2. The Nanny Interview
THE NANNY INTERVIEW
LUCA
The sky was still the color of bruised steel when I hammered my right hook into the heavy bag dangling off the pergola. Spray from the pool misted my calves; the tile's early-morning chill steadied my stance.
Every impact should have emptied my head, but flashes kept strobing behind my eyelids—Riley's mouth opening beneath mine, the startled sound she'd made when I'd torn myself away, the hotel door clicking shut like a verdict.
Ava's scream sliced through the quiet—high and keening, the sound she made when the world became too much.
I sprinted across the travertine, heart punching ribs harder than any bag.
Inside the kitchen, fluorescent lights buzzed like hornets.
The breakfast blender had kicked on automatically at seven, catching Ava before she'd put on her headphones, and now its roar filled the room like an alarm no one had silenced.
Ava crouched beneath the quartz island, palms welded to her ears, her whole body folded around the sound.
"Princesa, look at Daddy." I dropped to one knee, keeping my voice low, steady. The weighted lap pad lay where we'd left it for mornings like this. I slid it across her thighs; the deep pressure eased her rocking by a breath.
"Shell—pink shell—gone!" She gasped the words between sobs.
I shut off the blender—merciful silence—and uncapped the lavender roller, tracing circles over her wrists with the scent Zoe had sworn could calm storms. "Breathe with me, four counts." I raised fingers: one...two...three...four. She matched the inhale, tear-wet lashes trembling.
"Where did you see it last?"
"Night...stand," she whispered.
"Stay here. I'm fast."
Upstairs, early light slanted over the hallway where Zoe's medical journals still waited for boxes I couldn't face. There—the rose-pink scallop, half-hidden beneath a page on traumatic brain injuries. I scooped it up, guilt and relief tangling in my chest.
Back downstairs, Ava's shoulders unlocked the instant the shell touched her palm. She traced the ridges, then pressed it to her sternum like armor. "Thank you."
"Always." I kissed the crown of her head. Exhaustion crept in now that the crisis waned, but her cereal waited and so did the day. I set the lap pad aside, poured her favorite honey rings, and let her line them by color the way she needed.
The clock over the stove flipped to 7:01. Interview in an hour and a half. I rubbed the ache in my knuckles and tried not to think about the woman who'd invaded both my night and now my morning.
A week ago, Donny had all but shoved me out the door, swearing I needed one night to remember I was still alive. He'd offered to stay with Ava, told me to play the field like I was some twenty-five-year-old with nothing behind him and nothing to lose. I'd gone mostly to shut him up.
Then I met Riley.
Ava's spoon clicked softly while she sorted the cereal rings by hue, lips moving as she whispered the color-emotion codes we'd invented together.
Green for calm, yellow for curious, orange for silly.
Today she skipped orange and set a single purple at the far edge—brave.
She glanced at me for confirmation, and bravery shimmered behind her dark eyes.
I managed a smile, tapping the purple ring twice: Noted, princesa.
I stared at the text on my phone. Not a new message—yesterday's, from Bianca, still sitting there like a dare.
Found a potential summertime nanny. Recommended by a friend of a friend. Last-minute but gold. Résumé attached. You owe me.
The relaunch had changed everything.
When I bought back controlling interest in the resort, I told myself moving onto the grounds was temporary.
Practical. Close enough to walk between home and work, far enough that Ava could still have a front door that belonged to us instead of the lobby.
After Zoe died, Ava needed proximity. She needed to know I was close, that if she looked for me, I hadn't disappeared too.
But resort work did not care about bedtime routines or sensory breaks or whether the wrong hallway lighting made her cover her ears. Investor calls ran long. Contractors needed answers. Bianca needed decisions. Every hour of the relaunch seemed to demand a piece of me Ava deserved whole.
I could bring her with me sometimes. I did. Too often, probably. But dragging my daughter through construction meetings, vendor walk-throughs, and staff fires was not parenting. It was survival dressed up as flexibility.
Ava needed someone beside her who wasn't splitting attention between her and a multimillion-dollar property.
That was why I needed a nanny, at least for now. Not because I wanted distance from my daughter. Ava was seven. She shouldn’t already know what it felt like to compete with ghosts, grief, and work for the only parent she had left.
I opened the PDF again. No photo, just the name and credentials that read like a wish list: sensory-integration practicum, PECS board familiarity, CPR renewed last month.
Still, a chill rippled beneath my skin as I stared at the name.
Riley Brooks.
Common name, I told myself. Odds in a city of two million.
Besides, the Riley from that hotel bar had talked about event planning like it was oxygen—galas, weddings, the glossy kind of chaos people paid too much money to survive.
Not childcare. Not visual schedules and sensory-integration practicum hours.
Not my daughter.
Still, my thumb hesitated over the background-check shortcut. Habit won. I launched the screening software, uploaded the résumé, hit Run. Estimated time: thirty minutes.
While it processed, I slid open the security dashboard. All motion sensors green. I checked the panic shortcut—two taps would ping Louis's phone and pull every camera feed onto his screen. The icon waited beneath my thumb. Just in case.
Ava hummed, lining her scallop beside the purple ring, then pointed to its rose hue—her silent query for safe? "Safe," I confirmed, giving the universal thumbs-up. She relaxed, spooning the green cereal first. Routine was king.
I refilled coffee and leaned on the island, forcing my shoulders down. "New nanny today," I said, soft enough not to jar her. "Her name's Riley." The name tasted like lime and almost-regret. Ava didn't react, too focused on matching cereals to shell ridges.
I skimmed the résumé again, this time hunting for a reason to say no. Eight families in three months—could mean restlessness. Could mean she was exactly what the résumé said she was: a temporary caregiver taking whatever work she could find while chasing something else.
The references weren’t helping my case. Patient under pressure. Anticipates triggers. Built custom visual schedules.
Damn it.
On paper, Riley Brooks was exactly the kind of person I wanted around Ava.
Which made the possibility that she was that Riley considerably worse.
I rehearsed ground rules under my breath, eyes on the routine chart magnets: "Professional tone, weekly reports, no personal contact after hours.
" The words felt solid in my mouth, like hand wraps before a bout.
If she arrived and turned out to be that Riley, I'd end the interview politely.
Ava wouldn't know the difference. Boundaries first, safety always.
The background-check bar ticked to twenty percent. I glanced at the clock—7:24. She'd be at the gate in an hour. Plenty of time to remember how coincidence worked...and to pray that Bianca's miracle hire wasn't about to reopen every wound I'd stitched closed.
The gate chime rattled through the intercom sooner than expected. Ten minutes early—either eager or desperate. I opened the live feed.
There she was. Even through grainy pixels Riley looked like a sunrise I wasn't ready for—freckles, untamed hair corralled into a low knot, a leather folio hugged to her chest. For half a second I hoped the camera lied. It didn't.
"Coincidence my ass," I muttered, thumb hovering over deny. Ava's soft humming behind me tipped the scales. I hit accept, buzzed the gate, and braced.
The dented Corolla rolled to a stop beneath the portico, its front bumper scuffed, one hubcap missing. I wiped my palms on my joggers and guided Ava to my side. "Remember: gray stones only." She nodded, clutching her shell like a passcode.
The doorbell rang. I opened it.
Recognition detonated between us. Riley's breath hitched; the portfolio slipped a fraction before she recovered. Professional smile—thin ice over deep water.
Her lips parted. "You're?—"
"—Mr. Santoro," I cut in, voice like gravel. Denial battled awe. Bianca had sent her? My ribs cinched. "You're punctual, Ms. Brooks." Coincidence shattered.
"Traffic was kinder than Google promised." Her tone was smooth, but color climbed her neck. Her gaze dragged across my T-shirt, lingering on the line where Zoe's ring pressed beneath the fabric. I crossed my arms to hide the tremor.
Ava edged forward, shell extended. Riley crouched, palms open. "That's Argopecten irradians—Atlantic bay scallop. I'm wondering if you'll let me see it." No reach, no question, just curious invitation.
Ava's fingers unfurled. Riley inspected the shell with grave respect, tracing a tiny chip in the ridge. "Beautiful—like ocean fingerprints."
Ava's answering smile was small but radiant—rare first-meeting grace. My chest lurched with equal parts hope and dread.
"Back garden?" Ava asked, tugging Riley's sleeve.
Shock flickered through Riley's eyes, then warmth. She looked to me. Then back to Ava. "I'd like that."
We stepped onto the flagstone walk. I gestured to the slate-gray stepping stones winding through citrus trees. "Please stay on that path. Ant hills to the right can trigger her."
Riley nodded, matching Ava's measured pace stone for stone. When Ava decided the game required hopping only on alternate slabs, Riley copied without missing a beat, balancing in her sensible heels. Ava giggled—a bright, startled sound that made my throat burn.