Lana Ferguson is a sex-positive nerd whose works never shy from spice or sass. A faded Fabio cover found its way into her hands at fifteen, and she’s never been the same since. When she isn’t writing, you can find her randomly singing show tunes, arguing over which Batman is superior, and subjecting her friends to the extended editions of The Lord of the Rings. Lana lives mostly in her own head but can sometimes be found chasing her corgi through the coppice of the great American outdoors.

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PIATKUS

First published in the US in 2023 by Berkley Romance
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Piatkus

Copyright © 2023 by Lana Ferguson

Excerpt from The Fake Mate copyright © 2023 by Lana Ferguson

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-349-43962-4

Piatkus

An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company
www.hachette.co.uk

www.littlebrown.co.uk

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

To my sweet mother, who once asked me:
“Wouldn’t you rather write children’s books instead?”

I told myself I wouldn’t be nervous.

They can’t actually see me, so why is my heart pounding so hard?

I adjust my camera for the fourth time, checking the angle before I assess my outfit again. It’s a cute bra, and the underwear match—what comes next is nothing that I haven’t done a thousand times before.

It’s just that now, I’ll be doing it for unseen viewers for pay.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I need the money. That it’s my body, and I’m taking ownership of it. Everything that I do from this point onward is my choice, and I’m in complete control.

That thought makes me feel brave.

I take a deep breath. I check my wig. I adjust my mask.

I can do this.

I start the camera.

CHAPTER 1

Cassie

I’m going to be homeless.”

I hear Wanda clucking her tongue all the way from her kitchen (which, incidentally, isn’t that far away in a seven-hundred-square-foot apartment), and when I raise my face from the aged velvet of her couch, I can see her shaking a spatula at me. “No pity parties,” she tells me. “You aren’t gonna be homeless. You can take the couch if need be.”

I make a face at the aforementioned velvet couch, glancing from it to the pile of newspapers at the end of it to the television that defies time by refusing to die inside its wooden shell. “I couldn’t . . . impose,” I say tentatively, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “I’ll figure something out.”

In my third year of grad school for occupational therapy—losing my job as a therapy assistant at the children’s hospital was not part of the plan. I’ve barely been making rent with the salary they were giving me, and now that they’ve had to downsize, my even tinier apartment across the hall from Wanda’s place is looking more and more like it will be a thing of the past very soon.

“Nonsense,” Wanda argues. “You know you’re welcome here.”

I blow one auburn curl away from my face, pushing up from the couch cushions to a sitting position. I’ve known Wanda Simmons for about six years now; I met her when she invited me in for tea after I locked myself out of the apartment my first week here. A seventy-two-year-old woman as my best friend wasn’t exactly on my list of things to accomplish here, but she might be more interesting than I am, so I guess there’s that.

“Wanda,” I sigh. “I love you. You know that, but . . . you have one bathroom and no Wi-Fi. It would never work out between us.”

“It’s the age difference, isn’t it,” she pouts.

“Absolutely not. You will always be the only woman for me.”

“I’m just saying. The option is there.”

“And what are you going to do when you bring home your bingo men, and I’m sitting here on your couch?”

“Oh, we won’t bother you. We’ll go to the bedroom.”

I grimace. “I am all for you getting yours, but I absolutely don’t want to be on the other side of these very thin walls for it.”

Wanda chuckles as she stirs the sauce for her meatballs. “You could always go back to doing those booby cams.”

I groan. “Please don’t call them booby cams.”

“What? It’s a camera. You show your boobies. You get paid.”

I let my face fall back against her couch. I sort of regret telling Wanda about my . . . history with OnlyFans, but I hadn’t quite anticipated that she would be able to handle her tequila better than I did the night I bared it all. Not that I’m ashamed of it, by any means. It was good money. Taking cash from people looking to get their rocks off was an easy decision when faced with a looming tuition bill that I couldn’t begin to pay for otherwise. I mean, good tits should really earn their keep. I think Margaret Thatcher said that once.

“You know I can’t,” I sigh. “I deleted my whole account. All my subs are gone. It would take me another two years to build them back up.”

Besides, I learned my lesson the first time around. At least I kept that part to myself.

“Then what are you going to do? Have you been looking for another job?”

“Trying to,” I grumble, scrolling through the same help wanted ads on my phone that have mostly not panned out. “Why put out help wanted ads if they aren’t going to get back with you?”

“Too many people in this city,” Wanda tuts. “You know, when I moved here, you could actually walk down the street and recognize folks. Now it’s like a beehive out there. Always buzzing. Did you know they have a damned grocery store you don’t even use your card in? Just walk in and walk out. Thought I was stealing the whole time. ’Bout gave me heart palpitations.”

“Yes, we talked about the new Fresh store, remember? I helped you set up your account.”

“Oh, yeah. Next thing you know, they’ll be flying groceries right to your door.”

“Wanda, I hate to break it to you, but they already are.”

“No kidding? Hmm. You should set that up too. Save me a damned walk.”

“I guess you’re not so opposed to the future after all.”

“Yeah, yeah. What about the diner on Fifth?”

“They won’t let me off for my on-campus labs.”

“You know, Sal was saying he could use some help with—”

“I am not working at the deli,” I tell her firmly. “Sal is too handsy.”

“I always sort of liked that about him,” Wanda laughs.

“Aren’t you too old to be this horny?”

“I’m old, Cassie,” she snorts. “Not dead.”

“Seriously, I don’t know what I am going to do,” I groan.

“Check the ads again. Maybe you missed something.”

“I’ve checked them a dozen times,” I huff.

Wanda is still grousing at me from the kitchen as I pore over the help wanted section again regardless, thinking that if I scan it enough times, some miracle ad will jump out at me that I didn’t notice before. How can it be so hard to find a job that will let me do my schoolwork at night and be off every other weekend for my on-campus courses? I mean, this is San Diego, not Santa Barbara. There’s got to be something that I can—

“Oh, shit,” I say suddenly.

Wanda steps out of the kitchen, spatula in hand. “What?”

“Wanted: full-time live-in nanny position. Experience with children is a must. Free room and board. Serious inquiries only.”

Wanda humphs. “You don’t want to be stuck taking care of someone else’s—”

“Entry salary . . . Holy shit.”

“Is it good?”

I look up at Wanda with an open mouth, and when I tell her what they’re offering, Wanda says a word she usually only reserves for when the Lakers lose. She blows out a breath afterward, patting at her neat white curls in that flustered way of hers. “I guess you’d best be calling them then.”

I hadn’t expected Aiden Reid to get back to me as quickly as he did after I emailed him, and I certainly hadn’t expected him to seem so eager, in setting a date for an interview. And speaking of date, I definitely hadn’t expected him to ask me to meet him at one of the poshest restaurants in the city—one I cannot afford to eat at and one that I am pretty sure I am too underdressed to even be in. Is this how rich people hold interviews? I doubt Sal at the diner would be treating me to a five-star restaurant to get me to slice turkey for him while he accidentally brushes his hand across my ass.

Still, I’ve put on my favorite black sheath dress, the one that I wore to my college graduation, and I hope it makes me seem a lot more put together than I feel right now. Since I am now under the suspicion that the family I am trying to nanny for is more well-off than I first thought, I’m thinking a little false confidence will do me a world of good.

I mean, I love kids. And I learned working at the children’s hospital that they’re the target demographic of my terrible jokes, so that’s a plus. Besides, the entire reason that I am pursuing a career in occupational therapy is to try to be that person who is there for children when no one else seems to be—so with that in mind, this job should be a piece of cake, right?

That’s what I keep telling myself.

I swear the hostess can smell my vanilla body spray from Target, and she somehow knows this means I can’t afford the appetizers here, but she pastes on a smile, much to her credit, and leads me to a table after I give her my would-be employer’s name. Is this what it feels like to have pull? I take a seat in the silk-covered chair, feeling like a fish out of water amid the lit candles and the elegant music. Hell, I’m afraid to put my elbows on the table.

A waiter comes by to ask if I want to start with any appetizers, and since the hostess with the judgy eyes was absolutely right—I ask for water instead while I wait. I sip it as I wait for this Aiden guy to show up (seems kind of rude to be late to your own interview), trying to look like I totally eat at places like this all the time.

The restaurant itself is the nicest I’ve ever been in. I’ve never seen so many crystal centerpieces in my entire life, and Wanda would lose her shit if she saw the prices on the menu. I can’t wait to tell her later and watch her eyes bug out of her head.

“Excuse me,” someone says.

The deep voice murmured so closely to my ear nearly makes me choke on my water, a bit dribbling over my bottom lip and down my chin as I cough through it. I press the back of my hand there to try to wipe it away, noticing big hands in my now-blurred vision as a face comes into view.

Holy. Hell.

My brain short-circuits for a few seconds, trying to make sense of the sudden appearance of a large man with thick chestnut hair that’s pushed away from his forehead and strong jaw and stronger cheekbones, and is his mouth softer looking than mine? He’s tall too. Not the sort of tall that makes you think he plays basketball or something (although he totally could, if he wanted to), but the kind of tall that makes you want to ask him to grab something off the top shelf for you just so you can watch the way his shoulders move under his shirt. I realize this thought process makes little sense, but all I know is I am five seven with tits worth paying for, an ass built on squats and an emotional connection with bread, and this man makes me feel tiny.

And if these things aren’t enough to leave me dumbfounded (which I am, I mean, I’m literally drooling sparkling water)—his eyes would do the trick. I’ve heard of heterochromia; at the very least I’m pretty sure my biology professor mentioned it in passing when I was an undergrad, but I have never actually seen it in person. His eyes are a clash of one brown and one green, the colors not bright but subtle, like warm tea and seawater that are hard to look away from.

I realize that this is exactly what I’m doing. Staring at the poor guy.

“I’m sorry,” I sputter. “Sort of caught me off guard.”

I grab the napkin to start patting at my chin, noticing now that the man is wearing a white chef coat with a matching apron tied around his waist.

“Oh,” I start again. “I wasn’t going to order anything yet, I was waiting for someone.”

“Right.” He flashes a row of perfect teeth that my orthodontist would be ecstatic over, looking almost like he regrets having walked up to the table. Or maybe I’m projecting. “I think you’re waiting for me. Are you Cassie?”

“I—” Oh no. No, no, no. I did not spit water all over myself in front of the guy I’m trying to get to hire me. “Are you Mr. Reid?”

He makes a face. “Aiden, please. Mr. Reid makes me feel old.”

Which he isn’t. I don’t think. I mean, he’s older than me but not old. He can’t be any older than thirty, I’d wager. I’m still sort of gawking at him. “Right,” I say, trying to collect myself as I push away from the table and extend my hand awkwardly. “I’m Cassie. Cassie Evans.”

His mouth quirks at my extended hand, making me immediately regret holding it out like I’m doing an off-Broadway rendition of the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, but there’s no taking it back now. He shakes it in what I can only assume is an attempt to be nice, gesturing back to my seat and waiting for me to sit before he takes the one across from me.

I clear my throat, trying to forget that a minute ago I almost spit water on the hottest man alive who I very much want to pay me a ridiculous amount of money to watch his kid. His kid, I remind myself. This is a job interview. Which makes it totally inappropriate that I’m still thinking about his massive hands. Hands that my hindbrain actually notices aren’t sporting a ring of any kind.

Cut it out, brain.

I should stop staring at his hands, in any case. Even if they are large enough to make a girl mentally calculate when her last date was.

“So,” I try awkwardly. “You’re a cook.” I groan, instantly regretting my choice of words. “Sorry. I mean a chef. You’re a chef. Right?”

Miraculously, he doesn’t call to have me removed but smiles instead. “Yeah. I cook here.”

Oh, bless him for humoring me.

“That’s . . . awesome. Really awesome.” I nod appreciatively as I glance around us at the glittering chandeliers and the piano player somewhere behind us. “It’s a snazzy place.”

“It is,” he agrees. “I’ve been the executive chef here for a few years now.”

“No kidding? Fancy.”

“Fancy,” he echoes, looking amused. “Right. Sorry to ask you to meet me at work. I’ve been, ah . . . well. It’s been crazy lately.”

“It’s no big deal. I thought it was weird to do one of these things over dinner, especially at a place like this, but I figured . . .” It might have been nice if it had dawned on me before I had started sputtering my nonsense, but nevertheless, it does hit me. The implications of what he’s said. My mouth snaps shut as heat floods my face, and I duck with embarrassment as I cover my eyes. “Oh my God. This isn’t a dinner interview. You wanted to talk to me on your break.”

“I should have . . . been more clear in my email.”

Oh God. He’s trying to defend me. Someone bury me.

“I’m unbelievable.”

“No, no,” he tries. “It’s fine.”

“God, I’m an idiot. I wore this dumb dress, and—”

“It’s a very nice dress.”

“You probably think I’m bonkers—”

“Really, I don’t.”

“I can be so dense sometimes, I’m sorry.”

He still looks amused. Like he’s finding my mental breakdown funny. I don’t know if that makes things better or worse.

“You can order something,” he offers. “If you want. I don’t mind.”

“Um, thank you, but I might need to go throw up now. I should see myself out, right? This is already a disaster.”

“Wait, no.” He holds out a hand as I move to stand. “Don’t do that.”

I stop trying to slink away. Surely he can’t still be considering me, can he? Maybe he’s bonkers too. “You still want to interview me?”

“To be honest,” he sighs, “no one has applied with anything near your credentials. CPR training, a bachelor’s in occupational therapy with a minor in psychology? I mean, your last job was at a children’s hospital. And they had nothing but good things to say about you there when I checked your references. It almost sounded like they hated to let you go.”

“Yeah, I was pretty bummed when they did,” I admit. “There was a funding issue, unfortunately. I loved the work.”

“Well,” he laughs, “I’m hoping their loss is my gain. I couldn’t believe it when you sent me your résumé.”

“But now that you’ve met me, you’re beginning to think I forged it, right?”

He sort of laughs, his mouth barely opening as he casts his eyes down at the table, like he’s afraid of making me think he’s laughing at me, which would be well within his rights, considering this awful first meeting.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think you forged it. Though, I am curious why you’re looking at a nanny position with your background?”

I sink back down into my chair, heaving a sigh as I lean over the table. “Can I be totally honest with you?”

“I’d prefer it,” he says, leaning in and looking intrigued.

“I’m in my last year of the graduate program for OT, and like I said in my email, I got let go from my job due to downsizing. Rent in this city is ridiculous, and honestly, I need the money. And even more honestly, the free room and board isn’t anything to turn my nose up at either. It would be great to not have to worry about that on top of everything else.”

“Right. About that.” He frowns then, and I assume this is the part where he tells me that he actually can’t allow a spitting lunatic like me anywhere near his kid. “It is a live-in position, but full disclosure . . . it’s just me and my daughter. You would have your own room, of course, practically your own floor, even—full privacy, and all that, but . . . I want to be completely transparent with you in case that makes you uncomfortable.”

Twenty-five years old, and the first time I live with a good-looking guy is in a full-on Uptown Girls scenario. I’m dying to ask about the other parent in this situation, if only to squash my mental drooling, but my brain is screaming that this is the wrong move. Still, he’s got a good job and a nice smile and doesn’t give me total murderer vibes.

I paste on my most professional smile. “I don’t think that will be a problem. However, in the spirit of being transparent . . . I’m in a hybrid program at St. Augustine’s over in San Marcos.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that most of my coursework is online, which I have been taking care of at night after work, but two weekends a month I have to attend on-campus classes. It takes longer than the usual program, but since I’ve been paying my own way, it makes working easier. Most of the jobs I have been applying to haven’t been able to work with me on my schedule, though, which is sort of a deal breaker.” I chuff a laugh. “It seems that you’re the only one who thinks my credentials are impressive. Diners, dives, and department stores? Not so much.”

Aiden frowns, thinking. “I won’t pretend that I get home at a reasonable hour every night. My job is stressful—that’s actually an understatement. My job is a nightmare sometimes. I have most mornings off, and sometimes I don’t have to go in until the afternoons . . . but my nights can get late. Do you think it would be a problem? Sophie normally gets into bed by nine. I’m sure that as long as she’s fed and ready for bed, you could work on your schoolwork.”

“Sophie? Your daughter?”

Aiden smiles a new kind of smile, one that feels warm and proud, but it clashes with the flash of sadness that sparks in his eyes. “Yes. She’s . . . really great. She’s nine, but she seems so much older than that. She’s too damned smart for her own good.”

“Little girls usually are,” I laugh, thinking of myself. “And the weekends that I have school? I could be home by late afternoon. So I can still cover dinner, surely.”

Aiden considers this. “I can make it work. I mean, I have so far, anyway. If worse comes to worst, maybe you could pick her up here on those days? She could play her little game system in the office while she waits. She’s, ah, used to that by now, unfortunately.”

“And your daughter? Is she okay with all of this? The nanny situation?”

Aiden nods thoughtfully. “She’s had them before. None have really . . . fit though. I . . . Can I be honest with you again?”

“I prefer it,” I tell him, echoing his earlier sentiment.

Aiden laughs again, and I determine that I am going to have to make it a point not to make him laugh very often for my own sanity’s sake, if I’m going to be living with him. It’s a very nice laugh, okay? “I just . . . I need some help, Cassie, if I’m being blunt. I’m doing this all alone, and it’s much harder than I thought it would be. Or maybe it’s exactly as hard as I thought it would be. I don’t know. Sophie can be very . . . strong willed, and that’s made it difficult to find someone who is willing to stick around. I’ve been looking for a replacement for the last nanny for weeks, because I wanted to find the best fit for Sophie, and absolutely no one has applied for the job that has been half as qualified as you. It’s been weeks of juggling schedules, and at this point, I’m desperate.”

“That’s . . . very honest.”

“You can run away screaming at any time.”

Strangely, I have no desire to do that. Something about this tired-sounding man with his pretty eyes and his stomach-fluttering laugh makes it kind of hard to say no to him. Not to mention, there is still the ridiculous amount of money he’s offering.

“So, how would this go? If I say yes.”

“Well, I’d love for you to start as soon as you can,” he tells me. “Maybe you could come by this Saturday? I could introduce you to Sophie and show you the house. Where you’d be staying and all that . . . If you take the job, that is.”

I’d be silly not to, right? I mean, when is anything else this good going to come along? Sure, it’s daunting, the idea of being directly responsible for someone’s kid, not to mention living in their house . . . especially this guy’s house . . . Still. I don’t think it’s an offer I can actually afford to refuse in my position.

“Okay.”

I nod down at the table as I come to a decision, meeting Aiden’s eyes and once again sticking out my hand across the space in a thoughtless way that I immediately regret.

Seriously, why do I keep doing that?

Thankfully, Aiden sighs with relief, taking my hand again and enveloping it in his much larger one. “So you want the job?”

“As long as you want me,” I say with what I hope is confidence.

I try not to think about the way his eyes widen with my weird phrasing; it won’t do to regret my nervous word vomit now. Thank God he’s so desperate.

And I’m definitely not thinking about how his hand swallows mine.

CHAPTER 2

Cassie

By the time Saturday rolls around, Aiden and I have already hammered out my schedule and the specifics of my salary. In that time, I’ve been able to convince myself that this is going to be a great gig, even if only to ease the nerves of living under a hot guy’s roof and hoping his kid doesn’t hate me. As sure as I am about my new career path, however, Wanda is not so convinced. The entire time I have spent finishing up bagging my clothes on the morning I’m supposed to head to Aiden’s (an easy task, given that there is so little I’ve collected over the years that I’ve deemed worth saving outside of the essentials), Wanda has taken it upon herself to interview me about my interview, grilling me for every detail about the mysterious man I’ll be living with all willy-nilly. (Her words, not mine.)

“What if he doesn’t even have a daughter?”

I roll my eyes. “He has a daughter.”

“It could all be some elaborate scheme to lure you to his house so he can lock you in his basement.”

“He lives in a town house,” I tell her. “I don’t even think they have basements.”

I’m not entirely sure about that, seeing as I’ve never been in one, but Wanda doesn’t have to know that.

“We need to think of some sort of code word.”

I pause from shoving socks into my overnight bag. “Code word?”

“Right.” Wanda nods thoughtfully from my couch/bed (all hail the futon). “In case he won’t let you speak freely.”

“How many Lifetime movies have you been watching?”

“You won’t think it’s very funny when he’s feeding you baby food and making you play dress-up.”

I laugh at that. “You know that’s actually a kink, right?”

“You’re kidding.”

Her shocked expression makes me laugh harder. “People pay good money to feed cute girls baby food and play dress-up.”

“Hot damn.” Wanda shakes her head. “Where was that when I was younger? Could have saved me a lot of shifts at the library.”

“You loved working at the library,” I remind her.

“I’d have loved it a hell of a lot more if someone had paid me to get naked in it.”

“In another life,” I chuckle, “you would have ruled the entire camgirl scene.”

“And don’t you forget it,” she tuts.

Even as I throw the last of the clothes from my closet into a bag, I feel her eyes watching me from across the room. I wait until the sack is full and tied off before I give her my attention. “What?”

“I just want you to be careful,” she says a little more gently. “There are a lot of weirdos out there.”

“I’m going to be fine,” I assure her, pretending that her concern doesn’t make me want to smile. She may be cantankerous ninety percent of the time, but Wanda cares about me more than my own mother ever bothered to. “I promise. It’s good money, and he was incredibly nice. I scoped his Facebook, too, and he has a daughter.” A pretty one too. Seriously, the genes in this family. “Besides, if the vibe is bad, I can leave, okay?”

“You kids and your vibes,” she grumbles. “When I was your age, we didn’t have vibes, we had instinct.”

“You realize it’s practically the same thing, right? Also, you could stop griping and help me pack something.”

Wanda crosses her arms. “Gotta rest my back. Got a bingo match tonight.”

I don’t ask for elaboration, not wanting to know if she needs to rest for bingo or for whoever she will inevitably bring home after. She and Fred Wythers got into a fight last week, so I imagine he’s on the outs.

“Aren’t you the one always saying that you’re old, not dead?” She gives me the finger, and I laugh. “Hey, did you know the middle finger is the fastest growing nail?”

“Oh, to hell with your damn Snapple facts.”

I bite back my smile as I give my attention back to packing. When the tiny space is packed away in various boxes and bags, I nod appreciatively at a job well done, thinking that the place looks bigger somehow when it’s mostly empty like this. The furniture stays, seeing as it was here when I got here. Plus, I won’t need it since I get my own furnished room at Aiden’s place.

There’s only a tiny flap of butterfly wings in my stomach when I am reminded that I will be under the same roof as Aiden Reid.

“I think that just about does it,” I tell Wanda.

“I guess so.” Wanda eyes the scattered bags on the floor. “I just know they’re going to let a weirdo come in here after you.”

“Maybe it will be your soulmate.”

Wanda snorts. “Don’t need one of those.”

You have to admire her independence, that’s for sure.

Wanda has never settled down in her long life, as far as I know, always bouncing from one man to the next. She makes it seem fun, don’t get me wrong, but surely it has to be lonely sometimes. I like to think that the two of us needed each other equally as much when we stumbled into each other’s lives. She became an unlikely surrogate mom and best friend all rolled into one, adopting me into her life and treating me like the kid she never had. I’m not entirely sure that I knew what real affection looked like before I met her.

“And you’re sure this is a good idea? You could still do the booby cams.”

I consider that, knowing that Wanda likes to live vicariously through my OnlyFans endeavors (seriously, this woman missed her true calling), and it would be easy money if I could build a following again, but I can’t bring myself to. Not after what happened.

“I’m sure.” I nod, mostly for myself. “You can tell me you’re going to miss me, you know.”

“Miss you?” She snorts as she pats me on the shoulder. “You don’t come visit, I’ll come looking for your ass.”

I pull her into a hug, breathing in the familiar scent of her White Diamonds perfume and a bit of talcum powder underneath that I’ve always found strangely comforting. “It’s going to be great. You’ll see.”

Wanda still looks unconvinced when she pulls away, and as I start to pile up what’s left of my things in preparation for the moving service that will bring the rest of my things tomorrow, I do my best to seem as confident about the whole thing as I’m pretending to be.

Aiden’s town house is located in a gated community, a quiet residential area of three-story homes lining the street. Aiden’s in particular has a cute little yard, lined with a block wall and closed off with an iron gate. My old Toyota parked in front looks out of place amid the rows and rows of shiny-looking town houses but to be fair, so do I. I check the house number one more time in my emails as I unlatch the gate, feeling only a little nervous as I approach the front door.

I pull the strap of my overnight bag tighter against my shoulder when I finally summon the courage to ring the doorbell, having packed only the essentials to get me through the night until everything else gets here tomorrow. Suddenly it’s hitting me that I will be living with virtual strangers, and what if Aiden is some kind of weirdo?

God.

I try to fish my phone out of my pocket to let Wanda know I’ve made it, managing to pull it halfway out before my bag slips from my shoulder and onto the ground, the only half-zipped opening allowing for some of my stuff to spill out onto the porch. I drop to my knees to start scooping the scattered items back in, thinking that this is the last thing I need, for my new boss to find me picking up my underwear outside his front door.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

And because the universe is a fickle bitch, this is exactly how Aiden Reid finds me. In the middle of a personal fiasco, cursing on his porch and holding my underwear. But then again, judging by the splotches of flour covering his black (fitted, it’s very fitted) T-shirt and matching black apron and even higher on his cheeks, not to mention the sticky . . . something that is dripping down the front of his pants (less fitted, but no less distracting), I think maybe this time we’re even.

“Are you”—my eyes take in his disheveled appearance—“okay?”

His eyes flick from my still-crouched form to the heart-patterned, neon-green underwear in my hand to my face. “Are you okay?”

“Oh.” The back of my neck heats as I hastily shove my underwear back into my bag, pulling the strap over my shoulder as I stand back up. “I’m fine. Just had an accident.” I’m actively choosing not to think about how Aiden just saw my underwear, pointing at the goop on his pants. “It looks like you had one too.”

Aiden makes a helpless face, and the quiet sigh that escapes him makes my stomach do something funny.

“Yeah.” He looks down at the mess on his shirt before giving me a sheepish grin. “Do you . . .” He bites his lip. I mustn’t dwell on this. “Do you happen to know anything about pancakes?”

“Pancakes?”

Aiden jerks his head in a nod, gesturing to the staircase behind him. “Come on up.”

I follow him out of the entryway and up the stairs to the second level, the top of the stairs spilling out into what seems to be the main living area and kitchen. I recognize a little girl at the counter in the kitchen as we approach, her hair the same shade as Aiden’s and her mouth pressed into a full pout. She looks terser than she did on Aiden’s Facebook. I also notice that the mess on Aiden’s shirt and pants extends to the kitchen floor and half of the countertop.

“We, ah . . . wanted to do something nice for you,” Aiden tells me. “For your first day here.”

“Dad wanted to,” the little girl grouses from her place at the counter, just loud enough for me to catch it.

Aiden shoots her a stern look. It looks good on him. I mustn’t dwell on this either. “We thought you might like pancakes, but, ah . . . This is embarrassing.”

“You seem to be having some trouble,” I point out with amusement. “I’ve never seen such a mess over pancakes.”

Aiden looks at his feet like a child who’s broken his mother’s vase and is reluctant to tell her. “I dropped the bowl of batter. It’s a disaster in here.”

“I can”—I let my eyes sweep down the front of him again, for purely investigative purposes, of course—“see that.”

“I’m . . . not very good at making pancakes,” he admits, almost like it pains him.

I cock my head. “Aren’t you a chef?”

“There are no pancakes on my menu.” His mouth does something that is dangerously close to a pout, and it shouldn’t work for a man his size, but it weirdly does. “Sophie says she doesn’t like them, but I’m pretty sure she just doesn’t like mine, so it’s personal now. I was trying a new recipe, but . . .” He gestures to the mess. “Obviously, it didn’t turn out the way I hoped.”

I flash him a grin, realizing he really does need some help. “Whew, boy.”

I drop my bag by the stairs as I take in the space. The kitchen is sleek and modern with black cabinets and a gray marble countertop—everything you might expect from an upscale house in this part of town. The tiles are a similar shade of gray, maybe lighter, going all the way to the edge of the open living room just beyond where it blends into soft-looking gray carpet that rests under black leather furniture.

I’m gathering Aiden isn’t very big on color here.

“This is a nice place,” I tell him. “I like what you’ve done with the, ah . . . color scheme.”

I peek back to find Aiden frowning. “I . . . like black.”

“I would have absolutely never guessed,” I tease. It dawns on me that he’s still covered in goo. “Right. Pancakes.” I scan the kitchen, searching. “Do you have another apron?”

Aiden rushes to a tall, slim cabinet just beside the black stainless steel fridge to pull out a (surprise) black apron. I throw it over my head, reaching behind me to tie the strings as I flash a smile toward the girl, who is still silently sizing me up at the counter.

“You must be Sophie,” I try. “I’m Cassie.”

“You’re my new nanny,” she says with only a hint of bitterness.

“I am. I heard you’ve had a few.”

“Only four,” she mutters.

“How old are you, Sophie?”

“Nine.”

“Wow. You’re practically grown up. I doubt you even need a nanny.”

“That’s what I said,” she huffs. “I can take care of myself.”

“Of course.” I nod seriously before leaning in closer to lower my voice. “Between you and me . . . I just needed some company. I don’t have many friends. Practically had to beg your dad to give me the job, you know?”

Sophie looks suspicious, her lips pressed together for a good number of moments before she finally casts her eyes down to the countertop. “I don’t have a lot of friends either.”

“Well . . . we could be friends. Maybe? What do you think?”

Sophie looks me up and down, seeming to consider. “You’re pretty,” she says finally.

“Not as pretty as you,” I gush. “Look at those freckles!”

Sophie narrows her eyes. “Freckles aren’t pretty.”

“You’re right,” I sigh as I prop my fists on my hips. “They’re gorgeous.”

Sophie rolls her eyes, but there’s a bit of a smile at her mouth as she does it. I notice she doesn’t have the same condition as her dad, but her eyes are the same soft green of his right eye, complementing the pretty shade of her hair. She’s adorable now, but I can already tell she’s going to be a real knockout when she gets older. Seriously, the genes.

“Right,” I say again. “So let’s clean up your first attempt, shall we?”

Aiden still looks utterly dumbfounded, like he still can’t believe he could have messed up such a universally known thing at his level of culinary prowess, but silently trudges to that same slim cabinet to pull out a broom and a wet mop.

“Sorry,” he tells me. “We really did want to try and do something nice.”

I shrug, pulling the elastic from my wrist and reaching to tie up my hair. “It’s fine. Sophie and I have got this, right?”

“Why do I have to help?”

“I need a capable assistant if I’m going to make pancakes,” I say seriously. “You look like the perfect girl for the job.”

She still doesn’t look like she trusts me very much, but her desire for pancakes must exceed her wariness of me, and she tentatively hops from the barstool to cautiously cross the kitchen to stand beside me. “I guess so.”

She absolutely doesn’t smile.

I like her already.

The second attempt at pancakes goes much smoother than the first, the mess cleared away and one very large chef (but not pancake maker) and his little mini me humming around syrup and cake.

“These are so good,” Sophie gushes. “Dad never gets them right. They’re always too mushy.”

“Oh, so you do like them,” Aiden snorts. He looks down at the pancakes like they’ve offended him. “I should buy an actual mixer.”

I smile around my fork. “How do you not own a mixer?”

“I don’t bake a lot.”

“Clearly,” I say with a grin. “You know they have a box mix.”

“A box mix goes against every fiber of my being,” Aiden scoffs.

I keep my expression serious, pointing to the soaking dishes in his sink with my fork. “Yes. Clearly this is better.”

“Cassie has to make all the pancakes from now on,” Sophie says matter-of-factly.

Aiden shares a grateful look with me, and it takes a lot of effort on my part not to let my gaze linger on the clashing brightness of his eyes.

“I think for the safety of your dad’s kitchen, that’s best,” I deadpan.

Aiden stifles a laugh. “Everyone’s a critic.”

When the plates are empty and the forks are clattering against them, Sophie pats her belly with a satisfied sound, a content little smile on her face. “You’re all right, I guess,” she tells me, quickly masking her smile into a more stern expression. “But you can’t come into my room.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I assure her. “You can come into mine, though, if you want. I have board games coming with my stuff tomorrow.” I look back over at Aiden. “Where is my room, by the way?”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” He slides from the barstool, pulling his apron over his head as the muscles in his biceps roll and flex against the fitted cotton of his sleeves. It’s not something I’ve ever found myself noticing on a man, biceps against sleeves. “It’s back downstairs. I can show you . . .?”

“Awesome.” I hop down from my own stool, grabbing the bag I left by the stairs and slinging it over my shoulder. “Lead the way.”

“So the whole first floor will be yours,” Aiden tells me when we’re near the bottom landing. “The bedroom has an attached bath, and there’s a TV in there, so you should have everything you need, but you can just ask if there’s something else I need to get you.”

Aiden gestures to the door right off the entryway so that I can open it, and beyond is a room nearly bigger than my entire apartment. The queen-sized four-poster is covered with thick, gray (shocker) bedding; the chest of drawers and end tables are a sleek black that matches the rest of the house decor. I gape around the room in awe, trying to think back to a time when I’ve slept in a bed this nice. If ever.

“If you want to change something,” Aiden says quietly behind me, “we can—”

“It’s perfect. Seriously, this is nicer than my whole apartment.”

I hear Aiden sigh in relief. “Good. I want you to be comfortable here.”

“Really struck out in the nanny department, huh?”

“You have no idea.” Aiden leans against the doorframe. “She’s been through a lot. I think that’s why she acts out sometimes. I’m always trying my best to get her to open up and talk about it, but she’s . . .” He breathes in through his nose just to blow it out his mouth, shaking his head. “It’s like we speak a different language, sometimes.”

“Did something . . .” I drop my bag to the carpet, reaching to scratch at my neck awkwardly. “I hope I’m not overstepping, but I thought I should . . . Just so I don’t say something insensitive by accident, you know. Sophie’s mother . . . is she . . .?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, chewing at his lip as if trying to decide how to broach the subject. I know there has to be a story, and I hate asking on my very first day, but I hate the thought of accidentally putting my foot in my mouth at some point because I don’t know even more.

“She passed away,” Aiden says finally, half whispering. “Almost a year ago. Stroke.”

“Oh God.” I had expected a bad divorce or something. Not that. “That’s terrible. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

“It was . . . sudden. None of us expected it. She was so young, after all.” Aiden sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “She was great,” he tells me. “An amazing mom. She was a lot better at this than I ever was. I’m still figuring out how to do this without her.”

I suddenly feel so much worse about all my lingering thoughts of his catcher’s mitt hands, voluntary or not. “I really am sorry,” I say lamely. “How long were you married?”

Aiden’s eyebrows scrunch together. “What? Oh. No. We weren’t. We weren’t even together.” I must look confused. That must be why Aiden chooses to clarify. “Sophie was . . . ah, unexpected. Rebecca and I met at a party during our senior year in college and were seeing each other casually for a little while. When Rebecca found out she was pregnant, we attempted an actual relationship, but it was pretty clear early on that it was never going to work out between us. We did our best to co-parent as smoothly as we could though. For Sophie’s sake.”

“Oh.” I look down at my shoes, still feeling awkward. “I’m sure it’s been rough for Sophie.”

“It has,” Aiden agrees. “Sorry for dumping this on you. I thought it might help you understand her better. If you knew.”

“No, I’m glad you told me,” I say honestly. “Thank you.”

“Truth be told, I could have been there more these last few years. When I was promoted to executive chef everything got so hectic, and I . . . I didn’t make the time I should have for her. I’m paying for it now.”

I feel a twinge of sympathy for Sophie then, knowing exactly what it’s like to come second to a parent’s career. Still. Aiden seems to be trying now, at least.

“I mean . . . it’s never too late, though, right?” I try for an encouraging smile. “She’s still so young. You’ll figure it out.”

Aiden gives me a similarly soft smile. “I hope you’re right.”

The big room seems smaller now that I’m just standing there like an idiot, smiling at the pretty man in my doorway, and I finally have to pull the old distracted look around the room, pretending to admire the painting of . . . oh. Is that smoke? Abstract smoke? I really have to sneak some color into this house.

“Okay.” Aiden must sense my awkward energy, since he chooses right now to push away from the doorframe. “Well. I’ll . . . let you unpack then.”

“I don’t have much,” I admit. “The rest is coming tomorrow.”

“Right. Well. I can finish showing you around when you’re done. The living area is all on the second floor. Mine and Sophie’s rooms are on the third.”

“Cool,” I say.

Why is that cool? Why did I say that it was? Do people even say cool anymore?

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Aiden says.

I don’t breathe until he’s out of sight, cursing under my breath at my very uncool behavior, acting like I’ve never seen a hot guy before. But then again, I actually haven’t ever lived with a hot guy before. Especially not one who attempts (and fails, but it’s sort of cute) at pancakes and worries about how to connect with his kid.

It’s a job, I remind myself. It’s just a job.

I bet Aiden’s bedding is black too.

Not that I’m thinking about it.

It’s the first gift anyone’s ever sent me.

The packaging is sleek, but it’s what’s inside that really grabs my attention.

The toy is bigger than anything I’ve used before, and I gulp just pulling it out of the box. Can I even take something this big? I pick up the note that came with it, a strange thrill coursing through me as I consider the fact that one man out there wants to watch me use this. That he’s out there imagining it right now.

I can’t wait to watch you use this. —A