Page 1 of Big Trouble

chapter

one

Official Rules for Wind from the East Nanny Service

Rule #1: Nannies shall maintain their composure at all times, even when dealing with difficult topics.

Winnie’s take away: Do not talk about penises when talking to your hot boss. Moreover, do not think about his penis while talking about penises.

Winnie

I’ve been fired from a lot of jobs. Too many, in truth. I can’t say that none of them have been justified. I did actually catch the Murphy’s kitchen on fire while dog sitting. But it’s not my fault that the homemade dog treat recipe was so flammable or that their smoke detectors were so sensitive. The fire was contained entirely to their oven, and there was (almost) no damage. In my defense, I’d been seventeen at the time. You get what you pay for.

But a lot of the dismissals have been due to circumstances out of my control. A power outage flipped a switch, and I didn’t know to check the breaker on the ice cream freezer. Yeah, that had been a huge mess. I’d not only been fired, but strongly encouraged to not even return to Rosie’s Diner as a customer.

As for the job at the pet store … well, they never told me I couldn’t bring home the dying Beta fish and rehabilitate them. The “company policy” of flushing them down the toilet seemed both cruel and environmentally irresponsible. And it’s not like I was going to sell the fish myself once I got them healthy. I had planned to bring them back! Honestly, I think Dale, the assistant manager, just used the Beta fish scandal as an excuse to fire me since I’d turned him down for coffee four times in a row.

Even if I had wanted to date a man twelve years older than me with halitosis, everyone knows you don’t date your boss!

But this scenario?

This current scenario is new for me.

For starters, I need this job. Like, need need this job. Like, I will be living out of my car if I lose this job. And since “my car” is a rusted-out Ford Focus that’s older than I am, that is not an option.

Secondly, this is a job that I actually care about and that I’m qualified to do. Over-qualified, if I do say so myself, since I have a degree in childhood development.

Thirdly, in the two hours since I’ve first showed up, everything has gone perfectly. I was greeted at the door by Mrs. Billingsly, the cook/housekeeper, who was immediately friendly and gracious. I met the dog, some kind of hyperactive doodle mix named Banana-Noodle, who slobbered all over me and rolled over to show her belly. The obviously grumpy cat named SnickerDoodle only growled at me once. And then there’s Clementine.

Insert blissful sigh here…

Clementine Callahan, aka the girl I’m here to nanny for, is an adorable seven-year-old, with bouncy red curls, a sassy mouth, and more energy than… well, a hyperactive doodle mix.

She’s clearly too smart for her own good, and a trouble maker, and I am here for it.

Clementine has already given me a tour of the house, a sprawling, oversized ranch house that’s obviously been recently upgraded. The furniture is as oversized as the rooms, and the views of the horse ranch and the surrounding mountains are simply spectacular. I’ve seen the pool, the barn, and the chicken coop.

Hell, Clementine has already painted my toes and braided my hair. Only on one side before getting distracted, but still, I get it.

She wanted to show off her reading skills. A girl who would rather read than style hair is a girl after my own heart.

So there we were, me, Clementine, and Banana-Noodle, sitting on a mound of pillows by the window in the playroom, reading one of my favorite books, Mercy Watson Fights Crime–because, of course, Clementine has excellent taste in books–when he comes in.

He is Brody Callahan, Clementine’s father, and my new boss.

He takes one stoney-eyed look at me before growling that he needs to see me in his office.

The moment my gaze meets his, I know what’s coming. He’s going to fire me. I’ve been through this enough that I recognize the signs.

Despite my employment record, I haven’t had time to screw anything up. I’ve been at work for less than two hours.

Nevertheless, I follow him down the hall to a home office filled with bulky furniture and leather seating. Clearly a man’s room.

He throws his oversized body into an oversized chair and glares at me some more before standing up and pacing.

When he still doesn’t say anything, I go on the offensive. “I have excellent qualifications,” I blurt.

“I was expecting a man,” the huge man says, before I can list them.