Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
“We’re going with Mrs. Jennifer,” I decided.
She was the one I’d disliked the least. And that wasn’t saying much. But she would have to do. Though the thought of her alone with my child burned my esophagus, she’d keep her physically safe. Her references were long and reassuring, but would she light up Clara’s world, ask her questions about her disease, talk about spiders and fucking Wednesday? Would she treat her like a person, not a job to be done?
Clara’s bottom lip went out, her eyes shimmering as she looked up at me. “But, Daddy, she didn’t even ask a single question about my spider tea party, doesn’t like Nirvana, and her smile wasn’t right.”
I swallowed past the guilt threatening to suffocate me. My daughter was right on all counts. Her smile had been tight. Tolerant but not genuine.
I spotted that because I was someone who abhorred smiling—unless it was at my daughter. And I couldn’t give a shit if someone was cheerful to the world or not, but they better fucking smile at my daughter.
“I like Hannah.” She folded her arms in front of her.
I did too. That was the problem. She would be perfect for Clara. But she was also perfect for me.
“We’re going with Mrs. Jennifer,” I stated more firmly, tasting my own bitterness as I spoke.
Clara’s little brow knitted. She wasn’t used to me putting my foot down a whole lot. There wasn’t reason to. Clara was a pleasant kid, she was polite, cute as all fuck, and didn’t throw tantrums at all. And because she’d spent the majority of her life sick, I didn’t like to spend any time arguing with her about what she wanted.
I just gave it to her.
But not this time.
Not with Hannah.
Not when it came to her living in my house. I could barely stand being around her for the fucking interview. One I ended after five goddamn minutes. My focus did not need to be on my nanny's ass or smile. It needed to be on getting my daughter well, getting the restaurant earning good cash, and getting our life back to a semblance of normal.
Hannah Morgan factored nowhere into that.
To the contrary, Hannah Morgan was a direct threat to that.
“Please, Daddy?” Clara asked quietly. “I know you have to go and work, and I’ll miss you lots, but I won’t complain. I just want to hang out with someone I like. And I like Hannah.”
Fuck.
“Okay.” I instantly conceded. I couldn’t say no to my daughter. Couldn’t contribute to the unhappiness I knew would follow if I picked the wrong woman. They would be living in this house. Spending all their time with Clara. I needed someone who would light up my daughter’s life. Even if they drove me crazy with temptation. I’d have to get a hold of myself. “We’ll go with Hannah.”
And that was the beginning of the end.
two
HANNAH
PRESENT DAY
I stood in the kitchen, looking at Beau’s back.
It was an impressive back. Broad. Muscular, strong. I’d marveled at it many times because Beau gave me a view of his back more than his front. Because he didn’t like facing me, looking at me, or talking to me.
Our interactions were about Clara, her schedule, and his schedule. And whatever I’d done wrong that day. Which could be anything from keeping the screen door unlocked while we were inside playing to jumping on the trampoline. Or if I hadn’t given her her cold-pressed juice—which happened once—or if I’d let her bike for too long in the sun.
Most of the things I did “wrong” didn’t make sense in my mind. Kids thrived in the sun—wearing the proper protection—an unlocked screen door didn’t seem like an issue, and missing a single green juice didn’t signal catastrophe.
But I forced myself to accept his reprimands, silently listening and apologizing. Because I was used to someone, especially men, listing my faults, telling me I was inadequate. Beau was walking well-worn asshole pathways that had already formed deep grooves in my psyche.
It tested me—my healing.
I’d done a heck of a lot of work, telling myself all the things Waylon said to me were wrong. That all the things my mother said were incorrect. About me being stupid, lazy, unworthy, flaky, and ditzy. About me lacking.
I’d told myself that they were unhappy, toxic people who wanted to bring me down to their level.
I’d done kind of well at rebuilding my self-worth. Or at least I’d thought I had. Beau Shaw was really putting that house of cards to the test. Every day, one fluttered down, and I wondered if my mother and Waylon were right.
Beau was objectively an asshole. To me.
But he was a great dad.
He had a brother and a father who seemed to respect him too, both warm, good people.
He had a successful business. He had a steadiness to him that made me think of a lighthouse in a storm. Or an old British castle, still whole after regimes collapsing and empires falling. That was Beau. He’d remain standing. He’d endure.