Page 15 of Skate the Line

I quickly slide out from the booth and stand. I hold my hand out and act like I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman instead of a preteen who’s talking to a boy for the first time.

“I’m Sunny,” I say with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Rh…Mr. Volk?—”

Before I can finish my sentence, he shakes his head and turns and heads straight for the exit.

Eight

RHODES

Nope.

The second I lay eyes on her, my shoulders tense. What I expected was an unattractive woman to nanny my child. What I got was a punch-to-the-gut beautiful woman with glowing skin, a sweet-as-sin voice, and a rocking body that curves in all the right spots.

She looks like all the rest of the nannies that I’ve hired—the ones who take the job because they have dollar signs in their eyes and see a spot in my bed that could be filled. Past nannies used my daughter to get closer to me, and I don’t see how this will be any different.

“Wait.” Her warm hand lands on my elbow, and I almost lose my footing. “You’re Mr. Volkova, right?

I scoff with my back still turned toward her.As if she doesn't know.Everyone in this coffee shop knows.

Peering over my shoulder, I grimace again. She flutters her thick eyelashes, and the act makes her seem innocent. A small line digs in between her eyebrows as she waits for my answer.

“You’re not what I’m looking for,” I say as deadpan as ever.

She flinches at my words, and for a split-second, I feel bad.

Not bad enough to hire her, though.

I leave her standing there in the middle of the coffee shop. My jaw cracks with the grinding of my teeth.

I’m such a fool.

I thought the reason her photo wasn’t on the website was because she wasn’t attractive enough. It’s the complete opposite. She has this innocent vibe to her too. When I told her she wasn’t what I was looking for, shock flashed across her features, like I’d hurt her feelings.

I know I can behave myself if I were to hire her. I’m just not sureshecan. My experience is that the innocent-looking ones are always the ones you have to look out for.

“You need a nanny, don’t you?”

I pause in the middle of the sidewalk.

Color me fucking surprised that she followed me.

Loose pebbles crunch beneath my shoe as I twist and eye her from outside the establishment. Out of habit, I slowly run my eyes down her frame.

I give her brownie points for not dressing up for the interview.

The last two women I had interviewed and hired—out of pure desperation—wore high heels and short dresses that left nothing to the imagination.

I almost told them that it wasn’t an interview to be my wife, but an interview for a nannying position.

“How old are you?” I ask.

The lines on her forehead appear again, and she darts her eyes away.

“Twenty-five.”

I scoff. “You’re too young.”

Her arms cross with defiance, and I have the sudden urge to smirk.

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