Page 1 of Nine Week Nanny

ONE

Sloane

I push through the glass doors of Citrine. The scent of eucalyptus and sweet orange hits me like a hug.

This place hums with that particular brand of Palm Beach energy. Citrine is all the rage right now, from influencers to tinctures to their amazing spa offerings. I can't believe I'm standing in the flagship, where it all began.

I tug at my tank top, already regretting the side-knot. My leggings scream not from here, all stretched-thin and faded. But whatever. I'm manifesting my fresh start.

The juice menu hangs above the counter in minimalist sans serif, and I bite back a laugh. Twenty-two dollars for something called "Golden Hour Goddess." I could eat for three days on that.

"What can I get you?" The girl behind the counter has the kind of dewy skin that makes me wonder if she bathes in kombucha.

"Um, the Green Reset, please." Only eighteen dollars. I'm practically saving money.

I lean against the counter, pulling out my phone. I'm anxious for the welcome email from HR. I should have gotten somethinglast week. When I called the recruiter, he assured me it was coming.

Nothing. Just promotional emails and a text from my new landlord about pool maintenance.

Movement catches my peripheral vision. A man emerges from the spa side. His tall frame fills the doorway with his broad shoulders that strain against a white t-shirt. He's got a towel slung around his neck, rubbing at it like the massage didn't touch whatever tension he's carrying. Dark hair with soft curls that are slightly mussed falls on his forehead, and a jaw sharp enough to cut glass clenches slightly.

Our eyes lock, and my stomach flips.

I fumble for a straw from the bin on the counter and nearly drop it.

His mouth quirks. It's barely there, but definitely a smirk, so I know he saw me, too. He keeps walking, and I track his movement despite myself. The way he moves is all controlled power, like he owns every room he enters.

"Green Reset!"

I snap back to reality, grabbing my overpriced juice. The straw wrapper crinkles in my sweaty palm, and I chuck it toward the trash can.

Holy shit. Do all the men in Palm Beach look like that?

I take a long sip of my juice as I walk out of Citrine. The cool liquid slides down my throat and tickles it slightly with the tang. At least it tastes like eighteen dollars.

Palm trees line the street, swaying in the gentle breeze coming off the ocean. Everything here gleams. The storefronts, the cars, even the sidewalk seem polished.

I adjust my side-knotted tank, suddenly conscious of the tiny hole near the hem.

A woman walks past me in white linen pants that probably cost more than my rent. Her skin is pulled tight acrossher cheekbones, with that telltale smoothness between the eyebrows.

I’m becoming evermore convinced that everyone here has Botox as I tug at my own frown line. If I’m going to live here for the long haul, do I need Botox?

I turn down a quieter street toward my new condo, my mind drifting back to the man at Citrine. Those dark eyes that locked with mine. Something about him sticks, and I catch myself smiling at the narrative I’ll spin later about our pretend life together in my new city.

My phone buzzes. For a split second, hope surges that it’s someone from the clinic. I fish it from my pocket, nearly dropping my cup. It’s a spam call, so I click to end it without answering.

I decide to text Maris, my closest friend from grad school, instead. We met in the therapy program at Clemson in South Carolina. I was in pediatric behavioral, and she was in speech pathology. We survived three years of hell on a steady diet of bad coffee and worse dating stories.

Eye candy everywhere. Just saw the hottest guy at the juice bar—already casting him in my fantasies.

Her reply comes fast. She always has her phone within reach.

Day three in Palm Beach and you’re already thirst-texting me? How’s the actual job Sloaney-Bologna?

Doesn’t start until next week. But I’m manifesting a fresh start. New city, new gig, maybe even a new boyfriend. I’m ready for my romance drought to come to an end.

Oh, la la.