Page 8 of Church Girl
Again, rude as hell. If my mother was here, she would’ve popped me in the back of the head for asking a woman her age. But shit, I want to know. With the freckles, wide eyes that turn down at the corners and slightly rounded cheeks, she could be anywhere from nineteen to twenty-five.
“Twenty-four.”
Not jailbait young, but she’s ten years my junior.
I’m guessing there’s a story behind her just starting college at her age when most have graduated, but it’s not my concern. Especially since I won’t be seeing her in about ten minutes—the amount of time it’ll take me to finish this interview and show her the door.
“So you’re about to be a full-time college student, and you’ll still have time to be a full-time nanny?” I don’t try to hide my skepticism.
“Yes.” She leans forward, and her face warms slightly, losing some of that guarded stoicism. “The agency said your daughter is seven years old, so I’m assuming she’s in school. Most of my classes are during the morning and early afternoon. And the one that isn’t is an online class, and I can handle that course load after I get off work. Or after your daughter goes to bed since your job description included a couple of late nights during the week.”
“And you don’t think that will be too much?”
Again, she shakes her head, and this time I swear a delicate, fruity scent permeates the air. Her shampoo? Or maybe my imagination, fucking with me.
“Not at all. I’m used to juggling several different schedules and agendas.” That too-lush-for-her-own-good mouth tightens. Have no business noticing that, but I do. “Going to school and working for you won’t be a conflict.”
“Uh-huh.” I stroke a hand down my beard, studying her. Have I said she bothers me? It’s like an itch in a place I can’t quite reach. “I’m a little surprised Angel Care hired you,” I say, mentioning the name of the nanny service I contracted. “Your résumé is pretty light on work history. Babysitting, Sunday school and children’s church ain’t exactly the experience for a position like this.”
“I understand that on paper it may look like my experience is slim—”
“More than looks like, ma. It is.”
Her eyes narrow, and flame licks my skin. Maybe she’s not so Pollyanna, after all.
Nope. Again, not my business. I deliberately snuff out that flash of heat until there’s nothing left but smoke.
“That doesn’t mean I haven’t spent the last ten years around children. As you can see under the responsibilities section, I didn’t just watch over them but taught and tutored them as well. And those were multiple children at one time.”
“Yeah, I peeped that. My argument still stands. Teaching some kid about Noah’s ark doesn’t instill much confidence that you can care for my daughter, though.”
Hell, Gia can be a handful. She’s sweet, but she’s also a daddy’s girl, and I freely admit to spoiling her a little. Aaliyah Montgomery doesn’t look like she could wrangle a fly much less an active seven-year-old.
“That’s understandable.” She pauses, inhales an audible breath. Her head tilts to the side, and the full weight of that unwavering stare settles on me. And for the first time, she appears older than her years. “Can I ask you a question?” I spread my hands wide, gesturing for her to ask it. “You made up your mind about not giving me the job before this interview, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” Why lie?
“Will you tell me why?”
I roll my chair forward, propping my forearms on the desk. “Because you don’t belong here,” I say, not sugarcoating shit. “I want to roll you up in Bubble Wrap and ship you back to wherever you came from. You don’t look like you can withstand a Chicago winter, much less life outside of whatever small town you left. I can’t trust that kind of inexperience. Damn sure can’t trust my kid with it.”
Not gon’ lie. I half expect her to bust out in tears. Another thing that’s a strike against her—and they keep adding up. My mouth is reckless as fuck, and anyone around me with thin skin is asking for their feelings to be hurt. I’ve never been savage—well, not with someone who didn’t deserve it—but blunt to a fault? Yeah. And I don’t plan on changing.
“It’s your decision to not offer me this job, and I have no problem with that. What I do have an issue with is you judging me before even officially meeting me.”
She inhales, and when she releases it seconds later, it’s not tears glistening in her eyes. It’s anger. The sight rocks through me like a punch to the chest. Like a stroke to my cock. Fury shouldn’t sit right on her angelic features, but for some reason it fits. As if a missing puzzle piece has been found and fixed into place. And fuck if I don’t find it fascinating.
“You don’t know anything about me, and you haven’t tried to find out. So whether you believe I belong here or not doesn’t matter. It’s what I believe that does. And I know you’re not the first or only person who’s tried to discount me or put me into a box that’s comfortable for them. I also know that proving you and them wrong has become my favorite pastime.”
An unwanted flicker of admiration sparks in my chest, as does curiosity. Who were these other people that supposedly discounted her? Did her move here having anything to do with proving them wrong?
Again—not. My. Fucking. Business.
She rises, smoothing her skirt over her full hips and thick thighs. And my gaze lingers on those curves, how the material hugs them, before I give myself a mental shake and lift my regard to her face. She might’ve come in here dressed like a nun, but that body... Shit, it’s all sinner.
“Thank you for your time,” she says with a nod then spins on her ugly heels, walking toward the door. Dismissing me.
And as I silently study her—the strands of her hair brushing the middle of her shoulder blades, the slim back, flared hips and goddamn beautiful ass—it’s like someone dragged back a curtain, and the thing that has been nagging me becomes crystal clear.
