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There’s no edge in his voice, just honesty. No sales pitch. No sugarcoating.

And I respect the hell out of it.

“I get that. I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t serious about it.”

He watches me closely, then asks, “Is there anything else I should know? Any schedule conflicts?”

I hesitate, every nerve suddenly alert. I’ve been waiting for this question.

Say no. Just say no.

I really want this job. I need this job. And lying about availability is not the way to keep it. So instead, I carefully fold my hands and do my best to sound calm. “There’s one thing. Every second Friday, I might not be able to work late. Not every time, but if I could be done by six on those nights, that would really help.”

His brow lifts, but there’s no judgment in it. “Standing plans?”

“Something like that.”

It’s not a lie, exactly, but I don’t tell him that every other Friday, I slip into my favorite dress and heels and head across town to The Velvet Room. That I stand under warm lights and become someone else entirely. Someone with a voice and a spotlight. Someone free.

He studies me for a beat longer, like he knows there’s more to the story, but he doesn’t ask. “I’m sure we can work around that.”

A grateful smile curls on my lips just as he shifts in his seat and leans forward.

I don’t mean to look.

I really don’t.

But Christ. Those arms.

I have a thing for forearms. Always have. And Wes Turner’s? Top tier.

Bold, Lena. Real professional.

Scolding myself, I rip my gaze away from his armsand back to his face. This is a grieving man who looks like he’s two seconds away from tearing out that beautiful hair of his. Now is not the time.

Oblivious to my minor crisis, he goes on to explain the days off, the expectations, and how there will be times when I might need to stay late if he gets caught up at his garage. He lays out holidays, paid time off, all of it.

It’s a lot. Some people might be intimidated by his directness, but I appreciate his no-nonsense attitude.

He’s in the middle of explaining the salary, which is far above any standard nanny’s pay, when my phone explodes with an embarrassingly loud ringtone from the depths of my tote bag.

My eyes fly wide. “I’m so sorry. I usually keep it on silent, but my grandpa’s in a nursing home.”

Wes’s gaze flicks to my phone, which is still buzzing. The nameGrandpalights up the screen.

“You should answer if it’s important.”

I press the silence button instead. “He’s nosy, not sick. If he were really sick, the nurses would call, so this is him checking in on me. He probably wants to make sure some maniac hasn’t abducted me.”

Shut up, Lena.

“Ah,” Wes says. “Well, sorry to disappoint him.”

I let out an awkward laugh, wishing I could text Grandpa to get him to stop calling. Instead, I tuck the phone away, but in my haste, my entire bag spills onto the floor.

I want to die.

Headphones. Hairbrush. An unhealthy amount of Chapstick. A few tampons for good measure.