Page 15 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“No, it’s a unique name,” Charlotte said, trying to connect with this pint-sized pest.
“Say cheese!” Sutton Bryan crooned, but the kid didn’t utter a word.
She caught the boy’s gaze, glittering with mischief, as he looked from her to the pool.
She should have known Grover Cleveland Schulte was up to no good.
“Cheese, fake mermaid!” the boy belted, then shoved her in the stomach. She didn’t have a fighting chance to remain upright in that stupid, body-hugging mermaid tail. And for the second time today, she teetered, swaying side to side before gravity took over. Reflexively, she reached out and grabbed onto the only thing she could.
Grover Cleveland Schulte.
Splash!
Their bodies hit the ice-cold water like two cement slabs.
“My baby! My sweet Grover!”
Charlotte thrashed around as the gaudy decorations on her shell bra came loose—like rhinestone sailors abandoning ship. Luckily, they’d fallen into the shallow end. Okay, not luckily. There was nothing fortunate about her situation besides the fact that she wasn’t in danger of drowning. Soaking wet, she stood and looked on as Grover Cleveland Schulte’s parents pulled him out of the water like a beached whale.
“Everyone, let’s head inside for cake,” a red-faced woman called with her arm around a crying Declan.
Poor thing!
She’d tried to make it right! Surely, her boss would understand. She searched the patio and found Sutton Bryan looking the exact opposite of understanding.
She scooped a few floating rhinestones into her hand and sloshed toward him. “Sutton Bryan, I’m so sorry.”
An orange vein pulsed in his neck, and his protruding eyeballs looked ready to burst out of his head. “You’re sorry? No, you don’t get to be sorry. You’re fired!”
Panic—no, complete and total terror rippled through her.
She had five dollars to her name and no job!
“Fired?” she repeated, her voice barely a rasp. “But it wasn’t my fault! And look! I found a few stones. I can fix the shell bra.”
“Fix it? You’ve ruined the mermaid costume! Mommy will be overcome with despair,” the man lamented.
Charlotte stared down at the crusted remnants of hot glue where the awful rhinestones once sat. “The only despair I harbor is that I actually wore this hideous thing,” she said, holding the man’s gaze.
Andoh no! Did she say that?
Sutton Bryan’s jaw dropped. “I’m docking your pay for the costume, and I’m not paying you a dime for today,” the man bit out before turning on his heel and stomping off toward the clubhouse.
Charlotte released a slow breath as rivulets of water trailed down her face. “Did I tell off my boss?” she whispered, brushing a few wisps of wet hair from her cheek.
“Yes, that’s exactly what you did,” answered a voice—a vaguely familiar woman’s voice.
Charlotte froze—and not because she was still immersed in four feet of frigid chlorinated water. She recognized the rich voice with a distinct cadence—a European accent she couldn’t quite place.
No, it couldn’t be!
Slowly, she looked over her shoulder and caught a flutter of red in her peripheral vision—the flutter of a red silk scarf.
Madelyn Malone’s signature red scarf.
She’d never seen the woman without it.
“I’ve got a towel for you, dear. You’ll catch a chill if you stay in there.”
