Page 156 of The Nanny

I can practically hear her clicking her heels together. She’s probably doing a little dance in her kitchen as we speak, thinking that her granddaughter is finally going to settle down with a nice wolf who will give her and my grandpa grandchildren. It makes me feel that much more guilty. Thinking about the model trains strengthens my resolve though.

“I have to meet him. When can I meet him? You could bring him to dinner... You haven’t been to visit in too long, honey. It would be so nice to see you and your new friend.”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “I told you, it’s new. We’re taking things slow. I don’t want to jinx it, you know? It could... make things awkward at work, you know?”

“At least give me a name, will you?”

I panic, unable to think of a single name. There are dozens of eligible fake boyfriends working on my floor at this exact moment, and I can’t recall a single name. Is this punishment for lying to Gran? Is the universe cursing me for being a bad granddaughter? I can feel my hippocampus practically melting into a puddle of goo in my head, blanking on even one syllable that might wrap up my poorly-planned lie in a neat little bow.

“Oh, well...” I can feel my mouth going dry as I scramble for something,anything. “His name? His name is—”

Now, I can count on one hand the number of hospital staff at Denver Memorial that I don’t vibe with. One of the benefits of being one of the youngest ER doctors (at twenty-nine) is that everyone on staff treats you like the baby, and while itcanget annoying sometimes, it means that I have made very few enemies while working here over the last year. In fact, I would even go so far as to say that most people I’ve met while working herelikeme. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t exceptions. I mean, I’m likable, I think. As long as the other party in question isn’t trying to sniff my neck.

However, that isn’t to say that every one of my work relationships are all sunshine and roses. And of course, it’s with this thought that the break room door opens from across the room, revealing thick, midnight hair that nearly grazes the top of the doorframe attached to the massive form of one of the few physicians that fall into the “don’t vibe with” category. His permanent frown set in a wide pink mouth turns my way, settled below piercing blue eyes that regard me in the same way they always have in the time I’ve known him—a stern look that says he’s unhappy to have another living, breathing person in the same room he’s entered. And of course, because the universe seems to be punishing me for my white lies before I can even finish getting them out—it ishisname, unfortunately, that is the first one that my brain seems to be able to formulate.

“Noah,” I tell Gran in a hushed tone, so that he can’t hear me. “His name is Noah Taylor.”

Gran is gushing, her voice fading as I watch the surliest shifter I’ve ever met give me his back in order to crowd the coffee pot, gears turning in my head. It’s not theworstidea I’ve ever had, I think. I mean, it’s certainly not the best, but there are more terrible options. Probably. And besides, it’s not like he would actually have to meet her or anything. Maybe he snaps a picture with me and cracks a smile for the first time in his entire life. That could give me at least a few weeks reprieve, right? What could be the harm in an innocent little picture? Surely even Noah Taylor takes selfies.

Actually, I wouldn’t put money on that, now that I think about it.

“Gran, I need to get back to work,” I say, cutting off her incessant line of questioning that I can’t hear anymore anyway. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“All right, but I want more details when you do. Don’t think this is the last of this conversation.”

“Right,” I tell her, absolutely knowing it isn’t. “Sure thing.”

I’m still staring at Noah’s back as he pours coffee into his mug, watching his wide shoulders rise and fall with a sigh after what must have been a long night. Noah is an interventional cardiologist on staff at the hospital, not to mention the head of his department, and he comes in pretty high demand. Anyone that walks through our doors with a bad ticker gets an instant referral, and from what I can tell, the guy might actually sleep here. I’m not convinced he hasn’t made a den (no pun intended, especially since our kind haven’t slept in dens in like, a century) of some sort inthe basement. He’s been working here far longer than I have, years even—but it took me only one meeting to recognize how much of an ass he is. Especially since in our first meeting he said that I “barely looked old enough to tie a suture.” Let’s just say he’s not one to rub elbows with his fellow shifters for camaraderie’s sake alone.

He catches me staring when he finally turns to take a sip from his cup, one perfect brow raising in question as he notices me. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe,” I say honestly. “What sort of night have you had?”

He looks uncertain as to why I would ask the question, or why I would even care in the first place, pausing for a moment before he huffs out a breath.

“Horrible, if you must know,” he tells me. “Two heart attacks. Back to back. I’ve placed seven stents in the last five hours. And if that isn’t enough, now I have to deal with the damn board and their ignorant—” He narrows his eyes, seeming to realize he’s actually holding a conversation with a fellow employee that doesn’t involve glowering. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, because... professional courtesy? You looked... tired. Sounds like you had one hell of a night.”

Noah appears unimpressed by my attempt at friendly conversation. I think idly it’s probably the first time anyone has ever attempted it with him. “Exactly. So forgive me if I’m not up to chat.”

I roll my eyes. “As if that’s anything new.”

“Right,” he says flatly, holding up his mug. “I think I’ll take this in my office.”

“No, wait!”

Noah turns, that perplexed expression still etched into his features as he’s probably realizing that this is the longest conversation he and I have had in at least the last six months; I can’t actually remember the last time he returned my politehellowhen Ipass him in the corridor, now that I think about it. I think the last time we spoke, he told me my shoe was untied without even slowing his pace. I’m not sure that even counts as conversation.

He’s looking at me with annoyance now, like I’m burning his precious time. “Yes?”

I can’t believe I’m considering asking the Abominable Ass of Colorado to help me. It might be the worst idea I’ve ever had, but I’m in it now.

“I was wondering”—I know I’m going to regret this—“if you would take a picture with me.”

Noah looks utterly confused. “Pardon?”

“A picture. Maybe you could smile in it too? I’m willing to pay. In better coffee, or snacks—” He looks like he doesn’t know the definition of the word, and honestly, that tracks. “Okay, so no snacks. Whatever you want. I just need a picture.”

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