Confessions of a Naughty Nanny

Griffin

Maverick sits in the back of the brand new SUV we drove off the lot an hour ago.

Our stuff won’t be here for two weeks, so I grabbed us a suite at Glacier Point which seems to be the best resort close to town.

“‘Welcome to Lake Starlight. Your new home, you just don’t know it yet,’” Maverick reads the welcome sign to our new town with contempt.

He’s less than thrilled about this abrupt change in his life. I did spring it on him at the last minute, but sometimes when you hit a breaking point, drastic measures need to be taken.

My gaze veers to my laptop bag on the passenger seat. It holds the magazine with the article that opened my eyes wide. A sellout? I’m not a fucking sellout.

“Turn this up, Dad,” Maverick says.

I groan, hearing Tyler Vaughn’s voice through my speakers. Maverick sings along to the mediocre lyrics that hold no emotion or truth.

Back in the day, a song brought an artist healing, it meant something. There was a rawness in the lyrics you felt bone deep.

But what do you expect when you try to turn a YouTube sensation into a star?

There might be a total of ten different words in Tyler’s entire song. And I’m ashamed to admit my name is attached to it.

The last time Maverick looked at me like I was his idol was when I introduced him to Tyler. How pathetic of a father am I?

I haven’t even taught my son the true power music holds when it speaks to your soul.

They say there are artists who change your career. Tyler Vaughn changed mine, but not for the better.

He took a song I hated and released it with my name attached to it, then he stole the other song we hadn’t finished, put it out, and didn’t give me credit.

I could’ve stayed in LA. The list of artists who want me to produce their albums is long enough for me to bounce back from a shit article some post-grad who learned how to master a thesaurus wrote.

I’d come back bigger and better. But that article hit more than my ego. It was a wake-up call for me to question what direction I was taking my career.

I tune out the song, soaking in the new town I’ve visited a few times over the years. Maverick hasn’t spent much time downtown, so I park along the curb in front of a bakery.

Surely something sweet will cheer him up.

“Why are we stopping?” he asks.

“I want to show you downtown.” I turn off the ignition and Tyler Vaughn’s voice cuts off. A smile creases my lips as I exit the truck.

“Do we have to?” Maverick whines.

I open his door and shut my own. “Come on. You need to see where we’re going to live now, soak up the culture and people.”

“What’s next? You gonna have me sit on a log and wait for a moose to stroll by?” He unclips his seat belt and shoves his phone into his pocket.

“Come on. Have an open mind.”

“Mom said this is just a phase for you.” He jumps off the running board to the ground and looks around. “It’s cold.” He pulls his arms into his body through the sleeves of his shirt.

“I told you to put on a sweatshirt.”

“Back in LA, it’s eighty degrees.”

I rustle his hair. “We’re not in LA anymore, Toto. The faster you get used to this place, the happier you’ll be.”

“Mom said she’ll take me back to LA when she gets back.”

I nod but don’t respond. Maggie is as reliable as a politician’s campaign promises. She means well, and her love for Maverick isn’t a question. But her acting career comes first, plain and simple.

I can’t say much though, because until six months ago, my career came first too.

Unfortunately, Maverick is used to the two of us being somewhat absent parents and buying him whatever he wants to make him happy. That’s all changing now though.

When I push open the door to the bakery, a door chime rings out and a woman comes up to the counter from the back room.

“Whoa, look at all these, Maverick.” I motion toward the glass cases filled with sweet treats.

He looks unfazed by the rows of decorated cookies and cupcakes piled high with frosting in the display case.

“Welcome to Sweet Suga,” the woman says and waits patiently behind the case.

“Thank you. Look, they have cookies and cream.” I point.

“I don’t like cookies and cream,” Maverick says, stepping farther down the row. “Donuts?”

She smiles politely. “Sorry, I already sold out.”

“Sold out?” His face contorts into what I read as a “where the heck did you move me?” expression.

“I only make so many every morning and, not to brag, they go pretty fast,” she says.

“And you don’t make any more?” Maverick asks.

The woman is nice, her gaze flickering between Maverick and me. “I don’t. I run the bakery by myself most days, so I wake up early every morning and make what I can.

“If I made more, I’m not sure they’d sell out.”

I nod slowly. I understand. But Maverick cocks an eyebrow my way. He has no idea what it’s like to go without something. What it means to not waste money.

“Which ones go the fastest?” he asks.

“Well.” She contemplates his question for a second. “I’d say the everything donut.

“Which is funny because it’s all the different cake flavors mixed together—chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, orange, marble. Then it’s glazed.

“But once a month, we have a green tea donut that Wok For U features. That’s very popular as well.”

Maverick looks at me and I nod.

“We’ll be back for some tomorrow,” I tell the woman.

“I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. Is there anything I can get you today?”

I look at Maverick. He peruses the bakery cases a little more seriously now.

I suspect that in his mind, a store that sells out of a product must be the best of the best and worth bragging about to his friends back in LA.

Just shows the long road we have to take to get him back to an average eight-year-old kid.

Maverick picks out the cookies and cream cupcake, and I don’t say anything. It’s better to leave it alone. He knows. I know. No need to draw attention to him purposely being difficult minutes earlier.

“Here you go. Remember, once I’m sold out, I’m sold out.” She smiles, handing the box to Maverick.

I place a five dollar bill on the counter and tell her to keep the change.

“I assume there’s no putting any aside?” I ask, because I really wasn’t thinking I had a wake-up call tomorrow morning in the form of a donut.

“I’m Greta.” She puts her hand out over the cash register, ignoring my question or answering it by not answering it, I guess.

“I’m—”

“Griffin Thorne. I know.”

I shake her hand. “Oh, you do?”

“Denver Bailey.” She raises her shoulders in a “you know how it is” gesture. “The whole saving your life thing.”

I nod. Of course. “Right.”

“I heard a rumor you were moving here, but I didn’t know anything about—”

I put my hand on Maverick’s back. “Maverick.”

“Maverick,” she says with a welcoming smile. “It’s very nice to meet you both. I think you’re going to love Lake Starlight.”

The door chimes behind us.

“Greta! Help. We need sugar before a meltdown occurs.”

I turn to find a woman who has a toddler boy by the hand, a baby attached to her chest in a carrier, and a little girl whose face is now plastered to the cookie case, her arms extended in a hug over the glass.

“Hi, Phoenix,” Greta says.

My gaze drifts back to the dark-haired woman. She’s attractive and young. Much younger than me.

And she looks exhausted, as if she’s in a wrestling ring and desperately stretching her arm out to her partner for a tap-out.

Her head turns in my direction. She blinks and her eyes widen. Quickly, she straightens the baby in the wrap. She squats next to the boy, licking her finger and wiping his face.

When that doesn’t work, she lifts the hem of her shirt, giving me a great glimpse of her bare stomach. Tattooed script runs along her ribcage, but even when I squint, I’m unable to read it.

“Cookies,” the oldest child sighs before kissing the glass.

“Calista, do you know how many people have touched that glass today?” the woman—Phoenix, I guess—asks.

“Excuse me,” Greta says and moves down the counter to the opening with two cookies in wax paper in her hands. “Calista. Dion.”

The little girl lets go of the case and grabs the cookie. “Thank you, Miss Greta.”

The boy pulls away from the young woman. She doesn’t look old enough to have three kids already.

“Hold on, Dion,” she says, sneaking looks at me. She probably recognizes me since Greta did too.

“No.” He pulls away from her, but she grabs the neck of his shirt.

Maverick and I stare at the scene as if they’re paid actors.

“Dion.” Her voice is strained through gritted teeth.

“Cookie!” He escapes and her weight shifts, tipping her backward. She clings to the baby strapped to her chest right before she falls on her ass.

She doesn’t get up. She sits there and stares at her son and daughter eating their cookies, chatting it up with Greta.

“Here.” I approach her and put out my hand.

She stares at me as if I just teleported into the bakery. With a deep inhale, she places her hand in mine and I gently pull her to her feet.

“Thank you,” she mumbles.

“You’re welcome. Are you okay? The baby?”

Her hands run up and down the baby’s back. “Oh, this one could sleep through a hurricane.”

“You’ve got your hands full. I’m Griffin, by the way.”

“Phoenix,” she says.

“What’s your name?” The young girl approaches Maverick with the boy in tow.

“Maverick,” he says, sitting in a chair because he can’t stand for more than five minutes at a time.

Turning away from the kids, I study the brunette. Could these be her kids? There’s no way she’s old enough.

“Are they all yours?” I ask. I’m desperate to find a nanny for Maverick, and so far, I’ve had no luck with Denver asking around for me.

I really wanted to avoid leaving Maverick with a stranger, but if this girl is the nanny and not the mom, maybe she works for an agency in town.

“God, no.” Before I can ask anything else, she says, “I mean, I’m the nanny.”

I nod. Perfect. “I thought you were a little young to be the mother of these three.”

Based on the small lines on her forehead, she’s insulted. “I’m not young. I mean, I’ve experienced life. I can drink and smoke if I choose to.”

I chuckle. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

I glance at the kids when I hear a chair scrape across the floor. Maverick is on one side of the table, Calista on the other, and Dion is up on his knees, practically pressing his face to Maverick’s.

“Oh, you didn’t. I just meant, I’m not that young.”

“Gotcha.”

We stand in silence for a moment, our gazes shifting to the kids’ table again.

“So are you with a nanny service?”

She doesn’t answer.

“I’m only asking because I had a buddy who was trying to find someone for me, but I’m getting down to the wire and I’m thinking I’ll have better luck with an agency instead.”

She blinks. “Well…” She glances at the kids again. “I can do it.”

I rock back on my heels. Her eyes have dark circles under them. She looks worn down. Maverick can wipe his own butt, but he can be a pain in the ass attitude-wise.

“I think you’ve already got your hands full.”

She looks at the baby in her arms and jolts. “Oh no. I mean, their parents are coming home in two days. Then I’m done.”

I nod. “So you’re free for overnights?”

Her tongue slides across her bottom lip and her gaze dips down my body.

Shit. That made me sound like a pervert. “I mean, if I needed you.”

“Definitely. Overnights are no problem.”

“Great. Can I send you an application, and then I can do a background check…”

Her face pales as I keep talking about the steps I take to make sure I’m not hiring some random criminal with a record. When the door chimes, we both turn toward the entry.

“Yay!” Calista runs over, and the woman standing at the door swoops her up in her arms.

“Hey, kiddo,” the woman says.

“Can I have your phone?” Calista asks in a sweet voice.

“Rotten to the Core” from thatDescendants movie plays, and the little girl dances.

And yeah, I only know that because a friend of mine helped produce the music in that movie.

“How was today? I came right from school. Austin’s got baseball…” The woman finally catches on to my presence and stops talking. “Oh… hi.”

“Hi. I’m Griffin.” I extend my hand.

The woman looks at Phoenix and back at me. “Hi. Holly Ba—”

“Will you excuse us for a moment?” Phoenix asks. She snatches the woman by the arm and drags her down the hallway toward the bathrooms.

“Hey, Holly, I made some dog treats for Myles and Daisy.” Greta’s words are left unanswered as the women are now gone.

Maverick stares at the little girl dancing around the bakery. I think maybe it’s about time I hightail it out of here.