Page 4 of Hockey Nanny

“Shit, no. Wait—” I nearly toppled through the window, clawing at the intercom. “Sorry, it’s Carissa. The nanny…? We spoke on the phone.”

There was a long pause before the gates opened, and the voice responded with a flat sigh. “Come on in, I guess.”

The driveway curved through immaculate landscaping like something out of a magazine spread, and then the house came into view. The place was enormous, all clean white walls and long glass panels, sharp lines and dark accents. It was the kind of modern mansion you only see on TV shows, complete with blinking security cameras and a front entrance that could comfortably fit an elephant.

I parked beside a contemporary rock display and stepped out, unsticking my shirt where the heat had glued it to my back. The front door was already cracked open and nobody stepped out to greet me, so I let myself in.

Inside was quiet and cool (no doubt every air conditioner in the building was working overtime to compete with the heat). The entryway soared upward, and black marble floors stretched deeper into the house. I padded softly down the hallway, passing a sleek staircase, a few framed certificates, and black and white photographs blown to massive proportions.

One depicted what looked like a hockey team, a big group of guys in bulky sportswear grinning together on the ice. I didn’t know much about ice hockey, or any other sport, really, but itoccurred to me that my new employer might be one of the big shots in the NHL world.

I was so absorbed in my ogling that I didn’t see the figure right beside me until the guy cleared his throat, and I jerked back with a yelp.

“Oh! Hi,” recovering quickly, I tucked a hair behind my earring, trying and failing to regain some sort of professional composure. “I’m—”

“Carissa,” the guy cut me off gruffly.

He was tall, with dark hair and deep brown eyes to match, and he wasnoticeablyshirtless. I could see every inch of his washboard abs and the dark line of a treasure trail leading down beneath the seam of his boxers. Standing before me, half-naked and unashamed, with a bowl of cereal balanced in one hand, the guy was undoubtedly gorgeous.

Headphones hung around his corded neck, and faint music bled out as he tilted his head toward a doorway on the left. “I’m Gage,” he said. “If you’re looking for Dawson, he’s down that way.”

“Uh, thanks.” I followed his gaze. Dawson Barnett was the guy who hired me. Though we’d spoken over the phone when he first contacted me for the job, I had yet to meet my new employer in person.

The distant sound of raised, irritated voices reached me from the direction Gage had pointed, and I flicked him a hesitant look. “Is now a bad time—?” Gage, however, was already striding away, headphones over his ears and a spoonful of cereal shoved in his mouth.

I thanked him, because it was the polite thing to do (not that he could hear me, nor likely cared either way), and followed the sound of bickering voices through the doorway.

Inside, I found two men who were so alike in their looks I did a double-take. Each bore the same sharp jawline, the same shade of blond in their hair. The same furrowed brows over vibrant green eyes as they both raised their voices in unison, arguing over each other and completely unaware of my presence.

“I’m just saying,” the left one vented, distinguishable from the other by the length of his hair, tugged back into a short, choppy ponytail. “Deciding to foster some kid on a whim, right before the start of the season?! That’s insane, Dawson. You’ve officially lost it.”

I flicked my gaze to the other guy; slightly taller, with a grim set to his mouth, blond hair trimmed short and curling at his ears. So this was Dawson Barnett. Part of me had been worried I’d taken a wrong turn and wandered into Pretty Boy mansion.

“I know what I’m doing, Boone,” Dawson bit back at the other guy, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve thought this through. Everything is going to be—” Those exasperated green eyes finally noticed me standing there, and Dawson Barnett choked on his words.

“Sorry!” I blurted out before he could speak. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” I stuck out a hand toward him, wincing at his mortified expression. “I’m Carissa. You hired me to take care of your kid...”

“Yourkid?” Boone, the shorter blond, turned on Dawson with incredulity. “I thought this was a temporary foster situation.”

“Itis,” Dawson hissed, before directing a 100-watt smile in my direction. He shook my hand genially, elbowing the other guy as he did so. “Miss McCabe, pleasure to meet you. Sorry about the, uh… all that.”

“No problem,” I hurriedly assured him, captivated momentarily by the piercing intensity of his eyes. I looked awayas he released my hand, kicking myself internally for swooning on the job. “So, this kid of yours… is a foster child?”

Before Dawson could respond, Boone seemed to register—all of a sudden—that he was in the presence of the opposite sex, and his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Well,hello beautiful,” he pushed past a grimacing Dawson and scooped up my hand to shake. “Dawson, dude, if I’d known you’d be hiring a hot nanny, I would have been on board with this from the beginning.”

“Um…” I let the guy shake my hand with extreme enthusiasm and looked over to Dawson for help.

Dawson, to his credit, was looking at Boone like he was weighing up jail time for murder, and quickly stepped in to yank the other guy back by his collar. “That was a whole three seconds before you let your dick think for you. A new record under your belt, Boone.”

Boone let himself be hauled away, winking at me over his shoulder as Dawson herded him toward the door. “See you later, Carissa. I’ll be around whenever Dawson’s gentleman shtick bores you to tears.”

Dawson slammed the door in his face, and then it was just the two of us.

A beat of silence followed before Dawson blew out a breath and turned back to face me, fatigue in the slump of his broad shoulders. “Sorry about my brother. I think he was dropped on his head as a kid.”

That comment drew a short, sharp burst of laughter from me, and I felt myself relaxing just a little. “It’s alright, he’s not the first guy to fantasize about the nanny.”