“Oh, God,” Josie groans.
“It’ll be fine.” I wave my hand, grabbing my keys with the other. “You’ll see.”
~*~*~*~
It’s not fine.
Oh no. It’s far from fine.
I’m standing in front of what is quite possibly the most dazzling man I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s Native American, of that I’m sure. He’s got these chocolate eyes and dark hair that, I won’t lie, makes me want to punch him. It’s that beautiful. Long and thick, flowing around his shoulders. He’s tall and muscled, wearing a leather vest over a dark, tight tee.
Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh boy.
“Ah . . . are you, um, Mack?”
He looks me up and down, slowly. “Yeah.”
God. His voice. Like melted honey, mixed with cream . . . oh, man.
“Oh, good. I’m Jaylah. I’m here for the, ah, nanny position.”
He quirks his eyebrow. “You’re a nanny?”
My spine straightens and I put my hands on my hips. “Excuse me, buddy, but I’ll have you know I’m the best damned nanny there is.”
He stares at me, expressionless. He’s a hard man; you can see it in his eyes and the firm expression that seems set on his face.
“What did you expect?” I go on. “Mrs. Doubtfire?”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile.
“You available all day, every day?”
I tilt my head to the side. “I don’t get a day off?”
“No.”
I cock my eyebrow. “You want me to babysit . . . every day?”
He stares at me, like that’s already obvious.
“What are you, like some fancy businessman or something?”
I already know that’s a joke before it’s finished leaving my lips, but I say it anyway. He gives me a ‘seriously?’ look, and I realize it really was a stupid question.
“Okay, well, clearly you’re not a businessman.” I laugh sheepishly. “But what could possibly keep you so busy you need me to look after your kid seven days a week?”
“None of your fuckin’ business,” he snaps.
“Keep your shirt on,” I huff. “I was only asking.”
“You either want the job,” he says, his voice low and deep, “or you don’t.”
“I do,” I point out. “But I have a life, you know. Friends and stuff.”
“You can visit them, with the baby.”
“Seriously?”
He does that staring thing again.
“Only one thousand dollars a week? To basically be the child’s . . . mother?”
“One and a half if you start now.”
“One and half thousand?” I breathe.
“No, one and a half fuckin’ dollars.”
Oh, a smartass. Nice.
“And I live . . . here?”He nods sharply.
“And . . . you live here?”
He looks like he wants to slap my stupidity right out of me.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
He nods. “Come in.”
“Wait, aren’t you going to ask me some nanny questions? Like, what are you going to do if my child runs onto the road and gets hit by a car?”
He gives me a strange expression. “He’s a baby. Come in.”
“What about if he chokes?”
“Baby . . .” he grinds out. “Drinks fuckin’ milk.”
“Climbs through a window?” I call out, following him inside.
He grunts.
“Plays with your hairdryer?”
He stops, turns, and gives me a mortified expression.
“What?” I say, shrugging. “You have nice hair . . . it’s only an assumption.”
Okay now he looks like he wants to punch me, or throttle me.
“I mean seriously . . . you’re not going to ask me anything?”
He growls. “You a murderer?”
“What? No.”
“Rapist?”
I gape. “Ew. No.”
“You cook?”
“That depends.”
He narrows his eyes. “Yes or no?”
“Ah, kind of.”
He nods and continues, like that’s an acceptable answer. “You capable of heating a bottle?”
“Yes.”
“Gettin’ up when he cries?”
I nod.
“Then you’re hired. Now move.”
Bossy.
We step into a really nice, really modern place. The cool floor is pleasant against my feet as I follow him into the lounge room. I skid to a halt when I see all the people on the lounge. There are a few really pretty girls, but the rest are males. Big, burly males that look like they’ve dropped out of heaven and been rolled in leather. They’re gorgeous.
They’re also . . . oh, no.
Oh no, no, no.
Mack nods to one of the girls and she stands, walking over to me, a baby wrapped up in her arms. She stretches it out to me with a smile. God, she’s pretty, like a mini Pocahontas or something. Her eyes sparkle with humor at my expression. I reach out, take the baby and hold it close. I’ve never held a baby . . . shit . . . where’s his head?
“I’m Santana.” She smiles, warmly. “Welcome.”
I turn back to the group, who are all staring at me, and I’m about sure I’m going to pass out.
I know who they are. I’ve seen the news.
Motorcycle club. The biggest in the city.