The Nanny Arrangement (Country Blues)

by Rachel Harris

  Was there room for Hannah in his new world?

  Was her plan doomed for failure before it even began?

  No. Hannah shut down the reckless train of thought with a shake of her head. Pessimism had no place in her mission. Sure, there were a few unexpected potholes, but she’d navigate around them. She had two whole months to prove how well she’d always fit into Deacon’s world, right there by his side.

  As luck would have it, the Steel Drum tour circled back to Charlotte the first weekend in November. That date, as any true Willow Creek native would tell you, coincided with the annual Harvest Festival. Families flocked to the carnival where they ate their weight in fried dough and spent small fortunes on rides and games, but it was Saturday night that held magic.

  The Harvest Moon Dance was the social event of the year, better than Valentine’s Day and prom rolled into one, and from the age of thirteen, girls dreamed of being asked. Hannah had gone tons of times. One year, she’d helped build sets, and another, she handed out refreshments. One year she even assisted the photographer. But what she’d never done, and what she’d always secretly longed to do, was walk through the doors as a guest. As half of a couple in love.

  This year? Hannah was determined to make her dream a reality.

  Deacon spun around, eyes narrowed with worry as he searched the lot, and when he found her standing behind him, a relieved smile curved his lips. Hannah easily returned it.

  Two months, she repeated to herself. Sixty days.

  A lot could happen in sixty days. On The Bachelor and The Bachelorette, entire relationships were formed and proposals handed out in that amount of time. Surely Hannah could rewrite history and change how Deacon saw her, right?

  Yes, she’d royally botched things up in her bedroom, flaunting panties and talking about sex like some sort of nutcase. She’d been flustered and unprepared, and as a result, she’d probably come on too strong—but next time she’d think quicker on her feet.

  Even better, despite yesterday’s crash and burn, there had been a moment…a brief handful of seconds when they’d both been sitting on the bed…where she could’ve sworn the air between them had shifted.

  True, she’d thought that once before—the night that had sent her fleeing to Paris in embarrassment—and she’d been wrong. But that was before she’d truly put herself out there. She’d barely attempted to flirt (and those attempts had sucked), then skipped town at the first sign of failure, without even telling Deacon how she felt.

  In hindsight, she wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d smelled like spit-up. Back then, she’d spent half her time covered in formula or baby food from her daycare job, and never once had she worn makeup or even tried to look feminine. Could she blame him for not seeing her as a woman ready and worthy of his love?

  Now things were different. Thanks to a suitcase filled with silken bravery and a year’s worth of Cosmo inspiration, Hannah felt confident and courageous. Or as close as she’d ever get, anyway. Armed with her new life’s mission, she was ready to tackle whatever setbacks came her way, and this time, she wasn’t conceding defeat until Deacon saw her as the woman she was and asked her to the dance.

  Two months to make Deacon fall madly in love with her?

  Hannah blew out a shaky breath. “Piece of cake.”

  …

  Deacon didn’t believe in luck. In fact, he didn’t believe in fate, falling stars, or wishing wells, either. In his opinion, life was what you made of it, and the only reason he had anything good in his was because he worked damn hard to keep it there. Complacency and entitlement weren’t luxuries a guy like him could afford, so when Tyler clapped his hands together and asked if he’d be ready to board in fifteen minutes, Deacon nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir.”

  Ask anyone in Willow Creek, or back in Greensboro where he’d grown up, and they’d quickly tell you the name Latrell didn’t stand for much. Deacon’s father was a high school dropout who ran off after he was born, and his mother had checked out the day after that. Sure, she’d hung around physically. She’d even shown her face a time or two at school, and at one of Deacon’s varsity basketball games. But mentally, emotionally, and in every other way that truly counted when it came to being a parent, she’d been as absent as his dad. Evidently, boozing had been more important than parenting.

  Fortunately, he’d found the Fishers, and because of Bill, Lois, and Hannah, Max would grow up knowing the true meaning of love and family. But there was one thing Deacon’s biological parents had given him worth keeping—the solid fact that nothing in life was guaranteed. Not love, not food, and certainly not money.

  From a young age, Deacon had learned that if and when something good ever fell into his lap, it was his job to keep it there. To earn it and prove that he deserved it. That’s exactly what he’d set out to do the day Hannah crossed the street and said hello, and ever since then, she’d never once had to wonder if he’d be loyal. Her parents had never had to guess if he was grateful for their help. Deacon showed it to them through his actions.

  Now, another boon had fallen into his lap, an incredible opportunity with an internationally successful country band. It wasn’t set in stone, of course. His contract was specific to the last year of recording the album and the subsequent tour, which meant he had six months to prove himself irreplaceable to both the band and the CEO of Belle Meade Records, Arabella’s father.

  As he stood in the grocery store parking lot watching his two worlds combine, a familiar prompt shot through Deacon’s mind: Boy, you better get to work.

  “Gid-up, horsey!”

  The rhythmic slap of feet on pavement pulled Deacon away from his thoughts. Over in the shaded section of the lot, his little mini-me galloped in a circle without a care in the world. “Gid-up! Woo!”

  Max was a blur of limbs and teeth as he spun around, the smile on his face stretched so wide it should hurt. He dashed across four parking spaces, no doubt seeing some Old West town in his mind, and as he held one arm extended for invisible reins, the other twirled an imaginary lasso over his head. Two months ago, he’d watched Toy Story for the very first time and, needless to say, Woody was his favorite character.

  Deacon grinned. Seeing his son happy and healthy was worth every drop of future sweat this opportunity would demand. Being a part of Blue meant changing his family tree, and because of it, Max would never know what it was like to struggle. He wouldn’t wonder where his next meal would come from, or if there’d be a roof over his head in the morning. He could just be a kid. Silly, carefree, and secure. He’d have the childhood Deacon himself had never had.

  As long as his dad didn’t do anything to screw it up.

  Max trotted over and came to a sudden stop. Tilting his head, he gave Deacon a mischievous smirk before sticking his tongue into the pocket of a chubby cheek and squinting one eye.

  Damn. That looked suspicious.

  Circling his imaginary rope around his head, he aimed for Deacon’s legs, and then flung out his arm and yelled, “Gotcha!”

  Deacon made a show of pressing his legs together and wobbling. “I surrender, sheriff!” He raised his palms in the air. “I surrender, I surrender. Please don’t hurt me.”

  Max snickered, bouncing up and down like a proud kangaroo, and Deacon shook his head with a laugh. The kid had more energy than a carton of Red Bull. Bending down, he scooped his wiggling son into his arms. “Having fun, buddy?”

  “Yup!” A matching set of dimples popped in his cheeks. “Mes a cowboy!”

  “The best cowboy I’ve ever seen,” he replied. “Sheriff Woody would be impressed.” He tickled Max’s stomach, addicted to the sound of his giggles, and as the boy squirmed in his arms, he got a better look at his face and he groaned. “Buddy, we’ve been here a half hour and we’re on a cement parking lot. How did you get so filthy?”

  Blades of grass littered his chocolate-brown spikes, a twig was stuck to his shirt, and dirt was smudged across his forehead. Max shrugged. “Not know.”

 
; Deacon chuckled. What did Charlie call his son, a pint-sized tornado? He had to admit, he was right on the money. “You excited to get on the bus soon?”

  Max nodded eagerly. That, at least, was an improvement. When they’d sat him down last night, trying to explain all the fun they’d be having living on a moving house for the next few months, Max had been less than thrilled. He hated long car rides—or anything that required him to stay still for very long—but thankfully, Hannah had held a trick up her sleeve. She’d promised a special surprise when they got on board, just for him and Tyler’s daughter, Lizzie, and that had been all Max needed to hear.

  Pointing straight ahead, he now declared, “My bus!”

  Deacon followed the pudgy finger toward the Steel Drum caravan, and a knot of anxiety twisted his gut. It was larger than he’d expected. He’d tried to play it cool in front of Hannah and her parents when the entourage pulled into the lot, but until that moment, the tour hadn’t been real. It’d been some far-off, surreal possibility that loomed in the future.

  Now, it had actual wheels.

  Deacon only joined the band last year. In that time, Blue had recorded an album, rehearsed like crazy, and performed on various talk shows promoting the tour, but it hadn’t reached that stage yet. The stage where the crowds were huge, the pressure was constant, and tens of thousands of fans would soon be screaming their names and watching his every move.

  When you performed live, so much could go wrong. You could miss a cue, fumble a chord, or trip over an amp. Too much was riding on him getting this right, and whether he was used to hard work or not, Deacon’s track record wasn’t the best. He still made mistakes—plenty of them. But this wasn’t something he could afford to screw up.

  Max wiggled in his arms again, swinging his hand to the right. “My Hannah.”

  Like a soothing balm, the anxiety twisting Deacon’s gut loosened. Thank God Hannah was back. She was his center of gravity, the calm in his storm. With her by his side, on tour with them, he could handle anything.

  Fixing his gaze ahead, Deacon watched her lift a hand to her mouth, curl it into a fist instead, and then fling it behind her back before she could bite it. But he’d caught it. He wished she could see herself the way he did. The way he always had. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Tyler and the guys would love her and ask her to stay on for the international leg of the tour. How could they not?

  One by one, his friends proved him right, taking turns officially welcoming her to the Blue family. As they each scooped her into a hug, Lois and Bill stood by her side smiling with pride.

  Another puzzle piece clicked into place.

  Then Nate stepped forward. With a covert look at Deacon over his shoulder, he leaned down and swept Hannah into his arms. The back of Deacon’s teeth clicked.

  After she’d accepted the nanny job back in Magnolia Springs, Nate had asked him if Hannah was single. Blame it on the fact that she’d been gone for fourteen months and had suddenly reappeared without warning on his doorstep two days prior, but Deacon had nearly taken his new friend’s head off. Yeah, he wanted Hannah to be happy and knew she’d settle down eventually, but she was too good, too innocent, too sweet to get mixed up with country music’s biggest playboy.

  Of course, warning Nate off only opened him up for this.

  Holding Hannah close, Nate rocked her from side to side, his thick arms banded around her for way longer than was necessary. Over his shoulder, a confused wrinkle formed between Hannah’s brows, but then he set her down and squeezed her arm with sisterly affection. Walking away, back toward the buses, Nate shot him a smirk.

  Under his breath, Deacon muttered, “My Hannah.”

  Too late, he realized his mistake.

  Max stilled in his arms, a scary phenomenon on its own when dealing with a two-year-old, pint-sized tornado, and then his son’s face morphed into an angry scowl. Max was still working on the concept of sharing. So far, it wasn’t going that hot.

  Fighting a smile, and hoping like hell to avoid a mini tantrum, Deacon adjusted his grip. “Hey, buddy, remember how I said Hannah was Daddy’s best friend?”

  Max nodded hesitantly but side-eyed him, too, like he wasn’t sure where this was going. That made two of them.

  “Well, Daddy missed her a whole lot while she was gone,” he explained, “and I’m really happy she’s coming on tour with us. I want to spend as much time with her as I possibly can. But because you’re my little man and I love you so much, I’m willing to share her with you.” Leaning forward, he lowered his voice like he was confiding a secret. “Only you, though.” He hesitated and then added, “Well, and Lizzie, too.”

  That was the magic word.

  Instantly, Max’s face brightened and he squirmed to get down. Laughing, Deacon pressed a swift kiss on his son’s dimpled cheek and set him on the ground, Max’s feet already running in midair. “Lizzie! Lizzie!”

  At least avoiding tantrums would be a whole lot easier with Tyler’s daughter around these next few months.

  As Max sprinted across the lot, the entire band turned to watch. Lizzie jumped in Sherry’s arms and began chanting, “Ma! Ma!” while clapping her tiny hands. That’d be one-year-old speak for Max.

  Twenty-two months apart, the children had bonded the second they met. Lizzie followed wherever Max went, first scooting around in his shadow and now toddling after him, and the little sweetheart brought out a calmer side to Max. He was still a handful, of course. He was a Latrell, after all. But thanks to Lizzie, he was a slightly more sedate handful.

  Tyler frowned as his baby daughter gazed up at Max with puppy love affection, and Deacon lifted his shoulders as if to say, what can you do? To his delight, the lead singer’s scowl only deepened. Raising a boy was so much easier.

  A soft laugh came from beside him, and Lois slipped her hand around Deacon’s arm. Together, they watched the children converse in their secret, squealing language. When Max pressed a palm to his open mouth and blew Lizzie a kiss, Hannah’s mother chortled.

  “Woo, boy! Already breaking hearts. That apple sure didn’t fall far.”

  Deacon feigned shock. “Ms. Fisher, are you implying I’m a flirt?”

  Lois harrumphed. “There was no implying about it. I came right out and said it. My boy, you’ve been a charmer all your life, and that beautiful son of yours is following right along in his daddy’s footsteps.”

  His entire body tensed. Though it was moderately better than taking after his mother—the egg donor who’d jumped ship after Max was born—the last thing Deacon wanted was for his son to be like him, or to make the same mistakes he’d made. Hell, he was the reason Max didn’t have two parents like his friends did. Krista never forgave him for getting her pregnant and ruining her life, and she never let him forget it, either.

  No, Deacon wanted Max to be the good guy, the hero of the story. To be worthy of the princess in his life.

  Aloud, he said, “Don’t let Max hear you say that. He told me last week that cowboys don’t play music, they ride horses, and the fiddle hurts his ears.” Deacon shrugged. “Since he likes throwing things, I grabbed a mini Nerf basketball goal for the bus. Maybe that’ll take.”

  “Training him early,” Bill cut in, appearing beside them with an approving nod. “I like it. We’ll make a Tar Heel out of him yet.”

  Deacon laughed, and Bill opened his arms. Lois walked right into them, pressed her head against her husband’s chest, and sank into his hold. Just for a second, Deacon envied them.

  What would it be like, to have what they had? Someone to lean on, someone to hold and care for who was truly yours. The love the Fishers shared was palpable. It always had been. Before they’d come into his life, Deacon hadn’t known a love like that existed, but the two of them were a unit. Together with Hannah, they watched out for and cared for one another, unconditionally and without reservation.

  What made it even stranger was that they extended that affection to him.

  Since the day Hannah had brou
ght him home, they had been his surrogate family. Lois listened, she hugged, and her gentle spirit had tamed some of his anger back in high school. Bill had taught him what it meant to be a man, and later on, how to be a father. After Hannah left for Paris, he’d even become a friend. Their weekly check-ins were often the glue that held Deacon together, and he’d looked forward to the Sunday night phone calls where Bill slipped in nuggets of wisdom between complaints about the Tar Heels’ or Panthers’ clock management.

  A few feet away, the first bus roared to life. As Hannah walked over to join them, Lois’s warm eyes grew misty.

  “Guess it’s about that time,” Deacon murmured.

  Bill pressed a kiss to his wife’s hair, and she stepped out of his arms. “I gave that nice Arabella girl a cooler full of casseroles, and there’s also a box of cookies and homemade granola with your things. It’s up to you if you want to share with the others,” she whispered conspiratorially. “That should get the two of you started, but if you ever have an address I can ship to, I’ll send more boxes overnight.”

  Hannah sighed and shook her head in amusement. “We’ll be fine, Mama. Believe it or not, I know my way around a kitchen. You taught me everything you know.”

  “Almost everything,” Lois corrected with a wink. “I’ve got to keep some recipes secret or I’ll never see the two of you. Always so busy, exploring and jet-setting. Which explains why you’re both so thin.”

  With a disapproving tsk, she threw her hands in the air, and Deacon and Hannah shared a look. Here came the lecture.

  “Paris and New Orleans,” she began. “You two realize you’ve lived in food capitals of the world, yet you’re both skin and bones. Hannah, you have two little ones to keep up with, and Deacon”—she swung her slate-blue eyes in his direction—“you’ll be performing every night. How can you do that if you don’t keep up your strength?” She clucked her tongue. “Wasting away won’t do the band or Max any good.”