Page 8 of Make You Mine

“Mrs. Cattermole, if you please,” she cuts in sharply.

I blink. “Um… right. Mrs. Cattermole, you have over forty years of experience. That’s very impressive. Do you mind telling us more?”

It’s just the start of what turns into an awkward, tense interview. Mrs. Cattermole is so stern and objectionable at every turn that I start to feel like a child myself, being scolded by a schoolteacher.

Declan clears his throat and decides to put us both out of our misery.

“Well, Mrs. Cattermole, we’ll reach out if we’re interested in hearing more.”

“Ring between the hours of nine a.m. and two p.m. only. I won’t answer otherwise.” She gathers her handbag and marches out of the room.

I wait until I hear the front door snap shut behind her.

“Was it me or did that feel like we were hiring a nanny for ourselves?”

“Let’s just say I haven’t felt that scolded since Sister Mary Constance caught me nicking biscuits in Year Four.”

The next few applicants aren’t any better.

We go through a couple nervous college-aged students who seem overwhelmed even just by the interview, and then a boredhousewife that lets it slip she only wants this job for a couple weeks while she searches for something better.

By the eleventh applicant, a thirty-something woman named Imogen, I’m ready to give up.

“So tell us a little about yourself.”

She inhales sharply. “Well, I trained in childcare, but—” she pauses at the sound of the jelly ball bouncing against the wall. Willow is still outside playing. “I’m sorry, how old did you say they are?”

“Willow is five, almost six. And Emmett is six months.”

“Oh…” She swallows, her pallid complexion almost sickly. “That’s quite a bit to handle. I’m sorry it’s just… my last post… the children were feral.”

Declan cocks a brow. “Feral?”

“They locked me in the utility room! Little monsters.”

There’s a long pause where no one says a word, then her eyes well up and she bursts into tears.

“I’m so sorry!” she chokes out. “I thought I was ready to jump back in, but I’m not. The truth is… I hate children! I hate them!”

We’re left speechless as she pops to her feet and rushes out of the room.

I look over at Declan. “This was a terrible idea.”

“Amerie, we still have applicants on the list?—”

“It’s a waste of time. We haven’t even found one halfway decent?—”

“Erm, hello?”

The soft voice comes from the doorway. We both look up to find a woman standing where Imogen had just fled through.

Except this one hasn’t knocked or waited to be called in. She’s entered on her own, holding her coat neatly folded over her arm.

She’s average height, a little on the slim side, with shoulder-length mousy-brown hair that’s parted down the middle andtucked behind large ears. Her glasses are large too, framing blue eyes. Her cardigan is long and woolly, paired with ankle boots and leggings.

If I had to guess an age, I’d say mid to late twenties.

“And who are you?” I ask. It comes out cold and accusatorially, making the girl flinch and take half a step back.

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