Page 15 of Catching Trouble

Finally, she finished, guiding my hands back under the shower to rinse. “There,” she said with a grimace, lifting her gaze to meet mine.

The second she did, the crease between her brows eased, and my heart skipped a beat. Up close, she was beautiful. Freckles scattered across her nose, cheeks—her entire face—and her skin shone like porcelain underneath. Her lips, pink and slightly parted, looked heartbreakingly soft.

She blinked, her gaze sweeping over my face, her chest rising and falling quicker than before.

Drawn in, and wildly out of control of my body, I leanedtowards her—just slightly—but a sudden clatter made us both jump.

My daughter bustled into the garden, tossing her bag to the ground. “Papa?”

The nanny and I sprang apart like teenagers caught kissing on the step after curfew.

“Sophie!”

I hesitated. Was it really her, though? She looked so different. Her dark hair had grown longer, her face had thinned, and she’d grown so tall.

She looked at me, her head tipped to one side, her eyes bouncing between me and the woman at my side.

“Oui,” she said.

I stepped towards her, arms outstretched to give her a hug, but a hand appeared at my elbow.

“Wait.” The nanny lifted a corner of the tiny towel she wore and pressed it into my palm. “You’re wet,” she said, offering me a half smile.

I dabbed at my skin, making sure not to pull too hard. Finally, I stepped forward to gather my daughter into a hug.

As I wrapped my arms around her, Sophie stiffened. She didn’t hug me back. I couldn’t blame her. I probably looked like I crawled out of a rubbish heap. I moved away, studying her face.

Was that… mascara?

“Tu vas bien, Papa?” she asked, her brow creasing. Then her gaze shifted to the nanny. “Qui est-ce?”

I took her hand and stepped aside. “No French. Your mother wants you to speak English on this visit.”

Sophie exhaled through her nose, apparently unimpressed.

“And to answer your question, this is…” My brain scrambled. Merde. What was the nanny’s name? I’d written it down somewhere weeks ago. The note was probably stuck to the fridge under one of those god-awful magnets my cleaner insisted on.

The nanny tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear and stepped forward. “Chloe. Chloe Hargreaves. You must be Sophie. It’s nice to meet you.”

I gave hera brief nod, resisting the urge to mouth the word “Merci”. “Yes, Mademoiselle Hargreaves.”

“Please, just Chloe,” she said. “You’ll make me sound like I escaped from a history book.”

“Chloe,” I repeated. “She’ll be your companion while you’re here.”

Sophie raised a brow. “Not dressed like that, I hope? I imagine Maman would prefer more clothes.”

I held my smile, though my pulse ticked up a notch.

Chloe folded her arms, chin lifting in defiance. “The outdoor shower was broken. I thought I’d fix it. I’m surprisingly handy with a wrench. But I didn’t want to soak my clothes, so… I took them off.”

My insides curled. I appreciated her trying to explain away our predicament, but it didn’t explain her lack of plumbing tools.

Sophie eye-rolled. “Honestly, Papa. I don’t need a babysitter. I’m twelve.”

“Your mother requested Mademoiselle?—”

“Chloe,” she cut in again.