Page 155 of The Nanny

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Please allow me to get this off my chest first and foremost:holy fool of a Took, I published a book.

And by “I published a book,” I mean a fantastic team of people—that I do not deserve and will never fully be able to express my gratitude toward—did a million things that I am not smart enough to comprehend to put my words out in the world all while petting my hair and assuring me that “they’ve got this.” Let’s acknowledge the true heroes, eh?

In no particular order:

Cindy Hwang, my wonderful editor, who practically plucked me out of the gutter and pushed a metaphorical pen in my hand and said:go forth and be dirty. Meeting her changed my life for the very best, and how she continues to put up with my shenanigans and barrage of constant needy emails is beyond me, but I am forever grateful for it; Jessica Watterson, an actual angel in agent form, who is kind enough to withstand more anxious texts and emails than one person should ever have to endure, all while (as one does while dealing with me) petting my hair and telling me everything is going to be great; The Real Ones™: a group of ladies that are also kind enough to endure several lengthy rants that mostly consists of:omg I can’t do this is this terrible should I hide in my closetallwhile (you guessed it) petting my hair and telling me everything is going to be great; my tall girlfriend for always, always,alwaysbeing there to yell at me about how great I am even when I don’t believe it (rarely ever), and for being a constant bright spot in a sometimes dreary space; my meemaw (she’s not much older than me, but her spirit is that of a meemaw, and we love her for it) who read this book at least four dozen times in various bits and pieces all while (Is this joke old yet?) petting my hair and telling me I was an idiot for doubting myself; my common-law wife, who got so good at recognizing an impending meltdown that she can now just look at my face and say:Do we need to go to the office and talk? Not much of a hair petter, that one, but her voice of reason kept me sane on more days than I’d like to admit; my emotional support girlfriend, who has stuck by me through the worst of times even when I wasn’t sure I deserved it, always knows exactly what I need to hear and who has yet to forsake me for my terrible puns like the saint she is, and they arepun-ishingly bad;myactualgrandmother (non-meemaw type), who put a Johanna Lindsey book in my hand one summer and was cool enough not to tell my mom there was (gasp)sexin it—I would not be here without it; to the rest of my family for proudly shouting about this sexy book to all who would listen because that’stheirdaughter/sister/cousin/niece that’s writing that smut, thank you very much; Jessica Mangicaro and Kristin Cipolla for their superior taste in dad jokes and Taylor Swift (respectively) and for making me think people might actually want to read this book (and for being awesome at convincingothersthat they want to read this book); Angela Kim for enduring a barrage of emails from a certain author who will remain nameless during the stressful catastrophe that is copyedits (and always being incredibly helpful and generally lovely, despite her questionable taste in Batman portrayals); my therapist (yes, I am thanking my therapist) for stitching me up and putting me back together during the last couple of years. Can confirm I am only here because of her kindness, her wisdom, and her ability to sit through hours of me rambling all while petting my hair and telling me—(okay, you get it); Monica Roe for the amazing cover, as well as everyone at Penguin Creative (special shout-out to an amazing Art Director, Rita Frangie, for showing me that blue was the obvious choice for the cover color, we stan a visionary genius); Alaina Christensen, Alissa Theodor, and Kristin del Rosario for doing such an amazing job on design and graphics and making those message exchanges reallypop(they made the book *chef’s kiss*); everyone at Berkley who did all those million things that made this book possible; to every single person who has popped into my DMs and guided me through the strange land that is social media, adopting me into their little communities, shouting about the concept of this book, the excerpts—but mostly for putting up with my ramblings and my inability to have casual conversations; and toyou, dear reader, for picking up this book, for sifting through my babbling gratitude (if you’ve made it this far), for making thisreal.

When I look back at my fifteen-year-old self—sitting in her room with a bulky, Gateway desktop—pecking away at Microsoft Word and trying to write some strange (and truly awful) romance novel because she couldn’t get enough of the books she’d been swiping from her grandmother’s shelf... I can honestly say that that girl had no idea she would someday have herown booksitting on shelves (even her grandmother’s, because she is quite frankly, the coolest, and has, at the time of writing this, preordered a copy). Every step of this journey has been surreal, and fun, and terrifying, andincredible.No matter what happens going forwards, I am happy to look back at that gangly, starry-eyed teenager and know that she did it, even when she never dreamt she could.

Oh, and to that person I steal the covers from... thank you for keeping me starry eyed, after all thistime.

KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

The Fake Mate

THE NEXT BERKLEY ROMANCE NOVEL BY LANAFERGUSON

Mackenzie

I’m seeing someone.”

In retrospect, the lie comes much easier than I thought it would. It feels icky lying to the woman who has raised me since I was twelve, but in the face of my seventh bad date (or has it been eight, now? I’ve honestly lost count) in three months—it also feels necessary.

My grandmother Moira has a reaction that is as immediate as it is expected. “What? Who? Someone from work? Is it someone I know?”

I know if I don’t shut down this line of questioning quickly, it will spiral into a full-blown interrogation.

“No,” I say quickly into the phone. “You don’t know him.”

I think that this part at least isn’t as much of a lie, since I don’t know him either. Since, ah... he doesn’t exist.

My grandmother means well, she does, but her taste in men—be they humanorshifter—is downright terrible. I have been to movies with shifter model-train experts that wanted to scent me on the first date. I have gotten coffee with human data analysts who asked if I could somehow keep my tail in human form (I don’t even want to explore the thought process there); every bad date has only solidified the idea that I am better off focusing on my work rather than my grandmother’s wishful thinking that I will find a nice man to settle down with and give her a litter of grandchildren. As if I don’t have enough to deal with. Sometimes I think Gran is no better than the dates she sends me off with when it comes to my omega status.

It’s rare, what I am, but it doesn’t make me allthatdifferent from any other shifter. Maybe in the past it did, back when shifters were still living in secret underground hierarchy systems unbeknownst to everyone else, but now it just means that I have an annoying stigma following me around that I’m somehow better in bed than other shifters. That I’m better off barefoot and pregnant than participating in the working class. I swear, anyone I’ve ever told has expected me to spontaneously go into heat at whim.

That is why I mostly keep it to myself nowadays.

“How long have you been seeing him? How old is he? Is he a shifter? I know how busy you are, dear, but I’m not getting any younger, and it would be so nice to hear the pitter-patter of—”

“Gran, it iswaytoo soon to be thinking that far ahead.” I shudder at the thought of crying babies. “It hasn’t been that long. It’s still new. Like, very new. Practically still has the plastic wrap on it.”

“Oh, Mackenzie, why didn’t you tell me? Are you trying to break my heart?”

“You know work has been insane. We’ve had four bar fights in the last month—not to mention the pileups from all the black ice we’ve been getting... It’s been an utter nightmare in the ER. Ithink I’m getting carpal tunnel from all the stitches I’ve administered lately.”

“You work too hard dear, couldn’t they transfer you somewhere not so... fast-paced?”

It’s a question she asks often, but she knows my answer already. I love working in the ER. Even after the most harrowing of days, I go to bed at night knowing that I’m saving lives.

“Gran...”

“Right, right. So tell me about your mystery man. At least give me a species, dear.”

Human would be safer—since it’s harder for interspecies couples to procreate, but I know the most obvious choice to keep her appeased.

“He’s a shifter,” I say, still feeling icky for lying. “You’d love him.” I make a quick decision based solely on knowing that Gran will see right through me if I try to say I met my mystery man anywhere else, since I don’t reallygoanywhere else. “I met him at work.”

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