Page 11 of The Perfect Mistake

Judging by the smile on her face, I bet she doesn’t. It makes me love her more. I want to tell her how impressive she is, but I file it away for a later conversation.

“Alec is grateful that you could come in. I know he might not say it, but he is,” she assures.

“You said kids’ nanny quit? Just today?”

“Yes, and it’s not the first time.” She nudges my shoulder. “My niece is… spirited. I hope you don’t mind a tough crowd.”

That makes me chuckle for the first time in days. “I’ve been dancing for a tough crowd all my life.”

“I figured,” she says. “You might be bendy, but you don’t break.”

Maybe not, even if it feels like I’ve come awfully close to snapping this past week. We stride through the office landscape of the top floor; down multiple hallways, each as bland as the one before it. Finally, we reach a man sitting at a desk to the right of a large wooden door with CEO emblazoned in gold letters upon its hefty surface.

I feel a little stunned by my surroundings. At the Dance Academy, everything was old. Worn in, like a pair of used ballet flats. Grants were rare and hard to come by. Every penny went into production, not into the superficial scenery. Here, money is in every single line of the building. In the expensive decor and the glossy paint on the walls.

“Sorry, I have to leave you here,” Connie says with an apologetic smile. “I have a video meeting with a supplier in Japan starting… now. Text me when you’re done, okay? Maybe we can have lunch.”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

She disappears, and I’m left alone in front of the CEO’s office. His assistant glances at me briefly before pressing a button on his keyboard. The large door swings open, but there’s no one on the other side of the threshold.

“Come in,” a voice says.

I swallow my nerves and step into Alec’s office.

He’s sitting behind a giant glass desk. Windows blanket the wall behind him, opening up to the cityscape beyond. Large built-in bookshelves to his left hold row upon row of books, drawings, and the occasional framed certificate.

“Hi,” I say.

His gaze is impossible to read. “Hello. Have a seat.”

I sink onto the chair in front of his desk. Cross my legs and clear my throat. “So, I heard you’re in the market for a new nanny?”

“Yes. Connie was the one who suggested you, actually.” His mouth turns into a faint frown. “Your injury. What happened after the other day?”

“It’s better,” I say. “Thanks for driving me home.”

“But you’re not dancing anymore.”

I’ve lived with that reality for a full week so far. One week, compared to years of living with a dream. It hurts to hear it phrased so plainly.

“No, I’m not. At least not until I’m fully healed.”

He nods and leans back in his chair. His thick brown hair is cut fairly short and neatly brushed back. “Why do you think you’d be a good nanny?”

And now I’m in a job interview. I take a deep breath, slipping into the audition process. It’s one I’ve been through many times before. “I like kids. I have two younger siblings—twins—and they were definitely a handful. When I was growing up, I often helped my mother take care of them. Once I got older, I babysat them. I’m also disciplined and responsible, thanks to years of following strict workout routines. And I’m great at learning on the job.”

He nods once, resting his hands on the desk in front of him. My eyes linger on the steepled gesture. The backs of his hands are broad; long fingers with square knuckles. They’re large hands.

“Isabel,” he says, and my gaze snaps back up to his. “My daughter can be challenging. She has decided she would rather have no babysitter at all. But she’s eight, so that’s out of the question.”

I smile. “She’s rebellious, then.”

“At times. From what I’ve heard, she can be harsh to a nanny.” His eyes turn assessing. “Can you handle that?”

The frank question makes me want to chuckle. The things I’ve endured from ballet teachers would make non-dancers flinch. I’ve been slapped, berated, poked and prodded, and screamed at in front of my peers until I bawled. It took a few years, but now I can have an instructor yell inches away from my face and I will not move a muscle.

“I can handle that,” I say.

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