up a wooden spoon like a scepter. "Mrs. H said I could if I didn't make a mess, but..." She glances at the flour explosion surrounding her. "Oops?"
Mrs. Henriksen sighs, but I catch the softness in it. "I'll leave you two to finish. Zara, I'll show you your room after."
The moment she leaves, Lily grabs my hand and tugs me toward the step stool. "You have to help. The chocolate chips keep falling on the floor and I'm not supposed to eat floor chips but they taste the same."
"Solid logic." I roll up my sleeves. "Okay, chef. What's the plan?"
For the next hour, Lily and I cover ourselves in dough, negotiate the appropriate ratio of chocolate chips to cookie (her answer: more), and construct what she insists are "art cookies" rather than the misshapen blobs they actually are.
She tells me about her favorite cartoon (something with singing dragons), her best friend at school (Maria, who has a hamster named Sir Fluffington), and the very important fact that her dad is the boss of a whole hockey team.
"He yells at them but in a nice way," she explains, licking batter from her fingers. "And they listen because he's really tall."
"Is that how it works?"
"Yep. Tall people are in charge. That's the rules."
I file this information away under Lily Logic and slide the first tray into the oven.
By the time Mrs. Henriksen returns, the kitchen looks like a bakery has exploded, but we have three dozen cookies cooling on racks and Lily is perched on the counter eating a broken one.
"You've made yourself at home," Mrs. Henriksen observes. Her tone is neutral, but her eyes linger on Lily's chocolate-smeared smile.
"We worked very hard," Lily announces. "Zara's good at cookies. Better even than Daddy."
"Your father can’t bake, sweetheart."
"Exactly."
I help clean while Mrs. Henriksen keeps an eye on Lily during her afternoon quiet time, and then she gives me the promised tour.
My room is simple but comfortable—a queen bed, a dresser, a window overlooking a side street. Private bathroom. More space than my old studio apartment back home.
“Mr. Halberg keeps late hours during the season. He just started with a new team,” she tells me. “There will be practices, games, and travel. You’ll be Lily’s primary caregiver when he’s away. Weekends vary. Any questions?”
A hundred. A thousand. What about Lily’s mom? But it’s too early to ask, so I shake my head.
“I think I’ve got it for now.”
She nods curtly and leaves me to unpack.
I sit on the bed for a long moment, staring at my suitcase.
Through the wall, I can hear Lily singing something off-key, probably to those dragons she loves. The sound anchors me. Reminds me why I am here.
Ten years of other people's children. Other people's homes. Temporary families that never quite stick, no matter how much I love them or how hard I try to plant roots.
Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this city, this job, this little girl with chocolate chip negotiations—maybe this could finally be the place where I stop running and start staying.
I touch the necklace again. Danny is counting on me to build something here. I am counting on me.
The knock on my door startles me out of my thoughts.
"Miss Winslow?" Mrs. Henriksen's voice comes through the wood. "There's someone here to see you."
I open the door to find a man standing in the hallway—late twenties, easy grin, athletic build beneath a Metro Raptors polo. His name tag reads NATE.
“You must be the new nanny.” He extends a hand. “Nate Rollins. Assistant coach. We just started with a new team, but I’ve worked with him for ages. I handle the things Jaxon doesn’t have time for, which lately is everything.”
"Zara Winslow." I shake his hand, smiling at him. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise. Lily talks about you already. I come by to check on the munchkin and coordinate tomorrow's schedule with whoever's handling her."
He glances past me toward the kitchen. "Are those cookies?"
"Fresh out of the oven."
His eyes light up. "You're my new favorite person."
We move to the kitchen, where Nate demolishes four cookies in quick succession while filling me in on the household rhythms.
Jaxon Halberg runs a tight ship.
Practice at seven, home by dinner when possible, travel for away games at least twice a month.
Lily has school during the week, activities on Saturdays, and a standing playdate with Maria every other Sunday.
“He’s intense,” Nate admits between bites. “About work, about Lily, about everything. Don’t take it personally if he’s short with you. He’s under a lot of stress right now.”
Well, lucky me. Another rich boss who treats his staff like garbage and probably has zero interest in spending quality time with his daughter.
"I won't," I say nonetheless. "Short doesn't bother me. I've handled worse."
Nate studies me for a moment, then nods. "Yeah. I think you'll do just fine here."
He leaves with a promise to coordinate schedules via text and a sixth cookie wrapped in a napkin.
I stand at the counter afterward, staring at the Raptors schedule pinned to the refrigerator with a glitter-crusted magnet Lily has clearly made herself.
There’s a game circled in red a couple of weeks away. Media day. Whatever that means in hockey world.
The afternoon melts into evening.
I help Lily with a puzzle, supervise her dinner while Mrs. Henriksen takes a well-deserved break, and read her three chapters of a book about a princess who tames dragons instead of needing princes to save her.
By the time I tuck her in, she is already halfway asleep, blonde curls spread across her pillow like a halo.
"Zara?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
“I’m glad you came.” She yawns, her eyes fluttering shut. “Daddy works a lot… and sometimes he forgets to be fun.”
My chest tightens, but I smile softly, brushing her hair back. “Well, we’ll have to remind him a little, won’t we?”
I leave her door cracked open, light from the hallway spilling in, and make my way back toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Henriksen has already gone home. The apartment is quiet except for the distant hum of the city below.
I am putting the last of the dishes away when I hear the front door open.
Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. The sound of a bag dropping onto hardwood.
This must be my new boss, Jaxon Halberg.
And then he walks into the kitchen.
Oh God. This can’t be real. This can’t be my life.
Because I recognize him.
Not long ago, I kissed this man. More than that, I slept with him.
The tall, handsome man with brown hair and blue eyes—
It’s him.
Jax.
Just Jax.