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“Well, Uncle Stanky started it! I’m just finishing it. Isn’t that what you always say when I need to defend myself?” she retorts.
This is precisely what I mean when you have a six-year-old with a genius IQ.
“She’s got you there, Dude. You’re outclassed and outgunned with that spitfire,” Swank says, ignoring my daughter’s nickname for him.
My mom, the peacemaker, reminds us that we have places to be. “Stop this nonsense. Don’t you boys have practice this morning? Eat breakfast, then get your butts into high gear.” She sets a plate loaded with fresh biscuits, corned beef hash, eggs, and strawberries in front of us.
I say grace before we dig in, but Swank and I are mowing through it like we haven’t eaten in a week. It isn’t so much that we’re hungry but that we’re running late. I’ve just finished my last bite when the chiming of bells rings through the house, letting me know someone is at the front door.
I pull out my phone and check the cameras to see who it is. Swank leans over and drops his fork. I’m left speechless by the beautiful woman on my front porch, but Swank doesn’t have the same problem.
He quickly gets to his feet and goes to let Anna in, announcing to anyone who will listen, “I call dibs!”
Chapter three
Savannah
The trip from New York to Savannah took two very long days. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could have driven my black Ford Shelby GT500, but Ethan outfitted me with a Honda Civic from circa 1980 for my cover.
“I don’t know of any nanny that drives an $80,000 car, do you?” Ethan asked me when handing over the keys.
“There might be one out there. I can just tell Aiden or his parents that I saved up for it should they ask,” I suggested.
Ethan didn’t agree, so I was forced to drive a car without air conditioning unless you count the 2x70 system that comes installed—two windows down at 70 miles per hour. Thankfully, it’s the end of March, and the temperatures haven’t reached unbearable levels. Depending on how long this assignment lasts, it could become a real problem. I don’t “glisten” like most Georgia socialites. I straight-up sweat, ugly armpit stains and all. It isn’t pretty.
As I drove through Savannah to get to Whitemarsh Island, where Aiden’s estate is located, I couldn’t control the shivers that racked my body. Everything seemed different, yet familiar at the same time. The place where I once grew up was no longer stricken by poverty but has been gentrified and is now full of gift shops and hoity-toity restaurants. I wonder if my mother still lives in the same house or if she was forced to move to make way for a condo or parking lot.
I haven’t seen Gretchen Jones since she attended my last beauty pageant while I was finishing up college. She scolded me for coming in second to an 18-year-old bombshell and was upset that I wasn’t able to win the cash prize for first place. She went home without a cent and without a goodbye. Despite not winning the prize money, I still received a scholarship that paid my final tuition balance. To this day, she has no idea that I wanted to come in second for the scholarship, knowing she wouldn’t be able to touch it. It’s been ten years since she turned her back on me, and I haven’t talked to her since.
It was at that same competition that I met Roger, who recruited me for the FBI. I took his card and dialed his number the day I graduated. It was the best decision I ever made, leaving behind a life that I never wanted.
But here I am, back where it all started, heading to Aiden Shaw’s house to care for and protect his little girl. It’s time to put on my smile and meet one of the best centers in hockey history. He’s a man at the top of his game and extremely pleasing to the eye.
Everything I’ve read about Aiden says he’s a man of integrity, down-to-earth, and an all-around nice guy. Now it’s time to see if the reporters’ claims are true. After passing through security—which is abysmal at best—I leave my bags in the car and take a second to admire his home.
The house itself looks small from the front and appears to be nothing more than a normal four-bedroom home. But I’ve seen enough aerial views in some of the magazine articles to know that looks can be deceiving. The rest of the house is hidden by a wall of trees on both sides and enclosed by an eight-foot wrought iron fence that angles outward. There’s a guest house, pool, and a full-size inline hockey rink on the property. If I recall correctly, he has at least ten acres butted up against the Wilmington River.
My excitement gets the better of me, and my hands shake as I ring the doorbell. I hear the chiming of bells and the electric motor of a camera moving. Aware that I’m being watched but not letting on, I simply stare at the front door while I wait for someone to answer it. I hear, “I call dibs!” just before the door opens, and I’m greeted by a beautiful specimen of a man. Unfortunately, it’s not the one I was expecting to see. It’s Swanson Kristofferson, one of the leading right-wing scorers in the league—both on and off the ice. Ugh!
“Hello, Beautiful! What can I do for you?” Swanson asks in a smarmy tone.
I decide it’s best to play dumb. “Um. I don’t know. Is this the residence of Aiden…Aiden…I know I have his name on a piece of paper somewhere.” I rifle through my purse, pretending to look for a note that doesn’t exist.
“Shaw? Why yes, it is. Are you his new nanny?” he asks. “Please say ‘yes’ because I need a good spanking.”
I narrow my eyes, having dealt with men like this before. I lower my voice, “Move aside, pretty boy, if you want to keep all your fingers and your face intact. Talk to me like that again, and you’ll be eating through a straw.” His eyes widen, but then I pat his cheeks, smile sweetly and quote Will Smith from the movie Hitch, “Mmkay, Pumpkin?”
Moving past him, I hear the sound of laughter and head toward the back of the house, ignoring the man following me. “Hello?” I call out.
“We’re in the kitchen!” a woman yells.
“Follow me,” Swanson says. “By the way, I’m Swanson Kristofferson, but all my friends call me Swank. I’m sorry about what I said back there. It was out of line.”
“It was, but thank you for apologizing. I’m Anna Blackwood.” I don’t bother to stop and shake his hand as I walk through the living room. When I get to the other side, there is a beautiful and spacious kitchen with granite countertops and large bay windows that allow a person to view the backyard and river. I can’t help but smile when I see who is sitting at the table.
Penny Shaw is munching on a biscuit in all her creative glory. She looks like a cross between a punk rocker from the 80s and a character from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
“Well, don’t you look pretty. You must be Penny.” Wanting to see what her manners are like, I offer my hand for her to shake. She sets her biscuit down and uses a napkin to wipe away the butter from her fingers before sliding off her chair. She grasps my hand in a firm grip and eyes me up and down, taking my full measure. When she smiles back at me, she looks like the Joker from Batman.
