Page 1 of My Secret Valentine

CHAPTER ONE

Lainey

I stare at the “Help Wanted” notice tacked to the bulletin board at Perfect Brews, the paper slightly curled at the corners from the steam of the espresso machine. The coffee shop's familiar scent of fresh-ground beans and butter croissants fills my nose as I read it for the third time, or maybe the fourth.

Nanny needed for 7-year-old girl. Live-in position. Experience with children preferred.

The words are simple, direct. Nothing fancy about the font or paper. Just black text that could change everything.

“You've been staring at that notice for ten minutes,” Sarah, the barista, says as she slides a fresh latte across the counter to another customer. “Just take the number already.” Her blonde ponytail swings as she moves, the morning rush keeping her in constant motion.

“I don't have any real experience.” I twist the strap of my worn leather bag, a souvenir from my travels that's starting to show its age.

“You practically raised your cousin's kids that summer they stayed with your parents.” She grabs a cloth and wipes down the counter, her movements precise and practiced. “And you're great with my boys when you watch them. Tommy still talks about the puppet show you made up.”

“That's different.” The doubt creeps in, familiar and unwelcome. I'm sure this isn't for me, but I take out my phone anyway and snap a picture of the contact information. The morning sun streams through Perfect Brews' front windows, catching the dust motes in golden beams.

Living with my parents again wasn't part of my plan when I came back to Hope Peak. The inheritance money from Grandma had seemed like so much when I first got it – enough to see the world, find myself, all those clichés that felt so important at twenty-three. Two years of traveling stretched it thin, and now I'm back where I started. Except now I get to listen to Mom's super helpful suggestions about job hunting every morning over breakfast, her disapproving sighs perfectly timed between bites of orange marmalade covered toast.

“Just call,” Sarah says, her voice gentler now. “The worst they can say is no.” She's known me since high school, back when we both thought we'd leave Hope Peak and never look back. Now she owns the coffee shop, and I'm the one who came crawling home.

I send a text to the number, keeping it professional and brief, my heart beating a little faster as I hit send. A response comes almost immediately, my phone buzzing against the wooden table.

Can you come for an interview this afternoon at 2?

I check the time on the vintage clock above the counter, its hands pointing to just past 10am. “They want to interview me today.”

Sarah's grin lights up her whole face. “See? The universe is giving you a sign.” She starts making me a fresh coffee without asking. “On the house. For good luck.”

The address they send is up on Mountain View Road, where the elevation rises and the houses get bigger. I know the area and it’s all huge houses with even bigger views, where people from California and New York buy their mountain getaways. My ancient Toyota, with its peeling paint and squeaky brakes, feels like an intruder as I pull up to the gate. It swings open smoothly as I punch in the code they gave me, no squeaks or groans like my parents' garage door.

The house is gorgeous, the kind of place that shows up in architectural magazines. All natural wood and stone, it looks like it grew right out of the mountain, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the afternoon sun. I sit in my car for a moment, gathering courage, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. My dark hair is behaving for once, and I'm grateful I splurged on that interview blazer last week.

The front door opens and a man steps out onto the stone pathway. He's tall, dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Dark hair, broad shoulders, the kind of presence that commands attention without trying. Definitely handsome in that CEO kind of way, though there's something softer in his expression that doesn't quite fit the corporate stereotype.

“You must be Lainey,” he says as I get out of the car, his voice warm but professional. “I'm Steve Jacks.”

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.” I'm proud that my voice comes out steady since I’m a ball of nerves on the inside.

He leads me inside to an office that looks more like a living room, with comfortable leather chairs and a view of the mountains that makes me wish I had my camera. The whole room smells faintly of cedar. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“I'm fine, thanks.” I sit carefully in one of the chairs, trying to look professional despite my limited wardrobe options. The leather is butter-soft beneath my fingers.

“So,” he says, sitting across from me, one ankle resting on the opposite knee in a casual pose that somehow still looks elegant. “Tell me about your experience with children.”

I take a deep breath, Sarah's words echoing in my head. Honesty seems the best policy. “I don't have professional experience. But I love kids. I've done a lot of babysitting, and I helped raise my cousin's children one summer when they needed help. Three kids under six – I learned more about patience and creativity that summer than I did in four years of college.”

He nods, his expression thoughtful rather than dismissive. “What made you interested in being a nanny?”

“I love working with kids. They're honest. Real. And I...” I pause, then decide to go for complete honesty. “I need a job. But I wouldn't take this if I didn't think I could do it well. Kids deserve better than that.”

Something in his expression shifts, a subtle softening around the eyes. “Would you like to meet Maddie?”

“I'd love to.”

He steps out and returns with a girl who has his dark hair and bright, observant eyes. She's wearing a t-shirt with a unicorn on it, and rainbow sneakers that light up when she walks.

“Maddie, this is Lainey. She might be helping us out.”

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