Coaching the nanny pract.., p.1
Coaching the Nanny: Practically Perfect Nannies, page 1
Coaching the Nanny
Practically Perfect Nannies
Alexa Padgett
Sidecar Press, Inc.
Copyright © 2022 by Alexa Padgett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Jessica Royer Ocken
Cover design by Gabrielle Brown
Contents
Coaching the Nanny
Coaching the Nanny
Prologue
1. Paloma
2. Silas
3. Paloma
4. Silas
5. Paloma
6. Silas
7. Paloma
8. Silas
9. Paloma
10. Silas
11. Paloma
12. Silas
13. Paloma
14. Silas
15. Paloma
16. Silas
17. Silas
18. Silas
19. Paloma
20. Silas
21. Silas
22. Paloma
23. Silas
24. Paloma
25. Silas
26. Paloma
27. Silas
28. Paloma
29. Silas
30. Paloma
31. Silas
32. Paloma
33. Paloma
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of Cormac’s Book
Cormac
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also By Alexa Padgett
Check out The Overseas Nanny Mistake
Coaching the Nanny
by Alexa Padgett
Coaching the Nanny
He's sexy as sin, and I'm one shot from falling for the hockey coach and single dad.
I loved being a Nanny with all my heart.
But when my charges grew up and hit me with the reality that as much as I loved them, they were someone else’s kids, I didn’t think I could do it again.
Until I met the little firecracker Beatrix Whittaker. She’s young, angry, and so in need of love. Within moments, she’s stolen a piece of my heart that I didn’t realize I had left to give. Her uncle, sexy-as-sin hockey coach Silas Whittaker, had me the moment his sultry, soul-searing eyes promised all my dreams.
Like the girl he cares for, he’s jaded and broken by his childhood—not to mention in way over his head parenting for the first time. He knows nothing about children and even less about families.
That’s where I come in. Putting it in hockey terms he understands, I’m the fixer. I’m not sure if I can fix their issues, but Beatrix and Silas make me yearn to share in their future while teaching them how to hope and, maybe even love.
A steamy, angsty single dad sports romance from USA Today Bestseller Alexa Padgett.
Prologue
Paloma
“Congratulations,” I mumbled into Hastings’ hair. Tears burned against the backs of my eyes—tears I would never let fall. This was a happy day, after all.
“Thanks, Paloma,” Hastings said, squeezing me back just as hard. “You know you’re the reason for this, right?”
I laughed. “I don’t pay your tuition.”
Hastings shook his head, a small smile playing over his lips.
He’d begun to shave recently, but the hair was downy, almost baby soft. I sighed, wistful for the moments when I’d smoothed the hair on the top of his toddler head.
“You helped me study, and you kept telling me I could do the work, could do anything I set my mind to—that’s why I’m going to Harvard.” His eyes danced. “Well, that and the big fat check Dad wrote to the school.”
I chuckled, hating how watery it sounded. Hastings deserved every bit of joy. “Don’t sell yourself short, valedictorian.” I straightened his collar, ignoring his rolled eyes because I knew he’d let me. This boy and I shared a deep, special bond. He’d been more my child than his parents’. I was the one who’d held him at night when he was sick or scared. I was the one he’d toddled to, and I had helped him with all his school projects, bought his clothes, and taught both him and his older brother, Brody, to drive.
I sighed as the memories flashed through my mind. Bittersweetness settled over my tongue. As of now, after eighteen years, I was no longer the Vanderholts’ nanny. I’d started as a part-time babysitter when Brody was a rambunctious preschooler and Hastings a newborn. But when Vanessa and Derrick’s company took off, they’d needed a full-time caregiver for the boys. A fresh high school graduate myself, I’d happily settled into the routine of caring for the boys while taking a couple of college classes.
But today, Hastings had graduated from one of Houston’s elite private high schools. In all honesty, neither of the boys had needed me for years, but the boys’ love for me had kept their parents from letting me go—for which I was eternally grateful. With the money I’d saved working and living with the Vanderholts, I’d recently purchased my first home, where I planned to bring my mother. The timing was good because I now knew Mama’s memory issues were more than typical aging; she’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
So, as sad as I was to leave my baby boy, my mama needed me. Between Mama’s care and my new position at a local museum, I was going to be just as busy as I’d been when Brody and Hastings were little.
Maybe more so.
Chapter 1
Paloma
Two Months Later
No matter how much I rubbed my eyes, the enormous number at the bottom of the bill remained, and with each passing breath, those five digits weighed more heavily on my shoulders. I set the piece of paper on the table and leaned my head back, staring up at the high, coved ceiling. My first home. I felt a tinge of pride. I’d managed to buy well, thanks to the Vanderholts’ connections, but within months of purchasing the three-bedroom bungalow near Houston’s Medical Center, I needed to sell it.
Not long after Hastings’ graduation party, Mama’s health had taken a nosedive. My stomach had knotted then collapsed at the words the nurse on the phone kept telling me: major stroke, paralysis, impaired cognition.
Selling my cute bungalow was the only way to support my mama’s health needs. And even then, the money would only cover a few months. If that.
Anxiety clawed my throat. Mama loved her nurse, Lydia, and the consistent routine the assisted-living facility provided helped calm her. No way could I move her out. And while I’d have the proceeds from the sale of the house eventually, right now I couldn’t afford rent and the mortgage payment each month. Which meant I had to do the one thing I’d sworn never to do again: I had to accept Practically Perfect Nannies’ invitation.
I ground my teeth, clenching my jaw so hard my teeth squeaked. Letting Brody and Hastings Vanderholt slip from my life with little more than a hug had hurt much more than I’d expected. Sure, they called, but I missed their bright faces, their daily chatter. I missed my boys.
I should have started looking for a new position the moment I heard my mother’s diagnosis, but the idea of loving another child for years, only to eventually share no more than the occasional social media post and a possible holiday card caused my throat to ache and burn with pent-up emotion.
I’d hoped to have more time with Mama before she succumbed to the destruction of her memory, unable to remember who I was. Instead that had happened with reckless speed over the past few weeks. And I’d visited her daily.
I huffed, trying to catch my breath. Mama needed support. She deserved to be happy during these last months—or years. I could do this for her. And anyway, there wasn’t another option to earn the type of money I needed.
I gritted my teeth again as I picked up the phone and dialed Practically Perfect Nannies. Suzy answered, her voice a cheerful chirp I certainly didn’t feel.
“This is Paloma Concord.”
“Hi there, Paloma! I’m so glad you called,” Suzy bubbled.
I closed my stinging eyes. “Would you let Ms. Larson know I’m interested in accepting an assignment?”
“Of course. That’s great,” Suzy said. “You know, she was hoping you’d call.”
I had to smile. Mags Larson was a no-nonsense woman with a soft spot for kids. We’d met about ten years ago through one of her employees, who worked for the Vanderholts’ friends. With Vanessa Vanderholt’s encouragement, Mags had talked me into completing some additional certifications, which led to me working through her company for better pay and benefits, but I’d never been through Practically Perfect Nannies’ placement process.
“Let Ms. Larson know her tenacity paid off.”
Suzy laughed. “It always does. How soon could you start with a new charge?”
I stared down at the bill in front of me. “As soon as you’d like.”
Preferably before next month, when I’d be scraping the bottom of my savings account.
Chapter 2
Silas
Phone calls received at five a.m. never brought positive news. This one proved no different.
“Silas Whittaker?”
“Yes,” I said, my sleep-soaked brain coming online much more quickly than it typically would in this situation. Normally I would expect a call at this time of the morning to be about one of my players making poor decisions wi
“Hello. My name is Carrie Lawrence. I’m on staff here at Andover Hospital.”
“In Massachusetts?”
“Yes.”
Do I know anyone in Andover? That’s a long, long way from Houston. Surely one of my hockey players wouldn’t have ended up there. Worry gnawed at me as one name began to circle my head, but…no. I was probably concerned over nothing. “All right. Um…it’s early.” I squinted at the clock. I dragged my hand down my face and stifled a groan.
“I’m aware, and I apologize for the timing, but this couldn’t wait.”
Dammit. It never could. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what was going on when she asked, “Are you familiar with the name Avalon Whittaker?”
That weight settled in my stomach, heavy and cold. Avalon?
“Yes,” I mumbled, tripping over the word. Avalon was my younger sister. I hadn’t seen her in so long… I shut down the memories before they could explode in my brain and leave me debilitated. I’d left that life—her—behind years ago. I’d never wanted to be part of my mother’s life, and Avalon… Avalon had been a mini-mom, and not in a good, nurturing way. She’d enjoyed the parties, the drugs, the bad boys, and the fast cars. All of my mother’s vices appealed to Avalon in a way I’ve never been able to understand. According to Mom, our father had ghosted not long after her birth, disgusted by our mother’s continued excesses.
“Unfortunately, Ms. Whittaker succumbed earlier this evening. My condolences.”
“She’s…dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Ms. Whittaker listed you as her next of kin.”
The weight in my stomach turned into a bowling ball, sloshing back and forth. Next of kin? “No,” I managed. “There must be some mistake…”
“She insisted.”
“But…but…next of kin for what? For who?”
The woman’s voice turned cool with judgment. But she didn’t know my history, so what gave her the right?
“For her daughter, Beatrix. She’s eight. Based on your previous question, I’m assuming you’re not familiar with your niece?”
No wonder she’d found me wanting. I sat up in bed and rested my forehead in my free palm. “No,” I croaked. “I-I had no idea.”
Her silence was its own form of damnation. My spine stiffened. This woman who thought she saw everything so clearly hadn’t had to clean up her mother’s and sister’s vomit. She hadn’t had to deal with aggressive, violent “boyfriends” when she was still too young to do so. She hadn’t had—
“Well, we have a very bereaved eight-year-old here in the hospital. She’s exhausted and, as I’m sure you can imagine, completely despondent about her mother’s death.”
“What…what did Avalon die from?” I gripped my phone harder, already running through the likeliest causes. Knowing Avalon, she probably had her daughter in the back seat of her car when it wrapped around a telephone pole or—
“Covid. She had a very severe case, but fought it for weeks. In the end…”
She didn’t have to say any more, and I didn’t want her to. Covid had ravaged New York, where I’d been an assistant coach for the hockey team last year. The league had gone to extreme lengths to have bubbled, Covid-safe games…with no fans.
“Will you be coming to sign documents to take Beatrix Whittaker into your custody?” Carrie asked, though her tone made it sound as if she didn’t think that was a good idea.
I didn’t either. I was now the head hockey coach of Houston’s expansion team. I traveled. I was a single man in my thirties who liked to live life. So... “Custody of a child?”
“Yes, that’s why we call next of kin. You’re the person Avalon listed as her preferred guardian for her daughter.”
“But what about Beatrix’s father?” I blurted as panic sank its talons into my chest.
The woman’s voice turned even colder. “Ms. Whittaker chose not to name him to the staff. And he is not listed on Beatrix’s birth certificate. I’m sure you can guess why.” She paused, a faint sniff drifting through the phone line. “Should I let the rest of the staff know you’re coming, or should I contact child protective services?”
Child protective services. The cold weight in my stomach began to boil, just as I’m sure Avalon had known it would. She and I’d had more than one dealing with CPS, thanks to our mother’s inability to remember she had children about half the time. This was part of why I’d been so ecstatic about getting the junior hockey opportunity all those years ago, which had come with the need to billet with a kind, connected family in southern Saskatchewan. Marie and Frank Gordon were everything parents should be—kind and interested in me—but they also were not my parents and gave me both the freedom and safety to allow my independence to blossom. But most importantly, they’d given me a way to get out of that hellhole of a tiny trailer with a leaky roof. My grimace at the memory reminded me that I never had fully put that portion of my life behind me.
“There’s no need to call child protective services,” I said, subdued. “I’ll be on the next flight. The first one I can get.”
“Good,” she said, her voice returning to its crispness. “I’ll let the rest of the staff know. Do you have a pen and paper? I’d like to let you know where we are exactly and what to expect when you get here.”
I fumbled with my side table, keeping my phone tucked between my ear and shoulder. “Yes,” I said. “Go on.”
Beatrix wasn’t at all what I’d expected—not that I knew what to expect from my sister’s daughter. She looked nothing like Avalon, nor did she look like our mother. Beatrix was tall and lithe, a build more similar to mine—or perhaps my father’s, as she wasn’t big and bulky with the muscle mass I’d put on over more than twenty years of daily workouts and strength training. But she was definitely rangy, unlike my sister and mother’s petite frames. And she had my hazel eyes, not my sister’s brown or my mother’s gray. Her hair, though, was the same shade of sandy blond as Avalon’s. Not that Avalon had kept hers blond too often during those last few years I’d lived at the trailer. It was usually an array of other colors, turquoise being her favorite.
I steeled myself, both for this initial meeting with my niece and also for identifying my sister, not looking forward to the ravages I was sure the last decade-plus had taken on her. Beatrix sat in a small waiting room just beyond the doors of the busy ICU. I settled into the hard, plastic chair next to her as she picked at some congealed scrambled eggs.
She glanced up at me then back down at the table. She didn’t bother to ask who I was. Was that because she was shell-shocked? Or had so many people come by to see her already? I wasn’t sure.
“Hi, Beatrix,” I said. Her gaze shot back up to me, the surprise clear at hearing her name. “Yeah,” I said. “I know you. You’re my niece.”
I grimaced, wishing I’d been a little less blunt. Or a little more tactful. Something. But interpersonal relationships weren’t my forte. Battering a player into the boards, struggling until I had an advantage over his stick was way more in my wheelhouse than talking to a grieving eight-year-old. Or women in general.
I tended to stay far away from romantic entanglements after my experiences at home—not a difficult feat when I was so busy with work. As a general rule, avoiding dating proved the easiest way to ensure I didn’t end up like my father, trapped with a woman who would never settle down with just him. Even as a young boy, I’d seen how miserable he was with my mother. When he disappeared, Avalon and I lost what little structure he’d managed to build into our lives—along with our small house. I’d thought I also lost hockey until my coach had stepped in and helped me get much-needed financial aid to continue through high school.
