Tessa Thirty days. That was how long my landlord had given me before he threw my things onto the sidewalk. The number kept ringing in my head as I walked through the crowded street. The summer heat clung to my skin, and my feet burned inside my worn-out shoes. I had spent the whole day knocking on doors. Three private schools, two daycare centers, and a tutoring office that had already filled its position. The answer was always the same. A polite smile, then a polite no. "We'll keep your résumé on file." They never did. I had a degree in Early Childhood Education, earned with honors while working nights. Yet it meant nothing, because I didn't have the right last name or the right neighborhood on my address. So I had lowered my standards. Waitress, cashier, cleaner, anything. But every café had a line of desperate people out the door, and I was just one more face in the pile. Three months of rent. That was how much I owed, and I had no savings to cover it. My chest tightened. 'Don't cry. Not in the middle of the street.' I was not lazy. I was just broke, and broke was a trap that got tighter the harder I pulled. At least I had Jordan. His name was like a warm blanket on a freezing night. He wasn't rich, but he had a steady job and paid his own rent. Three years together, two years of friendship before that. We had survived bad days side by side. Maybe it was time to move in together. We could split the bills, and I could focus on finding real work instead of panicking about the next payment. A tiny smile crept onto my face. He had been so busy lately. Late meetings, extra projects, no time for dinner. I had never questioned it. Why would I? He was Jordan. My stomach let out a loud growl, and a man passing by glanced at me. Heat rushed to my cheeks. I hadn't eaten since a stale piece of toast that morning. Warm smells drifted from the restaurants lining the street. Garlic, grilled meat, fresh bread. I couldn't afford even a bag of fries. Still, my eyes slid across the street to a restaurant with golden lights and white tablecloths. Something near the window caught my attention. A man's profile. Short dark hair, a gray shirt I knew very well. I had bought him that shirt. My steps stopped. "Jordan?" He was supposed to be at work. He had told me so himself. Then the woman across from him leaned over the table, and Jordan cupped her cheek. And he kissed her. Not a quick peck. A slow, deep kiss, the kind he used to give me. The noise of the street faded. The hunger vanished. All that was left was the painful pounding of my heart. 'No. No, no, no.' I blinked hard, waiting for the picture to change. It didn't. All those late nights, all those "I'm too busy" texts. Where had he really been? Before I could stop myself, I crossed the street and stopped outside the window. Up close, the woman looked like she had stepped out of a magazine. Tall and slim, with shiny blonde hair and an emerald silk dress. Her heels probably cost more than a year of my rent. Then I caught my own reflection in the glass. Messy red hair stuck to my sweaty neck. Wrinkled shirt. Faded jeans. Dark circles under my eyes. My throat burned. Had Jordan been ashamed of me this whole time? They hadn't even noticed me. They were too busy, locked together as if the world outside that glass didn't exist. Something inside me snapped. I slammed my palm against the window. BANG. Jordan jumped back so fast he nearly knocked over his chair. I watched the color drain from his face. Good. I marched inside and walked straight past the waiter, ignoring the stares crawling across my skin, until I reached their table. "Three years, Jordan." My voice shook. "How could you do this to me?" The restaurant went dead quiet. The blonde woman looked from me to him. "Jordan, who is this?" He didn't answer her. He didn't say sorry either. There was no guilt in his face at all, only anger. He stood up and grabbed my arm hard enough to hurt. "Let go of me!" "Shut up, Tessa." He dragged me out like a misbehaving child, around the corner of the building and away from the entrance. "You made a fool of me in there!" he hissed. I stared at him. "A fool of you? You were kissing another woman!" He rolled his eyes. Actually rolled them. "Control yourself." Then he pushed me against the brick wall, his face turning cold and disgusted. "You should be grateful. I put up with you for three years." Put up with me. "Why her?" I whispered. "Why would you do this?" I wanted him to say he'd made a mistake. Instead, Jordan laughed. "Her father owns a huge part of the board at Sinclair Global. I start there next week." The pieces fell into place so slowly that it hurt. The long hours. The new suits. It had never been about work. He wasn't cheating because he fell in love. He was cheating because he had found a ladder. "And me?" I asked. His eyes ran over my worn shoes and messy hair, and his mouth curled. "Look at yourself. You can't even get a job. She's polished and connected. What can you possibly give me now?" Nothing. That was what he meant. I searched his face for the boy I used to know, the one who cried in my arms. He wasn't there. Maybe he never had been. There was no point in begging. I shoved him back, and he stumbled. He probably expected tears. Instead, I slapped him across the face. The crack echoed down the street. "Go to hell, Jordan." I turned and walked away without looking back, even as the tears finally broke loose. Somewhere near the end of the block, the memories crept in. When we were kids, Jordan was the shy, skinny boy in secondhand clothes who sat alone at lunch. Everyone bullied him. I was the one who sat down next to him. I shared my lunch and helped him study. I told him he would be somebody someday. And now he was somebody who looked down on me for being poor. I wiped my face, hardly noticing where I was going. The lights and the crowd blurred together. I stepped off the curb. A horn blasted. Headlights filled my vision, a black luxury car tearing straight toward me. "Ah!" I threw myself backward and crashed into a puddle. Tires screamed. The bumper stopped inches from my knees. Dirty water soaked me from head to toe. I was alive. That was all my brain could say. Then the relief turned into shaking anger. The driver would at least get out, right? The rear window slowly slid down. A man sat in the back seat in a dark tailored suit. I knew that face. Everyone in the city did. Julian Sinclair. The youngest CEO in Sinclair Global's history, and the heir to a fortune so large that people stopped counting. The company Jordan was about to join. Even soaked in muddy water, I noticed the sharp jaw, the broad shoulders, the cold dark eyes. Handsome. Unfairly so. "You almost-" He looked me up and down once. He didn't ask if I was hurt. He pulled out a thick bundle of cash and tossed it out the window. It landed in the puddle beside me. The window rolled up, and the car pulled away. I sat there, staring at the money floating in dirty water. He had treated me like a beggar. No. Worse. A beggar would have gotten a glance. I snatched up the bundle and flung it into the road. "Keep your money, you arrogant jerk!" Nobody answered, of course. I dragged myself to my feet. My shirt was brown with mud, my jeans ruined. Jordan had thrown me away like trash. Julian had thrown cash at me like I was trash. And I was still jobless, still behind on rent, still without a plan. Rich men. They treated everyone else like furniture. I just wanted one hour of nothing. One drink, to make everything go quiet. I walked several blocks until I found a bar tucked between two glass buildings. Dim lights, soft music. Calm. I smoothed my stained shirt and took a deep breath. A huge bouncer stepped into my path before I reached the door. His eyes dropped to my muddy jeans, then back up to my tangled hair. "Members and their guests only." "I just want one drink. I can pay." "Ma'am, you need to leave." "Because I don't look rich enough?" I snapped. "My money is worth the same as everyone else's in there!" He planted a heavy hand on my shoulder and pushed me back. People on the sidewalk started staring. First Jordan. Then Julian. Now this. "Get your hands off me!" Then a voice cut across the entrance. "She's with me." Calm. Deep. Smooth as polished stone. The bouncer's hand dropped away at once, and his back straightened like a soldier's. Slowly, I turned around. A man stood on the stairs behind us, one hand in his pocket, shadows dancing across his sharp jaw. My breath caught. I knew those eyes. Julian Sinclair. The man who had nearly run me over. The man who had thrown money at me like I was a stray dog. Why had he just claimed me as his guest? He stood perfectly still, his gaze locked on me, as if he had been waiting for me to turn around.

Tessa Of all the people in the world, why him? Julian Sinclair stood on the stairs like he owned the whole street. The bouncer's face had gone pale, and the hand that had been shoving me a second ago now hung stiffly at his side. "Mr. Sinclair," the bouncer said quickly. "I didn't realize she was with you." "Clearly." Just one word, cool and flat, but the bouncer looked like he'd been slapped. Julian came down the steps without hurrying. Not a single wrinkle on his suit. Meanwhile, I was dripping puddle water onto the pavement. My cheeks burned. 'Say something. Tell him off.' But before I could open my mouth, his eyes slid up to the dark sky. "It might rain again tonight," he said calmly. "Heavy, from the look of it." Then he looked straight at me. He didn't say it out loud, but the message was clear. Stand out here and get soaked again, or come inside. I hated how well it worked. My feet hurt. My stomach was empty. I had nowhere else to go. "Let her in," Julian told the bouncer. I walked past the man with my chin up and bumped his arm on purpose. Petty, maybe. But it felt good. Inside, the bar was nothing like I had imagined. Dark wood, golden lights, soft music rolling through the room like smoke. The people in the leather booths looked like they had never worried about money in their lives. A few glanced at me. Their eyes lingered on my clothes before sliding away. Julian stopped at the edge of the bar and looked me over, one eyebrow rising. "You're still in those clothes." I blinked. "Excuse me?" "I gave you money. Enough to buy something decent. Yet here you are, still wearing mud." The nerve of this man. "You didn't give me anything," I snapped. "You threw it. Out of your window. Like I was a stray dog." His expression didn't change. "And I don't take money from arrogant men who toss cash at people and drive off. I'd rather wear mud." Silence. A woman at the nearest table coughed into her drink. Great. Now I'd insulted the owner of a bar I wasn't even supposed to be in. I waited for him to throw me out. Instead, something flickered in his dark eyes. Surprise, maybe. He looked at me like he was seeing me properly for the first time. "Marla." A young woman in a neat black uniform appeared so fast she must have been waiting. "Take her upstairs. Get her something to change into." He didn't say another word to me. He just walked off toward a group of men in suits, as if the matter was settled. 'Unbelievable.' Marla led me up a curved staircase and pushed open a door at the end of the hall. I stopped in the doorway. It was a room built for a queen. Racks of dresses in every color. Shelves of shoes lined up like jewelry. A glass case of sparkling necklaces, and handbags that probably cost more than my whole building. "This room is for our female guests," Marla said with a smile. "Mr. Sinclair owns most of the club, so he keeps it stocked. Take anything you like." Of course he did. I thought about Jordan's face. About the bouncer's hand on my shoulder. About the cash floating in that puddle. Why should I feel guilty? I picked a simple black silk dress, strappy heels, and a small clutch. Nothing flashy. I didn't want to look like I was trying to impress anyone. Especially not him. When I stepped in front of the mirror, I barely recognized the girl looking back. The silk made my skin glow. Even the tired shadows under my eyes looked softer. For the first time all day, I actually looked pretty. My eyes stung, and I blinked fast. 'Don't. Not again.' "How much do I owe for this?" "Nothing, miss. Mr. Sinclair is covering your outfit, along with your food and drinks tonight. He said it was compensation for earlier." Compensation. So he hadn't forgotten the incident. Taking anything from him made my skin crawl. But my pride hadn't paid my rent, and it hadn't put food in my stomach either. He owed me. Nearly hitting someone with a car had a price. "Fine," I said. "Tell him thanks." 'Not that I mean it.' Downstairs, I held the clutch in front of me like a shield. Julian stood near the bar, talking with an older man in a gray suit. As I came down the last step, his eyes flicked up and found me instantly. A quiet sweep from my hair to my shoes and back again. His face gave away nothing. Then he turned back to his conversation. No comment. Not even a nod. Good. I didn't want one anyway. I slid onto a stool and ordered a gin and tonic. One sip, and I let my eyes close. Cold, sharp, a little bitter. Perfect. For the first time all day, nobody was yelling at me. "Beautiful women shouldn't drink alone." A man had taken the stool beside mine. Middle-aged, with thinning hair combed carefully over his forehead and a tan that looked a little too orange. His watch was huge and shiny. His smile was bigger. "Mark Schaffer." "Tessa," I said, because I was raised to be polite. "I'm in business," Mark went on, leaning closer. "Real estate, mostly. I know everyone worth knowing in this city. I have a place in Aspen, another in the Hamptons, and a forty-eight-foot yacht. You ever been on a yacht?" "No." "I'll take you sometime." He winked. Did he honestly think this would impress me? After the day I'd had? "That sounds nice," I said, as politely as I could. "But I'm not looking for company tonight. Excuse me, I need the restroom." I walked away before he could answer. In the ladies' room, I braced my hands on the cold marble sink. "Give it ten minutes. He'll get bored and bother someone else." When I came back, Mark had moved to the far end of the bar. Good. But my gin and tonic was gone, and in its place the bartender set a tall red cocktail with a cherry on top. "I didn't order this." "It's from the gentleman. Mr. Schaffer already paid." Mark raised his glass at me, grinning. Ugh. Refusing it meant a scene, and I couldn't handle one more scene today. A few sips to be polite, then I'd leave it on the bar. I took one sip. Sweet and strong, with a faint taste of cherry. Not bad. I took another. Everything seemed fine. Until it wasn't. A strange warmth crept up the back of my neck. The music grew too loud, and the lights above the bar stretched like melting candle wax. "Okay," I muttered. "That's weird." My fingers went numb against the glass. When I tried to stand, my legs wobbled and the whole room tilted sideways. 'No. No, no.' I had barely finished one cocktail. That wasn't enough to make anyone feel like this. Something was wrong. "Whoa, easy there." A hand closed around my arm. Mark's face hovered in front of mine, too close. "You've had too much, sweetheart," he said loudly, for the people around us. "Don't worry, I've got you." "Don't..." My tongue felt thick. "Don't touch..." "She's a friend of mine," he told the bartender with a laugh. "I'll take her home." I didn't know him. I didn't know him at all. I tried to scream, but only a weak, broken sound came out. His arm wrapped around my waist and steered me toward the door, my feet dragging like they belonged to someone else. 'Somebody help me. Please.' "Where do you think you're going?" The voice came from right behind us. Low. Cold. Deadly calm. Mark froze. Julian stood between us and the door, and every person nearby had gone quiet. "Mr. Sinclair," Mark said, his voice suddenly too bright. "Just helping this young lady home. She's had a bit too much to drink." "Did you?" Julian's gaze dropped to the arm around my waist. Then he turned his eyes on me. "Tessa. Do you know this man?" It was the first time he'd said my name. I hadn't even told it to him. I wanted to scream no. But my body was floating, and the words felt miles away. So I shook my head. Slowly. Weakly. Once. That was all it took. The calm cracked on Julian's face, and what lay underneath was pure, controlled fury. "Take your hand off her." "Now, listen-" "I won't say it twice." His voice never rose. It didn't need to. Mark's fingers peeled away, and I swayed, nearly falling. A strong arm caught me before I hit the floor. Warm. Steady. That sharp, clean cologne. "I've got you," Julian said quietly, close to my ear. "Security." He never looked away from Mark. "Escort this man out. And find out what was in that drink." Two large men appeared from nowhere. Mark's face turned a sickly gray. "Do you know who I am?" "I do," Julian said. "That's the problem." The room spun, and the last thing I saw was Mark being dragged away. After that, everything came in pieces. Cool night air. A car door. Soft leather, and the low hum of an engine. My head rolled against something warm, a shoulder maybe. "Stay with me," a voice said, far away. "What's your address?" I knew that. I'd said it a thousand times. "The green... past the bakery... fourth... no, fifth... there's a cat..." A long pause. Then a quiet, frustrated breath. "Change of plans. Take us to the hotel." Everything felt warm and heavy, like sinking into a deep bed. I shifted, searching for something to lean on, and my cheek found his chest. His heartbeat. Strong and steady. The first thing all day that felt solid. I pressed closer, my nose brushing the warm skin of his neck, and breathed in. He went completely still. "Tessa," he said, his voice lower than before. "You're not well." "Stay..." The word slipped out before I knew I was saying it. Soft. Almost a plea. **** His body stiffened. For a moment, he started to pull away, his hand lifting as if to push me back. Then it stopped, hovering in the air. His breath hitched. His hand lowered and rested lightly against my back, as if he wasn't sure it was allowed there. In the darkness of the car, Julian Sinclair looked down at the woman clinging to him. The one he had thrown money at only hours ago. The one with muddy hair and a sharp tongue. She was soft and warm against him, and she smelled like rain. And for the first time in a very long time, the man who had everything had no idea what to do.

Tessa Something was pounding inside my skull. I groaned and pressed my face into a pillow softer than anything I had ever owned. Warm light spilled across my closed eyelids, and a cool breeze brushed my bare shoulder. Wait. Breeze? My eyes cracked open. White curtains drifted back and forth in front of tall French doors, thrown wide to a balcony and a bright morning sky. The ceiling above me was high and smooth. The sheets under my fingers felt like silk. This wasn't my apartment. My apartment had a water stain on the ceiling and a window that never fully closed. I sat up too fast, and the room swayed. My head screamed in protest. "Okay," I whispered. "Okay. Think." The memories came in slowly, then all at once. The bar. The red cocktail. Mark's hand around my waist, dragging me toward the door. Julian's voice, cold as ice. The long ride in the dark. My cheek against his chest. His heartbeat. Heat crawled up my neck. There was more. The fog in my head had started to lift after we arrived. A glass of water pressed into my hands. His quiet voice asking, again and again, if I knew where I was. If I was sure I wanted him to stay. I had been sure. That was the worst part. I remembered his hands, careful at first. Then not so careful. I remembered pulling him closer by his collar, and the way his breath caught, and how the whole world had narrowed down to him and the dark and the sound of my own pulse. "Oh no," I breathed. My face was on fire now. Slowly, I turned my head. A man lay beside me, one arm flung over his head, the sheet low on his waist. Dark hair falling over his forehead. A sharp jaw, relaxed in sleep. Broad shoulders that I definitely remembered gripping. Julian Sinclair. The CEO of Sinclair Global. The man who nearly ran me over. The man who threw money at me. And the man who would be signing Jordan's paychecks in a few days. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat, and I clapped a hand over my mouth. What had I done? 'Calm down. Breathe. Just get out before he wakes up.' I slid out of the bed an inch at a time, holding my breath. The floor was cool under my bare feet. My black dress lay in a crumpled heap near the armchair, and my heels sat by the door like they were running away without me. Where was my underwear? I crept across the room, scanning the carpet. A strap by the bed. No, that was the dress. Under the chair? Nope. There. Half hidden beneath a pillow on the floor. I bent down to grab it. "Leaving already?" I froze. The voice was rough with sleep, but there was nothing sleepy about it. Slowly, I turned my head. Julian was sitting up in bed, watching me. His eyes were dark and completely awake. His expression? Cold. As cold as it had been in the car outside the restaurant, when he looked at me like I was something that had crawled out of a gutter. All the warmth from last night had vanished. "I, um." I clutched the underwear against my chest. "I was just..." He didn't let me finish. He threw back the sheet and stood without a trace of embarrassment, reaching for his trousers on the chair. I spun around fast, face blazing. Behind me, fabric rustled. A belt buckle clicked. The sound of a shirt being buttoned, one careful button at a time. Not a single word. Not even a glance. I hurried to pull my clothes on, fingers clumsy. The silence in the room stretched so long it started to ring in my ears. Finally, I heard a soft thump. When I turned around, he was fully dressed, standing by the dresser with his wallet open. He pulled out a thick wad of bills, folded it once, and held it out to me. "Take it." I stared at the money. Then at him. "What is that?" "What does it look like?" His voice was perfectly flat. "Last night was a one-time arrangement. Take it, and we both go on with our lives." Arrangement. The word sank into my chest like a stone. "You think I'm a-" I couldn't even finish. "Do you honestly think I'm a prostitute?" Julian shrugged. Just a lazy lift of one shoulder, like it didn't matter either way. "I don't care what you are." The cruelty of it took my breath away. "In my experience," he went on, "women who spend the night with me always expect something in the morning. It saves time to pay up front." "That's disgusting." "It's realistic." His gaze drifted over me, unbothered. "Last night, you played the proud girl who didn't want my money. 'I'd rather wear mud.' Very dramatic. But you let me buy the dress. The shoes. The drinks. Funny how your pride faded after that." My hands curled into fists. "I never asked you to pay for anything!" "And yet you accepted it." "Because you said it was compensation for nearly killing me!" My voice cracked. "That's not the same as selling myself!" "Then why the offended face?" His eyebrow rose. "Do you want more?" I wanted to throw the nearest lamp at his head. I really, truly did. Instead, I stood there shaking, a hot lump swelling in my throat. Because the worst part wasn't what he'd said. It was that, for one night, in the dark, I had thought he was kind. I had been so, so wrong. "Keep your money," I said, hating how small my voice sounded. "I don't want it." He looked at me for a long moment. Something unreadable passed over his face, gone before I could name it. Then he tucked the bills back into his wallet as if I had refused a stick of gum, and went back to adjusting his cuffs. Just like that. Done. He didn't argue. Didn't apologize. Didn't even seem to care. "Next time," he said, without looking up, "don't accept drinks from strangers." I blinked. "What?" "Mark Schaffer put something in your glass. If I hadn't been at the bar, you wouldn't be standing here complaining about my money." He shot me one cool glance. "You'd be somewhere much worse." The words landed hard, because they were true. I had seen it in Mark's eyes. I remembered his arm around my waist, the way my legs wouldn't move. If Julian hadn't stepped in... My stomach turned. I knew he had saved me. Part of me even wanted to say thank you. But then I looked at his face, so smooth and cold and untouched, and the words died in my mouth. How could I thank a man who had just handed me cash like a receipt? "You know what?" I said instead. "Everyone says you're heartless. I thought they were exaggerating." He said nothing. Not a word. He just kept fixing his sleeve. My heart twisted. Somehow, his silence was worse than any insult. Fine. If that was how he wanted to play it. I pulled on my black dress and zipped it up with trembling fingers, then scooped my heels off the floor and marched to the door. My hand closed around the handle. I stopped, and turned back one last time. "You can't throw money at everyone just because you feel guilty, Mr. Sinclair." For the first time, his hand paused on his cuff. I didn't wait to see what his face did. I walked out and slammed the door behind me so hard the whole hallway shook. The ride home felt endless. I sat on the bus in a crumpled black dress and bare feet, my heels dangling from my fingers, ignoring the stares of every person who passed. A teenager snickered. An old woman gave me a pitying look. I stared out the window and said nothing. When I finally pushed open the door to my apartment, the smell of damp walls and old carpet hit me. It had never felt so welcome. I tore off the dress right there in the doorway and tossed it into the corner, along with the shoes. The silk landed in a shimmering pile. It looked ridiculous in my tiny, beat-up living room. Like a fancy ghost. "Good," I muttered. "Stay there." I headed for the kitchen and opened the cupboard. Half a box of cereal. A jar of peanut butter scraped almost clean. That was it. For a split second, I thought about the money in Julian's wallet. Enough to pay a month of rent, probably. Maybe more. My jaw tightened. No. I would rather eat dry cereal for a week than let that man believe I had slept with him for payment. I had nothing left in this world but my pride. I wasn't about to sell it. My mind kept replaying the morning. His flat voice. That careless shrug. Jordan's smug face from yesterday, and Julian's face today, both of them looking at me like I was beneath them. I banged the cereal box down on the counter. "Men," I muttered. "Rich or poor, they're all the same." I poured a bowl and added what little milk I had left, then stood there with a spoon in my hand, staring at it. My stomach growled, loud and angry. 'Eat. Forget it. Just eat and start again.' I picked up the spoon. My phone rang. The sudden buzz made me jump. I grabbed it off the counter, heart thumping hard. Jordan. It had to be. He must have realized what a mistake he'd made. He was probably going to beg, to cry, to say he never meant any of it. A tiny, stupid part of me waited for the name to appear. Then I saw the screen. No contact name. Just a number I didn't know. I frowned. A debt collector, maybe? Or my landlord, calling to remind me about my thirty days? I almost let it ring. At the last second, I swiped to answer. "Hello?" "Good morning. Is this Tessa?" The voice was warm and professional. "My name is Nancy Grace, calling from the Au Pair Agency." The spoon slipped out of my fingers and clattered into the bowl. "Sorry, what?" "The Au Pair Agency," she repeated, with a smile in her voice. "You registered with us several months ago for nanny positions." I had. I had signed up the same week I lost my last tutoring job. I had called, emailed, even stopped by in person twice. They had always told me the same thing. "Nothing available right now. We'll contact you." They never did. After a while, I had stopped hoping. "Yes," I said quickly, nearly dropping the phone. "Yes, this is Tessa. I'm here." "Wonderful. We have an opening that matches your qualifications. It's a full-time, live-in position with a wealthy single father." Live-in. Those two words nearly made me cry. A place to live. A real salary. A way out of the hole I'd been drowning in. "The pay is unusually high," Nancy continued, "which is why I'll be honest. There are several candidates interested. They'll all be interviewed this afternoon." "This afternoon?" "Two o'clock. Can you make it?" I didn't even look at the clock. "Yes! Yes, of course. I'll be there." "Good. Make a strong first impression, Tessa. The family is very particular." "I will. Thank you so much, I really-wait, who's the family? What's the-" Click. The line went dead. I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. "Hello?" I said to nobody. A second later, the screen lit up with a text message. An address. A long one, in the wealthiest part of town, a street I had only ever seen in magazines. No name. No details. Just a time and a place. I slowly lowered myself onto the kitchen chair, the cereal forgotten. A wealthy single father. A live-in position. Pay high enough to make an agency lady warn me about it. Who on earth hired a nanny like that? And why did a small, nervous voice at the back of my head whisper that I wasn't going to like the answer?