“That’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. Let me see what we have back here.” She bent over in the shameless way of children so I could see that the backs of her thighs were covered in brown stink.
“Not so bad,” I said. “Blakely, can you toss these and grab me a fresh one?” I handed her the wad, keeping my eyes on the child. “This is a nice shirt. Who is this?” I pointed to a pink horse with kitten ears.
“Pony Pie. Her nature symbol is joy.”
“We could use some of that.”
“We could,” Blakely said, handing me a wipe. “But this sweetheart really is a joy. Just having a hard day.” She leaned forward to make eye contact with the girl and winked. Nicole wiped her nose with her sleeve.
“I agree,” I said. I got to work on the girl’s bottom while Blakely wiped down the bathroom.
Blakely whispered, “I’ll never make it home to shower and get to Culver City in—”
She gulped her words back when there was a hard knock on the door.
“Blakely Anderson?” a male voice barked from the other side. My friend and I looked at each other.
“We’re in here,” I called.
A key slipped in the lock and the door slapped open, revealing two huge guys in dark shirts with radios squawking. The little one started screaming again, stamping her feet in poop streaks.
“Close the door close the door close the door,” she shrieked. Blakely threw her hands up. The guys came for the girl, who was getting more upset by the millisecond.
What I should have done was step back and let them take her, shitstains and all. I would have had far less trouble. But I didn’t have time to think it through. The bathroom was small, the guys were big, and the girl sounded irrevocably hurt and upset. I didn’t have cerebral cortex time. Only lizard brain time.
I stood up with my hands out.
“Stop!”
They stopped. I had three seconds to talk over her screams.
“This little girl is upset because she’s dirty. You two taking her out of here like this is going to make it worse so—”
My three seconds were up. Guy number one pushed me out of the way while guy number two picked her up under the arms just as she kicked off her stained pants, shoe landing in filth, ear-splitting screams. Blakely stood in the hall feverishly talking to someone. My heart fell apart for the little stinker.
“Whoa, whoa!” A male voice echoed above the din. “Can we all chill out for a second?”
Everyone froze except the child, who was upset past obedience.
In the doorway stood my agent, Laura, and Brad Sinclair. But honestly, Laura was a footnote to his presence. We all were.
I was used to celebrities and actors. Star power had no effect on me anymore.
But he was different.
Burgundy button-down and jeans. Blue eyes and brown hair that needed a brush. Six-two-ish. A jawline that may or may not have been geometrically possible. Sure. Those were all words that described what I saw, and I could have come up with a hundred more the next day.
But at that moment, with his shoulders filling the doorframe and Laura behind him, clutching a folder, he wasn’t just a collection of perfectly fine features. He was action and motion. He projected himself outward, emanating heat. My ears turned red. Half a second turned to minutes. He was the hurricane and the eye of it. A constellation of angles and planes that curled around the world and complemented it.
Get a hold of yourself.
He was just stunning. One of a thousand like him.
Maybe a hundred.
A dozen.
Fine. You could count the number of men that gorgeous on one finger.
“Mr. Sinclair,” I said, giving him my most authoritative tone. “There’s no way out of here besides that door. I’m not going to take her. Just let me clean her up and bring her back.”
“Who are you?”
I had to shout over the nonstop loop of the girl’s screams. “My name is Cara DuMont. I was nanny to Ray Heywood’s kids.”
He knew Ray. Everyone knew Ray. Brad looked me up and down as if taking stock of my soul. I continued. “I’m not here for the job. But she’s upset. I’m fingerprinted and background checked, and I’m not afraid of a little poop on the floor.”
Brad looked at his daughter, the guys in the dark shirts, Laura, and then me, eye to eye. A man who projected star power like a lighthouse, but for the moment he was just a guy totally out of his depth.
“Okay. Thank you.”
I reached for the child, and she fell into my arms. The screaming slowed as soon as I bore the full weight of her, and stopped completely when she was on a clean part of the floor.
I addressed my agent. “Can you grab some underpants and have housekeeping bring some towels?”
She nodded. The security detail backed out, and Brad Sinclair gave me one look, one burning look that took the breath out of me before I closed the bathroom door and kneeled down to face his daughter.
“Do you want to start over?” I asked the girl.
“Okay.”
“My name is Cara. It’s nice to meet you. What’s your name?”
“Nicole Garcia.” She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“Nice to meet you, Nicole. Wanna help clean this up?”
“Can we do my butt first?”
“Great idea.” I liked this little one. Good thing I already had a job lined up or I could have fallen for her and her dad in a heartbeat.
CHAPTER 2
BRAD
“Buck up, son. Not a man born is ready for fatherhood when it comes. Best just to set yourself to getting it done.”
My dad had a fucking positive attitude. Better than any of the “fruits and nuts” of Los Angeles with their pet therapists and white smiles. I grew up with “Stop yer bitchin’ and get in the kitchen.” I had no idea what the kitchen had to do with anything, but it was a good, solid southernism, one of many he launched like rockets right in front of the entire staff of West Side Nannies as if he didn’t know I was a fucking superstar.
Dad had had his share of surprises, including knocking up Mom when they were dating for a week. He just put on his grown-up boots and started walking. And when he lost two fingers, pinkie and fourth on his right hand, to a circular saw at Redfield Lumber, he had it sewn up and went to work two days later. There was no patience in the Sinclair family for whining, bitching, or moaning. Slap a smile on your face and put your head down to work.
Like when your son discovers he’s a father, you get on a plane within the hour and haul ass to Los Angeles. My parents were here so fast I barely had time to get my people in to clean the house.
I met Nicole at Protective Services after the DNA test was positive. She was crying. She was always crying. She was a bag of flesh, bones, and tears. I was sure she was cute. Hundred percent sure. But her mom had died while Nicole was reading (I confirmed, actually reading) in kindergarten and here she was, as if picked up and thrown over the fence with no way to get back in. I’d cry too.