Bad Nanny (The Bad Nanny Trilogy #1)(38)

And I'm sick of it.

I can do something for myself, can't I? Even if it's stupid and it makes no sense and it's probably a really bad idea.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Zay asks, snapping me out of my reverie. I blink up at him and then sweep some of my stupidly long hair over my shoulders; I should cut it all off. Make a fresh start.

“I'm trying to logistically convince myself to sleep with you again.”

“Oh. Any arguments I can offer to help make that happen?” He snaps his fingers at me again and then takes a step back, reaching down and tucking his inked fingers under his shirt. “Nah, don't say anything, Smarty-Pants, I got ya.” Zay tears his shirt off and flashes me his perfect midsection, a landscape of muscular hills and valleys, a sea of color and piercings that draws my eye and refuses to let go of my gaze.

I'm about to step forward and run my hands down all of that delicious perfection when a knock sounds at the bay window to my right and I jump, glancing over to find an older woman glaring at us through the glass.

Shit.

It's my great aunt, the one that decided she was currently unable to help my parents out with Bella and Grace, the reason that I'm here. My dad's too sick to deal with little kids right now, and if my parents didn't have me here, they wouldn't have been able to go to Scotland. My aunt suggested they call it off, but what happens if my dad ends up never getting to go? This is literally the first—and probably the last—time he's ever left the country. He deserves this.

“Crap. Put your shirt on,” I whisper as I scurry to the door and Zay groans, leaning down to grab his discarded tee as I unhook the chain and crack the door. I don't owe this woman anything, but I'm afraid if she thinks I'm up to no good over here that she'll call my parents and bitch. I really don't want anything to interfere with their trip. “Hey, Monica.”

I make myself smile even though the two of us have never really gotten along. Monica's always liked Ingrid more than me. She used to laugh and call me the ugly sister; I never found that to be very funny.

“Brooke,” she says, sweeping some black-going-gray hair over her shoulder, eyes flicking up past my shoulder to Zayden. “Am I interrupting something?” I wave my hand dismissively although I sort of want to scream. Yeah, you kind of are.

“Something I can help you with?”

“Aren't you going to invite me in?” she asks as I bite back a sigh and step aside, watching as my aunt's eyes narrow on the sparsely decorated house. I want to scream that none of this is my fault, but I know she won't listen to me. The frustrating thing about her disapproval is that she knows Ingrid's whole story. How my sister graduated with an accounting degree, got a decent job at the bank, how she took a hefty portion of my parent's retirement savings to buy a house, promising to pay them back.

How she got addicted and lost the house to foreclosure.

How my mom went to pick the girls up from school and found they'd never gone, came over here and discovered my sister's note.

She knows all of that and yet, here she is, judging me.

Monica squeezes her red coat tighter around herself and pauses next to Zayden. They look weirdly opposite, one of them old and conservative and closed off, and the other young and wild and outgoing.

“Zayden Roth,” he says, extending the hand with the book on it, taking my aunt's and shaking it firmly. He grins nice and wide. “I'm Brooke's nan—”

“Boyfriend,” I insert because God, if Monica finds out about the nanny thing or the stripping thing or just, well, any of it then she'll definitely call my mom up and demand she fly home. I don't want to deal with the drama. “From Berkeley. He's up visiting,” I say because, again, I don't want to be judged for picking up a guy two weeks after arriving in town. Although that's really none of her business anyway.

Monica looks at Zayden like she recognizes his picture from some FBI most wanted list.

“Oh.” That's it. No nice to meet you or hi, I'm Brooke's aunt, Monica, just … oh. When her eyes swing over to the folding crib on the other side of the room, her dark brows soar. “I just came over to see if you needed any help with the girls—” several days after my parents leave town when she knows I've been struggling to find a job “—but I don't see them anywhere? Are they upstairs?”

“They're at school,” I say, trying not to sound frustrated as she makes her way over to the sleeping baby. “That's Zayden's—” My mind scrambles for a way to describe his relationship to the baby. His charge? His steward? I don't know what nannies call the kids they watch.

“That's my niece,” he says, sliding his hands into his front pockets in a way that draws my attention, sticks it to him like glue. The way he moves is so … fluid, like nothing really matters, like any problem can be solved with a wink and a smile. I'm envious, even though I don't think an attitude like that really works in life. Not for long anyway and not successfully. “Brooke isn't the only one who got strapped with babysitting duties.”