CHAPTER FIVE: Amy Lynne
I pulled into the circular drive at 174 Ridgecrest and shut off the engine just as the steam started to roll from beneath the hood. My old Honda had a cracked radiator and sometimes it ran hot. I couldn’t afford to get it fixed, so I always carried several milk jugs of water in the back to fill the radiator once it cooled down.
I sat staring at the humongous house through the cracked windshield, psyching myself up before going to the door.
Jackson Ritter’s house was one of those old stone mansions in Rosewood Point, where the rich Rosewoodians lived. If someone like me was in this neighborhood, they were either lost, delivering pizzas, or looking to break in.
I checked my reflection in the mirror. I never wore much makeup, just a little blush and a touch of eye liner. I had no idea how to dress for an interview like this.
My only references for how to be a nanny were in the books of my childhood: Nanny McPhee and Mary Poppins.
What the heck did a modern-day nanny wear?
I’d decided on a pair of jeans and a casual green top beneath a short black jacket. I had my thick, black curls pulled back into a neat ponytail at the crown of my head. I looked in the mirror. This was as good as it was going to get.
“Okay, here I go…”
I took a deep breath, got out of the car, and walked to the front door before I could change my mind.
A big case of nerves followed closely behind me.
*
Jackson Ritter’s front door was four feet wide and ten feet tall. It was made of thick dark wood. There was a brass lion’s head knocker staring back at me, like something out of an old movie.
I could not have been more intimidated if it had been an actual lion giving me the eye. I cautiously reached for the knocker and then noticed the doorbell to my right.
“Nice knockers,” I said as I rang the doorbell and took a step back. I wetted my lips and held my breath. After a minute, I blew out the breath and rang the bell again.
A moment later, the door opened and Jackson Ritter appeared.
He was even more handsome than he’d been in the pictures I’d seen online earlier in the day when I was scoping him out.
He was tall, well over six feet, with a lean frame beneath the wrinkled khakis and the black polo shirt he wore. His hair was dark and longish, with strands of gray at the temples. He wore it pushed back and loose. There was a dark shadow of stubble on his cheeks and chin.
His complexion was pale, probably from being locked in a room writing for years. His eyes were deep blue, but they looked tired, as if he had to force himself to keep them open.
There were dark bags beneath his eyes.
Little lines webbed from the corners of his eyes and mouth when he smiled.
Still, very handsome indeed.
“You must be Amy Lynne,” he said, stepping aside and sweeping a hand through the air. “Please, come in.”
CHAPTER SIX: Jackson
I put my hand on the doorknob and paused to take a deep breath. Be nice, I heard Gail say in my head. Make a good first impression. Don’t scare her off. You know how obnoxious you can be sometimes. Amy Lynne is a nice girl. Be nice to her. Don’t be your usual jerky self.
Jerky self?
Seriously?
Only Gail could call me that and get away with it.
It was amazing how well perfect strangers got to know one another when they spent time together in a hospital room every day for six months. Gail helped save my daughter’s life, and now she was trying to save mine.
I opened the door and mustered a smile to greet Gail’s friend, Amy Lynne something or other. Standing before me was a pretty girl with long black curls and a frightened look in her eyes.
She was tall for a girl, and curvy in all the right places.
She was wearing too many clothes for me to take better stock of her body, but she was round at the hips and full at the breasts, and she made the wolf in me stand up and take notice.
Shit, listen to me.
I even thought like a freakin’ writer.
Let me back up and try again.
The girl standing in my doorway was young and very attractive, and if I had been meeting her under different circumstances, I probably would have turned on what was left of my charm and tried to get her into my bed.
But this wasn’t a singles bar and I wasn’t Ryan Gosling.
This wasn’t a romance novel and I sure as hell wasn’t Nicholas Sparks.
And she wasn’t some girl looking to be taken in and fucked up and fucked over by the likes of me.
This was my house and she was here to interview for a job taking care of my daughter. I mentally screwed the lid down tight on my testosterone jar and invited her to come inside.
“You must be Amy Lynne. Jackson Ritter,” I said, stepping aside to let her enter the foyer. I held out my hand and smiled. “Call me Jackson.”