Page 6

Ipark just outside the house, tucking Ruby—my beloved, beat-up car—behind a row of overgrown hedges.

“Sorry, girl,” I tell the car, patting the dashboard. “It’s not you, it’s judgmental suburbia.”

Sure, her paint’s chipped and one of the mirrors is held on with duct tape, but she’s got heart.

Unfortunately, heart doesn’t pay the bills, and I need this job. First impressions matter. So, Ruby’s staying hidden in the hedges, at least until I can charm my way past the front door.

I kill the engine and glance through the gaps in the hedges at the house: two-story, white siding, a wraparound porch that’s begging for a fresh coat of paint and maybe some flower boxes to mask the existential fatigue. It’s a little weathered but charming.

I double-check the address on my phone screen, then glance at the dashboard clock.

9:55 a.m.

Five minutes early. Perfect timing to make a decentfirst impression.

I blow out a breath, trying to settle the tiny flicker of nerves in my gut. I’ve done this before: new families, new babies, new routines. Kids are my jam. The meltdown-lunch-naptime cycle is basically my bread and butter at this point.

I swallow down the nerves, gather my things, and step out of the car.

Right.

Game face on.

Smile at the door, like a normal, functional human with an early-childhood degree and a big heart for chubby-cheeked toddlers. No big deal.

After climbing the three steps of the porch, I force my shoulders back, give two polite knocks on the front door, and wait.

And wait.

Silence.

My foot taps against the deck as I strain to hear anything from inside.

Still nothing.

I recheck the address. This is definitely the right place.

Was Grandpa right? Am I about to be kidnapped? Or is it adult-napped?

Ineed a nap.

I’m about to knock again when something crashes inside. It’s a low thud that sounds like something being kicked out of the way.

“Fucking hell. This damn house,” a deep voice curses, muffled but unmistakably exasperated.

Long seconds later, the door swings open.

The man from yesterday’s phone call—Wes Turner—fills the doorway. And I do mean fills it. He’stall, with broad shoulders that look like they carry the entire world, and a face that’s all sharp angles and tired eyes. A few days’ worth of stubble traces his jawline. Beneath the exhaustion, there’s the subtle hint of a scowl, or maybe that’s just the set of his mouth. Either way, it’s intense.

He takes one slow sweep of me, head to toe and back again.

I’m going to vomit.

“You’re Lena?” He says it like it’s a bad thing.

I swallow the dryness from my throat and nod, forcing a smile. “Yep. That’s me.”

He lifts his chin. It’s a silent, standoffish gesture, but he steps back so I can come inside. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries likehelloornice to meet you. Nope, just a curt “Come in.”