Page 1 of Devil Seeks Nanny

Chapter 1

DIANA

Everything looks the same as the Uber cruises down the familiar streets of my neighborhood. Not that I had expected the city to be completely different, but it’s something you just assume happens when you don’t come by some place for a long time. It’s been four months since I was last in San Francisco, and everything is the same. The leaves are green on the trees that line up the sidewalks, the sun shines down on the houses we pass by, and my breath catches in my throat when the car approaches the end of the cul-de-sac, my gaze zeroing in on my childhood home.

Relief floods through me as the car stops at the end of the driveway, and I’m throwing the door open as the driver gets out to open the trunk and pull out my suitcases. “Thank you,” I tell him, taking the luggage from him, my backpack already on as I make my way up the driveway toward the front door. Dad’s car is parked in front of the garage, but I already know he’s home since he texted me as much once I landed.

“Dad!” I call out as I use my key to get into the house, dragging my suitcases in with me, trying to keep my balance so I don’t stumble because of their weight. It smells like cinnamon in the house, unsurprisingly, and I inhale the familiar scent. “I’m here!”

I set my suitcases to the side, and a smile spreads across my face when I see him turning the corner around the living room wall, his own grin appearing. “There she is!” he laughs, walking over. He immediately pulls me into a hug, and I reciprocate instantly, feeling the warmth and familiarity of his embrace. “How was the flight?”

It was only a little over an hour long, given that I was flying in from Los Angeles. “Uneventful,” I tell him, shrugging off my backpack. “But how are you doing?” I ask, immediately giving him a once-over.

He rolls his eyes, unimpressed by my concern. But can he blame me? His health is the whole reason why I’m back home in San Francisco—indefinitely. He’s why I quit my nannying job in Los Angeles, packed everything up, and sent all of my belongings ahead of my own flight. I refuse to not be near dad.

He recently had been hospitalized because he’d had a stroke, and I will never forget the shock of fear that shot through me when I had gotten the call from the hospital. He’s fine now, according to the doctors, but knowing he’s all alone out here doesn’t settle well with me. I want to be near him, to help him out in any way I can. I’d moved out when I was eighteen, going to Los Angeles for school, studying early education, and then deciding to stay there as I found coveted nannying jobs for Hollywood’s elite. And as much as I loved working with kids and their affluent families, dad’s health scare was a slap in the face; a reminder of what truly is important.

I can make money at any point in my life. I cannot get back the time that I missed with my dad. So, I’m home now.

“Sweetheart, I’m fine,” dad huffs, shooting me a look that is his silent way of saying I’m the parent, you’re the kid. Even though I’m twenty-seven years old. “It’ll take more than a little stroke to bring your old man down,” he adds with a grin that matches the twinkle in his eyes.

I blow out a breath as we walk toward the kitchen. “I’d rather nothing take you out,” I say, my gaze sliding over the framed photos on the wall. They’re all pictures of me as I grow up, along with pictures of me with my dad. Just the two of us, like it’s always been. Mom had bailed before I could even crawl, and dad has raised me ever since, all on his own.

I like to think that he’s the reason why I surround myself with kids, and why I have made it my job to look after them. He did such an amazing job with me; he never made me feel like I was lacking anything in my life. He showered me with love and support from day one and was there for me at my highest and my lowest. Dad taught me how to be a good parent. Looking after kids, even if they aren’t mine, is rewarding work.

Most of the ones I’ve looked after aren’t neglected by their parents or anything—they just work a lot and aren’t always home, so they need someone trustworthy and nurturing to look after their children. That’s where I come in. I’ve nannied for the kids of actors, musicians, producers, directors—many of Hollywood’s elite were my clientele, and I’ve made a bit of a name for myself because I’m good at what I do. And while I’ll miss it, I’d much rather be here, back home in San Francisco with my dad.

Walking into the kitchen, I see that he’s made his famous four-cheese pasta, and part of me wants to tell him he didn’t have to make it for me; didn’t have to go through the extra work of cooking it. But I see the wide, proud smile on his face, so I swallow my words and accept the plate he offers me before we sit on the stools at the kitchen counter and eat together.

“I’m excited to work at the bakery again,” I tell him as I serve myself a hearty slice of pasta.

Dad smiles, deepening the wrinkles that have found a home on his face. “I’m excited to have you back,” he says sincerely, and my chest warms.

Dad opened the bakery when I was around twelve years old, and I worked there all throughout my teens after school. It’s a beloved, popular place on the strip the building is on, and dad has done a successful job with it. Everyone goes crazy for the lemon tarts and chocolate mousse cups. It’s also one of my favorite places in San Francisco, but I may be biased.

As we eat, dad arches an eyebrow and conversationally asks, “So—other than your job, did you leave anything else behind in LA?” He tilts his head, “A boyfriend, maybe?”

I let out a short laugh after swallowing a mouthful of tasty, cheesy pasta. “A boyfriend?” I repeat, shaking my head. “Come on, Dad. What do you think?”

He knows how busy my nannying job kept me. I worked for one family at a time, and I usually was a live-in nanny. All of my time was swept up in the kids and families I worked for, so it never really left any personal time for me. Which meant there was no way I was hitting the streets of Los Angeles and finding a boyfriend. The last one I had, had the same problem as most of them did—they didn’t like how much of my time my job kept me, leaving no room for them. And as much as it sucked, I let them go. If a man couldn’t respect my job, then I didn’t want him around, anyway.

Dad hums, shrugging. “Well, maybe you’ll find someone here.”

I roll my eyes as I sip some water. “I’m not here to find a boyfriend,” I remind him. “I’m here so I can spend time with you, you old man.”

He smiles, playful. “Why not do both?”

I shake my head, amused. “Most dads want to keep their daughters away from men.”

“I’m not most dads, and you aren’t most daughters.” Dad fixes me with a stare, and my stomach flips because it’s more serious than before. “You’ve spent most of your life taking care of other people, Diana. When are you going to let someone else take care of you?”

I want to joke with him and tell him that he’s taken care of me, but I know that isn’t what he means. There is truth in his words. I can’t remember the last time I’ve let someone in, let someone take care of me. It has, admittedly, brought some loneliness into my life, but I’ve never really focused much on it. I’m not, however, about to let my dad know that.

“I’m fine, Dad,” I tell him with a quiet chuckle, dropping my gaze to my plate of half-eaten pasta. It’s as good as I remember it to be. “Relationships aren’t really my priority right now, anyway.”

“Alright, alright,” dad nods, letting the conversation go, fortunately. He gestures toward the stairs with his fork. “Most of your boxes are already in your old room, but I didn’t want to overflow the space, so I had the rest put in the guest room.”

I shoot him a look. “You had the delivery men put them, right?” I ask. “You didn’t do it yourself?” I don’t need him unnecessarily straining himself.

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