Page 17 of The Night Nanny

I fling the half-eaten chicken wing onto my cocktail napkin and leap up from my seat.

“Where are you going?” asks Gabe.

“I’ll be right back,” I mutter as I stride her way.

Taking giant steps, I reach her in no time. I feel my heart racing, my body heating. “Hey,” I say, tapping her bare shoulder.

A glass of champagne in her hand, she swivels around.

My jaw goes slack.

Stunning as this woman is, it’s not her. The gorgeous woman I ran with this morning. Embarrassment washes over me; I feel my ears turning pink as her stocky, bald-headed companion gives me a scathing look.

“You know my wife?” He looks rich, sounds Russian.

I’m six inches taller than he is, but I suddenly feel six inches shorter.

“Sorry. I thought she was someone else.” I think about offering to buy them a round of drinks but instead sheepishly slink away and return to my seat.

“You know that woman?” asks Gabe, his drink almost depleted.

“No,” I stammer. “I thought she was one of our new clients.”

Gabe lets it go. He drains his drink. “How about another round?”

I pass. “I need to get home.”

And I’ve lost my appetite.

Gabe reaches for a messy beef slider. “Give my love to Ava. If it’s okay, I’ll come by over the weekend to see her and meet the baby.”

“Sure, be my guest. She’d like that.” I chug the rest of my drink. “And maybe we can get in a game of tennis.”

The drive to my house takes twenty minutes. Luckily, I’ve avoided rush hour traffic. I park my Porsche in our detached six-car garage and heft my briefcase filled with movie scripts and contracts to the front door. The door swings open before I insert my key.

I drop my briefcase and if our housekeeper, Rosita, were around, she’d have to mop my jaw off the ground.

EIGHT

NED

“What are you doing here?” I ask, not knowing her name.

“What does it look like?” Holding a wide-awake Isa in her right arm, she gives me a coy smile. “I’m your baby’s new night nanny…Nurse Marley Manners.”

The gorgeous woman I met on my run this morning is our night nanny? I’m too gobsmacked to calculate the odds. Slowly, I come to my senses, and after retrieving my briefcase, I hesitantly step inside my house, as if it belongs to a stranger.

“Mr. Sinclair, would you like to hold Isa?” she asks.

I’m too unsteady on my feet, and my hands are jittery. “Maybe later.” I park my briefcase on the console in the entryway. I’m at a loss for words until I whiff the air.

“What smells so good?”

“I whipped up a pasta primavera with a pack of frozen vegetables I found. The pickings were few, but I hope you’re hungry.”

“Sorry about that,” I stammer, still stunned. “Our housekeeper, who usually stocks up our refrigerator and pantry, had to unexpectedly go out of town last week. I was away on business, and my wife, as you know, had an emergency C-section and has been too unwell to leave the house.”

“Don’t either of you know how to use Instacart?” I detect surprise in her voice. “It’s really not hard and it’s a great thing for busy moms… and dads.”