by Mia Carson
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
FEUD
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Author
NANNY WANTED
Mia Carson
Contents
COPYRIGHT
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
FEUD
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Author
COPYRIGHT
No part of this publication can be reproduced in any form without the express permission of the publisher.
Copyright
Mia Carson
All Rights Reserved
1
Remy stuffed the tissue back into the sleeve of her black dress. The ceremony was beautiful and the overcast day was just what old Mr. Bayard would have wanted at his funeral. The few remaining family members he had—all distant cousins and their children—stood and patted her warmly on the shoulder.
“He always spoke so highly of you,” Emily, Mr. Bayard’s great-niece said, fighting tears as she clutched a handkerchief in her hand. “I’m so glad he had you all these years, to be there for him and take care of him.” A sob cut off her words, and Remy hurried to stand, holding the woman close.
“Me too. He was a good man,” she assured Emily.
“He left a few items for you in his will as well as three months’ salary to keep you going for a while longer. I’m sorry we can’t offer you another job, unless you want to move out of state.”
Remy shook her head, smiling sadly. “It’s all right, really. I don’t think I could ever leave Connecticut.”
“Of course.” Emily squeezed her hand and turned to stare at the shining coffin with flowers draped over it. “It’s going to take us forever to go through that house.”
“Actually, maybe not,” Remy told her.
“What do you mean?”
“Your great uncle had a feeling, I think, that he was close to the end.” Remy sucked in a deep breath as the tears threatened to fall down her cheeks again. “Everything’s organized and sorted out for you. Labeled with little notes attached to the top of what’s to be done with it.”
Emily’s eyes glistened with tears, and she suddenly clung to Remy, sobbing hard against her shoulder. “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough for being there with him.”
Remy held the woman tightly and they cried together. Mr. Bayard was one of three families—though he was alone—that she helped take care of. For him, it was cleaning his house and ensuring he got outside and walked, stayed active as much as possible, and went to his doctor’s appointments. She also made sure the nurse who came to see him three times a week didn’t get shoved out the door because Mr. Bayard wasn’t in a good enough mood to see him. The other two families had children. and she was essentially their nanny when the children were out of school or in the evenings if their parents couldn’t be home in time. Each family touched her life as she now realized how much she touched theirs, and it killed her that all three jobs were ending at the same time. Mr. Bayard’s condition had worsened over the last month, and the other two families were moving out of state. Both offered to give her a full-time job and a room in their new mansion if she wanted to move, but Connecticut was Remy’s home. She was happy there, and another family around who could use her services would appear.
Emily finally drew back, wiping at her eyes and blowing her nose loudly. “You’re coming to the luncheon at the house, right?”
“Of course I will. I’ll head over now to make sure everything’s ready to go.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’ll be my final service to the Bayard family.” Remy squeezed her arm and smiled softly. “See you in a little while.”
She walked through the elaborate gravestones to where her car was parked in the lineup. She slid behind the wheel of the new BMW and glided slowly out of the cemetery towards Mr. Bayard’s home for the final time. Hartford was a beautiful town, but it was the gated communities outside of it where Remy spent so much of her time. Her parents, George and Abbey, warned her she spent far too much time worrying about these other families than she did herself, but she enjoyed her work very much, and it had nothing to do with the pay.
Almost nothing. For a twenty-five-year-old with a four-year degree in hospitality, she hadn’t expected to have a job right out of college until the day she saw the flyer for someone—anyone—willing to play maid to an old man. She needed a job and didn’t want to move back in with her parents after enjoying stretching her legs while living on campus and listen to them nag her about finding a job. She took the flyer and called the number. The second she met Mr. Bayard and saw what he needed around his home, she realized this was her true calling. She could be there for someone who was lonely and needed an almost OCD person to help clean up and keep appointments. Remy admitted there were times she forgot what day it was and wrapped herself up in her art, but when she was with these families, she was perfectly on point. The idea of running a hotel of her own was a far distant dream now. Helping these families, being that extra support, was too rewarding.
She pulled up the long drive to the white stone mansion and sat with her car idling out front. A grin stretched across her face as she remembered her first day with Mr. Bayard. He was stubborn, but so was she, and after a week, he let her in more and more. They would take walks in his expansive gardens, smelling the roses and sitting beneath the shade of a great, tall oak. He’d told her so many stories of his life, and she’d shared some of her art with him, which she rarely even showed her parents.
“Well, old man,” she whispered to the silence in her car, “I guess this really is goodbye.” Steeling her nerves and trying not to lose it again, she turned off her car and walked inside.
A few hours later, she finally pulled herself away from the family laughing loudly and drinking the only thing Mr. Bayard enjoyed: thirty-year-old scotch. Most of them were drunk when Remy reached the front door, but they assured her no one was leaving. She gave Emily a final hug as she told Remy the box of items would be sent to her, along with the money, as soon as everything was cleared by the lawyers. Remy sat in her car and tapped the steering wheel, not wanting to go home right away. She needed a drink herself, but not scotch. Callie, her friend since first grade, lived not too far from Remy’s house, so she drove there first without texting.
When she reached the apartment door, the warm, spring, afternoon sun finally showing its head, Remy knocked four times before her friend finally an
swered. “Hey! What’s with the black get up?” Callie asked, confused, as she stepped aside so Remy could enter.
“Mr. Bayard’s funeral was today, remember?” she said. “Do you have anything to drink?”
“Do I have anything to drink?” her friend mocked as she walked to a cabinet by the fridge. “Pick your poison, girlie.”
“Anything, as long as it’s not scotch.” Remy slumped into a chair at the tiny, diner-style table and rested her chin on her arms. “I’m going to miss that old man. He was like my damn grandpa, you know?”
“I know,” Callie said gently and brought over two shot glasses of tequila. “To the grandpa?”
Remy grinned and picked up her shot glass in a toast with Callie. “To the grandpa.”
They shot the liquor back. Remy sucked in a breath and smacked her lips as Callie cringed and gagged. “I don’t know how you drink this shit,” she muttered, giving her head a shake and sending her red hair flying in all directions. “Damn. Now I need scotch to wash out the tequila.”
“I have some free time until I find another job. You up for taking a road trip with me? Go down to New Orleans, maybe?” Remy asked, tapping the glass absently on the table.
Callie didn’t answer right away, and Remy jumped when she heard a very male groan echo from down the short hall leading to the bedroom. Remy looked at her friend with an arched brow and a smirk.
“You forget to tell me something?” she accused with a quiet laugh.
“Babe! Where are you?” the groaning man called out.
Callie’s face turned three shades of red as Remy laughed louder and noticed her half-dressed state and mussed hair, smudged makeup, and lack of bra beneath a t-shirt that was clearly too big for her.
“Why did you let me in here if you have a guy over?” Remy asked through her cackles.
“Because a good friend always opens her door for a friend,” Callie stated. “In the kitchen, baby!”
“Baby,” Remy repeated in a whisper, and Callie shot her a look. “Wow. Just wow.”
Callie chucked the dishtowel at her as the man in question stomped down the hall wearing jeans slung low on his hips and nothing else. He grinned and went straight for Callie as if Remy was not clearly sitting at the kitchen table. Callie giggled as he nuzzled her neck and ran his hands straight up under the shirt to grab her ass. Remy gasped and whipped her head around when she received a nice view of parts of her friend she’d only seen one time by accident when they were in high school. The sounds of them kissing and her quiet moan was all the cue Remy needed to know it was clearly time to leave.
“Right, I’ll…uh, call you later,” she said loudly, clearing her throat.
“Oh, shit,” the man said. “Sorry, I wasn’t even thinking. Callie’s got me all twisted around.”
Remy turned, keeping a hand over her eyes just in case until her friend told her to knock it off. She peeked through her fingers to be sure, winking at Callie. “Remy Reagan, the friend.”
“So you’re Remy! She’s been talking about you all morning,” the man said cheerily and held out his hand for her to shake. “Matt.”
“Nice to meet you, Matt. How long have you two been…you know, dating?” she asked, emphasizing the last word with a wide-eyed stare at their half-naked bodies.
“A week,” Matt said and draped his arm over Callie’s shoulders, kissing the top of her head.
“A week, that’s awesome. Congrats on the week mile marker. Hope week two is just as fiery.” Remy stood quickly. “Callie, I’ll call you later.”
“You don’t have to go if you want to hang out longer.”
Remy shrugged and jangled her keys. “Nah, I need to start job hunting again anyway. Mr. Bayard gave me a few months’ pay to get me through, but I don’t think my parents want me hanging around the house doing what they call my art disasters.”
“I happen to like your art,” Callie said, frowning. “As do several other people who have purchased pieces.”
“That was you and Mr. Bayard,” Remy reminded her quietly. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Matt, nice to meet you. Hope to see you around again…preferably with more clothes on both of you. I’m going into the hospitality business, not pornos.”
Matt burst out laughing and Callie’s cheeks reddened even more, clashing with her red hair. “Get out of here, girlie,” she teased and gave Remy a friendly shove towards the door. “I promise I’ll tell you all about Matt later,” she added in a whisper.
“I look forward to it. I’ll bring the tequila.” She earned an eye-roll before she slipped out of the apartment and strolled back to her car in the parking lot.
Once she was home, she would put a call in to the temp agency she found the other two families through and let them know she was available for a new family. Until then, it was nothing but a waiting game and wondering how long she could deal with her parents worrying about her never officially moving out of the house and getting on with her life.
And taking her art studio with her. Remy grinned as she drove home. “I think it’s time to start a new project. Let’s see how much Mom can handle this time before she does one of her famous over dramatic sighs.”
2
“I’m not putting up with this for another minute.”
Stanford grumbled under his breath at his housekeeper’s yelling coming towards his workshop. He didn’t bother to look up when the door slammed open, shaking the walls and rattling his tools and the table he worked on.
“Mr. Wellington, did you hear me? I said I’m not going to do it.”
“Then quit. You know where the door is,” he said flatly, still not looking up from his work.
Stephanie slammed the morning paper down on his worktable, nearly knocking over the antique Winchester Model Lever Action Rifle from 1894. He glared at her, grabbing the rifle quickly before it crashed to the floor. “Do you mind?”
“Actually, no,” she said, gritting her teeth as she smiled at him. “I don’t mind at all.”
“What’s wrong this time?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t go away until she had her usual daily rant about something he had done—or, rather, didn’t care to do.
“The gardener. He quit and the yard is a mess. I can’t possibly be expected to take care of the house and the bloody yard. I won’t do it!”
“When did he quit? The yard can’t be that bad.”
Stephanie’s eyes narrowed more as she leaned down so they were at eye level. “Three weeks ago. Haven’t you noticed the lawns are overgrown, and the garden, and the beautiful rose bushes? All of it’s ruined.”
Stan’s hands fell to the arms of his current seat. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t notice. I haven’t exactly been outside to play in the yard in a while, or tinker in the garden. Oh, wait, that’s right. Because I can’t.” His yell echoed around his workshop, but it did little to dissuade Stephanie.
“You have been in that damn wheelchair for months because you have given up.”
Grinding his teeth, he rolled away from the table and pushed himself towards the main house. “I didn’t ask to be in a damn boating accident,” he grumbled.
“No one asks to be in an accident, Mr. Wellington, but most people want to recover. You’re just too damn prideful to let anyone see you in that damn thing to get help. Either that or you’ve decided you like turning into a damn hermit.”
“You think I don’t want to be better?” he snapped, turning his chair to block her. “You think I enjoy sitting down all day and not being able to walk three steps without falling on my face? Or being in so much pain I can’t think straight most days?”
Stephanie’s face softened for a second before she gave her head a little shake and straightened. “Mr. Wellington, your gardener quit—along with the rest of your household staff, I might add—because they couldn’t stand working for a man who’s become impossible to be around. You’re sulky and rude, and you hardly speak to anyone anymore. You have stopped caring for yourself, for the house—hell, I’m not
even sure how your business is still running.”
“Like a well-oiled machine, as it has for nearly two-hundred years,” he informed her. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that I am very close to following everyone else if you don’t get your shit together.”
Stan bristled in his chair. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew most of his staff had quit but hadn’t realized it was so long ago. His eyes wandered to the path and the overgrown grass and weeds as far as he could see. After the accident, he had tried to be hopeful and do the work, to go to his therapy sessions so he could get out of this damn wheelchair.
But he wasn’t the only victim in that boating accident and guilt weighed heavily on him, dragging him down deeper and deeper every day until he sank into a melancholy state he couldn’t shake, no matter what he did. His hand twitched in his lap, remembering the other bodies they’d pulled from the water. The accident hadn’t been his fault, but the guilt was still there. His friend had walked away with minor scratches while Stan and the other boater took the brunt of the hit. The other man was still in a coma as far as Stan knew, but his brother had died in the accident. Though the police had told them several times that James (the boater who was currently in a coma) was at fault, his family blamed Stan for their losses.
“Mr. Wellington?” Stephanie asked gently.
“What do I have to do for you to stay here? At least for a while longer?”
She pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “Caring would be nice.”
“I can’t force myself to care about a garden I can’t even enjoy.”
“I meant care about yourself, idiot,” she told him sternly. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Stop acting like a hurt little puppy who ruined his new toy. It was a boat. You could buy a fleet of them if you wanted.”
Immediately, he shrugged his shoulder so her hand fell away and pushed away from her, guiding himself into the kitchen door. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” he snapped. “Stay or don’t stay, I don’t give a damn.”