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So I do the only thing I can do: I draw in a breath, turn on my big-girl posture with back straight and shoulders square, and start marching down the sidewalk in search of the address in the file that Judy emailed me.
Problem is, every home front looks identical. Perfect red bricks, white trim on the windows, ivy crawling up manicured trellises. It’s more like a movie set than real life. Not a lawn clipping out of place. Not a dandelion in sight. The sidewalks don’t even have cracks.
Whoever this Reese Dalton is, he’s definitely uber-loaded to live in a place like this. Here’s to hoping he doesn’t have a jealous, bitchy wife I have to navigate. I don’t think I can handle another situation like the Harrisons.
It’s not just the idea of getting sexually harassed and then being accused of being a homewrecker. It’s the idea of getting attached to another kid, or kids, and then having them yanked away from me.
My heart can’t handle going through that again.
“47… 49… 51 Dartmouth Avenue.”
My pulse quickens. This is it.
I give myself one last little straighten-up. My shirt is in place, skirt straight. I wiggle the tips of my toes in my heels.
Then I knock.
I hear the soft clack of shoes approach the door before it’s opened. The woman who greets me is petite and put-together. There’s not a hair out of place and her glasses give her the sharp, secretarial look of a woman who means business.
She looks me up and down. I can’t get a read on her expression, though her eyes linger on my chest for a moment. I adjust my top, passing it off like I’m straightening out a lapel and not trying to make my boobs more discreet.
I expect her to say something condescending, but all she does is hum when she looks me in the eyes once more. “You’re here to interview for the nanny position?”
I nod. “Yes, my name is Olivia Carter. I was recommended for this position by?—”
“One of the several agencies that Mr. Dalton contacted, yes.” She steps back, letting me inside. I’m too nervous to be offended by how crisp and clipped she speaks to me. “Where you come from doesn’t matter to Mr. Dalton. He wants someone competent.”
The door snaps closed behind me.
“A few preliminary questions,” the woman continues. “What age ranges do you have experience with?”
That’s an easy one. “I’ve worked with everyone from children a day old to teenagers getting ready for college.”
“Do you have any convictions? Primarily with offenses like stalking, or other obsession-related incidences?”
Well, that’s weirdly specific. “Ah, no.”
“Hm.” She eyes me like she doesn’t believe me before continuing. “Familiar with hockey?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
The woman tilts her head. “It’s a sport, dear.”
I swallow. My mouth is suddenly dry. “I don’t follow hockey, no.”
That answer seems to please her. She does another one of those little hms before she leads me up the stairs.
I’m low-key panicking. Was I supposed to know about hockey? Dammit, I knew I should have read the job description closer. But when Judy told me there was a position that she thought I’d be perfect for, I didn’t question it.
For Mom’s sake, I couldn’t afford to.
My palms are sweating. I wipe them on my hips discreetly before Miss Put Together has the chance to see me. She’s opening the door, too busy to notice. Good.
“Mr. Dalton will see you now.”
Why does it feel like I’m getting sent to the principal’s office? Like I’m a kid again and I’ve done something naughty?
The first thing I see is the soles of someone’s shoes.
