His Curvy Nanny

Chapter 1: The Interview

AMARA’S POV

I smoothed down the front of my blouse for the third time in as many minutes, standing on the porch of the biggest house I'd ever set foot near. The Whitfield residence sat at the end of a cul-de-sac lined with manicured lawns and houses that all looked like they belonged in a magazine the kind of neighborhood where nobody's grass grew unevenly, and nobody's car had a dent in the bumper.

My car, parked at the curb, had both.

I checked my reflection in the glass storm door. Twenty-six years old, hair pulled back into a neat puff, resume folder clutched against my chest like a shield. I'd worn my nicest cardigan, the forest-green one that actually fit me properly, paired with black slacks that made me feel put together instead of like I was trying too hard. I'd debated the outfit for an hour last night, standing in front of

my mirror, turning side to side, wondering if any of it would matter once I was standing in front of whoever lived in a house like this.

I rang the bell before I could talk myself out of it.

Footsteps. Fast, small ones followed by a voice yelling something that sounded like "I'll get it!" before the door swung open to reveal a little boy, maybe six years old, grinning up at me with a gap where his front tooth should be.

"Are you the nanny?" he asked, without preamble.

"Elijah." A deeper voice, clipped and a little tired, came from somewhere behind him. "What have I told you about opening the door?"

Apparently, the boy Elijah didn't look remotely chastised. "I asked if she's the nanny."

"I am," I said, crouching slightly so I was more at his eye level. "Are you going to let me in, or should I stand out here all day?"

That earned me a full, delighted laugh, and Elijah stepped back to let me through right as a man appeared in the hallway behind him, and my easy smile faltered for just a second.

I'd seen his name on the job listing. Grant Whitfield. I had not expected him to look like this: tall, broad-shouldered, dressed like he'd stepped out of a boardroom even though it was a Saturday, dark hair cut close and neat, jaw set in a way that suggested he didn't smile easily. He looked at me the way people sometimes did, a quick, assessing glance that started at my face and didn't quite know what to do once it reached the rest of me.

I'd learned not to let that look rattle me. Mostly.

"Mr. Whitfield," I said, extending a hand. "Amara Johnson. Thank you for having me."

His grip was firm, brief. "Come in. Elijah, where's your brother?"

"Hiding," Elijah said cheerfully, already skipping off toward the kitchen. "He's shy."

Grant exhaled something that wasn't quite a laugh, gesturing to me toward a sitting room just off the entryway. The house was beautiful in the way that felt more like a showroom than a home: white walls, gray furniture, everything matching, nothing out of place. I wondered, not for the first time since applying, what it would take to make a house like this feel lived-in.

"You've read the job description," Grant said, settling into the armchair across from me, all business. "Live-in nanny, full care for my sons Elijah, who you've met, and Ezra. I work long hours. I need someone reliable. Someone the boys can depend on."

"I understand."

"Their mother isn't—" He paused, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "She isn't involved day-to-day. It's been just the three of us for a while now."

I nodded, filing that away without comment. There was a story there, clearly, but it wasn't mine to ask about, not yet, maybe not ever.

"I'm good with kids," I said instead. "I've done in-home care for almost four years now. I'm patient, I'm consistent, and I don't rattle easily." I held his gaze evenly. "I promise you that."

Something flickered across his face surprise, maybe, at my directness before it smoothed back into careful neutrality.

"We'll see," he said.

It wasn't unkind, exactly. But it wasn't warm either. I got the distinct impression that Grant Whitfield had built a wall around himself a long time ago, and that this interview with me, sitting in his pristine sitting room, offering to step into the chaos of his sons' lives, was, to him, just another item to be handled efficiently.

I was still deciding how I felt about that when a small voice piped up from the doorway.

"Is she staying?"

I turned to find a second little boy peering around the frame, identical to Elijah in every way except for the wariness in his eyes. Ezra, I assumed. Shy, just like his brother said.

I smiled at him, soft and unhurried, the kind of smile I'd give any scared kid peeking around a corner. "I don't know yet. Do you want me to?"

Ezra considered this with startling seriousness for a six-year-old, then gave the smallest nod.

Across the room, Grant watched the exchange, something unreadable passing behind his eyes.

"Well," he said finally, voice a touch less clipped than before. "I suppose we'll be in touch."

I stood, gathering my folder, and held out my hand once more. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Whitfield."

His hand closed around mine again a beat longer this time, though I told myself I imagined it.

"Grant," he said. "If you're going to be around my sons, you might as well call me Grant."

It wasn't an offer. It wasn't a job, either, not yet. But as I walked back to my car under the weight of his gaze still lingering somewhere behind me, I had the distinct, inconvenient feeling that I'd just stepped into something a lot bigger than a nanny position.