1
ARIES
In the back of the black cab, racing through the streets of London’s most exclusive postcodes, I take out the note Mum gave me when I left last night. At the top, in handwriting that’s more spindly than it used to be, she’s writtenAries’ London To Do List.It’s a very short list, and I’ve already read it about a thousand times.
1. Live
2. Dream
3. Live the Dream
4. Fall in love
I roll my eyes at the last one and scrunch up the piece of paper, clutching it in a tight fist. I’d throw it away—I’m here to work, after all, not fall in love—but one day, much sooner than I’d like, Mum’ll no longer be here, and I’ll want to keep every scrap of paper she ever wrote on. If I throw this away, I’ll have recurring nightmares about it. I flatten the crumpled paper against my thigh, fold it up neatly like the treasure it is, and slide it back into my wallet.
The taxi rolls to a stop outside a huge white Palladian mansion that’s set back from the street beyond a set of intimidating cast-iron gates.Holy hell, it’s a palace. I jump out before I lose my nerve. The driver opens the boot and lifts out my enormous suitcase, setting it next to me on the pavement. He nods at the monolith. "You’ll be all right to get it up to the house?"
I can’t tell if his concern is on account of the size of my case, which is so big I could probably fit inside it if I curled up really small, or the fact that I’ve directed him to a building that’s so unlikely a destination for an ordinary girl like me it might as well be Buckingham Palace. From the way his wary gaze keeps darting to the mansion, I suspect it’s the latter, which is doing nothing to settle my nerves.
“I’ll be all right.” I keep my voice light and friendly as I check the back pocket of my jeans with a light tap.Yes, the piece of paper with the housekeeper’s number is still there.
Once the cab driver is gone, the nerves I’ve been striving to control bubble in my stomach like a pot of boiling water that could overflow at any moment.
Deep breath. You can handle this.
But—shit—the house is bigger than any I’ve ever been inside, other than thoseNational Trustproperties Mum used to take me to visit when I was younger. I didn’t realise people lived in houses this big in central London. No wonder Mr and Mrs Hawkston were offering such an enormous salary for a nannying job. It was much more than any other role I looked at.
I take another deep, fortifying breath, and drag my suitcase up to the pedestrian gate, which is just as solid and intimidating as the one meant for cars. There’s a large post box and a sign in aggressive capital letters that reads NO JUNK MAIL, and another that says BEWARE OF THE DOG.
I press the buzzer and wait, aware that I’m in the sights of the camera. I feel a little self-conscious.Is anyone watching me?
No one answers. I check my watch. It’s just before midday on Saturday. I’m a bit early, but not much. The housekeeper, Mrs Minter, expressly said she would be in to show me around and help me settle in.
I pull the piece of paper with her number from my pocket and dial it on my phone. It rings out. I dial again, just to double-check I have entered the right number. Same result.
I try to stave off the panicked thoughts that rise up.What if she changed her mind? What if they don’t need a nanny anymore? What if it’s me they don’t want?
I peer through the gate. A man wearing noise-cancelling headphones is pushing a lawn mower over the grass. He’s so large that the machine looks like a toy in his hands. A pair of worn jeans hang from his hips, revealing the waistband of his boxer shorts. A plaid shirt hangs open over a broad chest, and beneath it, a white t-shirt hugs his pecs.
Thick dark hair arches off his forehead, plastered back with what I assume is sweat. It’s a sweltering June day, which I hear is unusual even down south. Up where I’m from, on the west coast of Scotland, it’s unheard of. This man is wearing far too many clothes for the weather, and as if he realises it at the same moment I do, he stops what he’s doing and peels his shirt off, tossing it onto the driveway.
I can’t take my eyes off him, because what I had assumed was a t-shirt is actually a tank top, and this man is ridiculously ripped, like he should be chopping wood in a forest with his bare hands, not mowing a lawn in West London. What does he do in his spare time?Nope, don’t go there.
If I’m going to keep this job, as the nanny to Mr Hawkston’s four-year-old daughter (and Ireallywant to, because that little girl, Lucie, was adorable when we spoke on the video call), then I can’t be hitting on the gardener. But I’m not made of stone; theman is gorgeous. He might be the best-looking man in the whole world, or at least inmyworld.
Hope flurries in my belly, scattering my nerves. Not only am I going to be working alongside an absolute specimen of a man, but if he’s on the other side of this gate, then the chances of me getting through it just skyrocketed.
I wave. “Hey. Hey there.”
He looks up, wipes his forearm across his forehead, and takes his headphones off.
A confused expression passes over his face and he glances back towards the house as if to check I’m not talking to someone else.
“Yes, you,” I yell, with another wave.
He stalks towards me but keeps his gaze on the ground. He does not look friendly; his glower alone is menacing but, paired with his large, muscular body, it’s all I can do not to turn and run. He raises one arm to push a lock of hair back off his forehead, making his bicep bulge even more.
When he reaches the gate, he drags his eyes up my body slowly, taking his time about it and glaring like I’ve interrupted him from something incredibly important.How important can cutting grass really be?Not that I want to dismiss his job or get in his way, but it’s not far to the gate; letting me inside will only take a minute, tops.