Page 4 of Bait N' Witch

The problem was, Rowan hadn’t been raised by witches, and, therefore, didn’t know the guidelines under which they operated. Delilah had given her a book outlining the Syndicate’s laws, which governed all the covens. Probably 90 percent or more of the covens of the world knew the rules by heart. Lived them every day.

Delilah had advised her to memorize the book or her cover would be blown. Rowan had read the thing, trying to take it all in. Only what she’d discovered was that witches raised in the covens had a shit-ton of policies to follow. How they ever got anything done was a total mystery.

Bluff, her mind screamed as she scrambled for a suitable answer.

“Of course,” she said, stalling for time. “However, I am a firm believer that children should be taught to fix their own messes or live with the consequences.”

“But I can’t fix this,” Chloe whined under her avalanche of hair.

Rowan spread her hands in an “oh well” gesture. “Maybe walking around looking like the green version of Big Foot for a while will teach you not to use magic against your sisters next time.”

“We don’t use magic against other people, ever, in this house. Adults included.” Greyson’s gaze slashed toward her, and she knew his admonishment was aimed at her as much as the girls. No wonder he needed help with the triplets if that was a rule.

“How’s that working out for you?” Oh hell, hexes, and damnation. If she could’ve reversed time and held back that comment, she would’ve.

“Ms. McAullife, are you this much trouble in all your households?”

She’d never nannied before, but she couldn’t tell him that. All part of her cover. “I wouldn’t classify it as trouble, exactly.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he muttered under his breath. More loudly, he said, “What would you classify it as?”

“Helpfulness?”

“Hmmmm…” His tone said otherwise. Conversation ended, he turned to the girls again. “This is Chloe, Lachlyn, and Atleigh.” He indicated each girl with a wave.

Rowan gave them a smile, though she wasn’t sure if Chloe could see her.

“The girls have school during the day. Teleportation is one of my gifts and how we travel most often. However, I will arrange for a transport key for your use on those occasions when I’m not available to take them and for weekends.”

So far so good.

“It is your job to get them up and ready in the mornings. After school you will take them to an hour of magic practice with their Aunt Persephone next door to the east through the woods. She’s licensed to teach them. Afterward, you’ll return here, where the girls will complete any homework. They may read in the evenings.”

Was he serious? No hint of teasing penetrated a rather grim expression. Yup. Serious.

Oblivious to her thoughts, he continued. “You will be in charge of all meals. Breakfast will be just you and the girls. You’ll send lunch with them. And I’ll join you for dinners. After dinner you’ll clean up while the girls prepare for bed. They have an hour in the evenings to themselves before bed. Any questions?”

Tons. None he’d appreciate, she suspected. “Um…do the girls have any time to play or relax? What about TV? Or do they have friends they visit or who come here?”

He lifted an imperious eyebrow. “I’m not a monster. Once homework is complete, they can do what they like as long as they stay within a mile of the house. I’ll let you know if friends schedule visits. Saturdays you will arrange to take them to various educational activities. Sundays, they visit their grandparents. That is your day off.”

He glanced at her jeans, long-sleeved white T-shirt, and sneakers. “I expect you to dress appropriately at all times.”

Glancing at his own immaculate gray pants and ironed button-down all tucked in, she surmised he meant more formal than jeans. She pictured her limited wardrobe—she’d been a prisoner for some time, and, since her release, hiding out for months, after all. She gave a mental groan. This job just got better and better.

“I’ll go shopping this weekend,” she murmured.

“Excellent.” He flicked a glance at his watch. “I will be in my office the rest of the day. I suggest you get settled and get to know the girls.”

What kind of father spent Saturday working when it sounded as though he barely saw his children during the week? “Fine.”

“Any questions?”

“Which room is mine?”

Despite the extra sugar she’d imbued in the words, he still narrowed his eyes. Was her sarcasm leaking through?

“Yours is the only bedroom in the basement.”

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