I shake it off, sitting up straighter. “Sorry, Mom. And I apologize, Ms. Kind.”

Kerry’s lips twitch like she’s biting back a remark.

I clear my throat. “Actually, Mom, would you mind if I showed Ms. Kind around? I’d like to introduce her to the girls myself.”

I need to observe how she interacts with them. We can end this torture right now.

Mom smiles. “I think that’s a lovely idea, Vic.”

Yet, Kerry calls out my hypocrisy. “Didn’t you just tell me to leave you alone?”

I ignore her comment and take Kerry’s bag, where, for the briefest second, our hands brush.

Electricity. I freeze, just for a fraction of a moment, before recovering.

“Thank you, Mr. Grimes,” she says smoothly, her voice low. There’s an edge to it, a hint of teasing, and I swear she’s doing this on purpose.

How the hell am I supposed to maintain any semblance of professionalism with her standing here, looking like that, speaking like that, stirring up every damn feeling I haven’t felt in years?

I need to get a grip.

When Mom leaves the room to tend to a business matter, I lead Kerry towards the study, each step heavier than the last, burdened by the weight of my internal conflict and the undeniable attraction that I must, for my daughters’ sake, resist.

“So,” I start in a measured tone, trying to keep the tour professional. “Give it to me straight. Are you a teacher or a nanny? Didn’t know you could be both.”

She comes to a complete stop, commanding my attention. “I’ll be honest. I don’t know a dang on thing about nannying, but I’m a great teacher. And I promise to love your kids like my own.”

Her passionate assurance is convincingly reassuring. “I’ll hold you to that, Kerry,” I respond, appreciating her candor. “Considering your impressive teaching background, I’m confident you understand the value of a well-structured routine. You should have received an email detailing the girls’ weekly schedule, including Ari’s piano and voice lessons and Syd’s physical therapy sessions. Please ensure these are synced to your calendar. My staff will help keep things on track.”

We continue the tour, entering my massive kitchen. “This is where the girls will have their meals.”

Kerry’s demeanor is cool, almost as if our fiery exchanges never happened. “Do they have any specific dietary needs or food allergies I should be aware of?” She asks, her voice steady and focused.

“Everything you need to know is listed on the fridge. Breakfast is at 7:30, lunch at noon, pre-supper at 3:30, and dinner at 6 PM sharp.” I reply, gesturing toward the detailed pinned notes. “But don’t worry about food. I’ll prepare and cook everything according to their preferences, and yours too.”