The last week of my life has been hell.
“I’m going to have to apply to some schools and explain my situation. I have the grades, but I just don’t know if all my credits will transfer, so it may set me back time and money. Maybe Professor Calloway will help. She was really kind and told me to reach out if I needed anything.”
“I’m sorry, Phoebs.”
“It’s my fault. I . . . have to accept the consequences.”
“What did your dad say? Or have you not told him about why you came home?”
“I’m not telling him anything. He’ll never understand, and I really can’t face that kind of disappointment from him. I hate myself enough as it is.”
Emmeline goes silent for a minute. “I’ve said it a hundred times, but you’re not the only one to blame, and you’re definitely not the first girl to sleep with her professor.”
“Marriedprofessor. Married and lying professor.” My heart drops because I live with this shame and regret. I don’t know what to do next. Where do I go? How do I salvage this, and do I disclose any of this going forward when the questions come? “Emmy . . .”
“Yeah?”
Before I can ask her any of it, there’s a knock on my door. “Shit, my dad is back. I’ll call you later.”
I end the call, force myself out of bed, and open the door. “Everything okay?” I ask. “I thought you left.”
“I did, but I completely forgot that I need your help with something.”
“Of course, with what?”
He runs his hand down his face. “I know you’re home early and have things you’d rather do, but you know we’re all about helping people around here.”
Oh, this sounds promising.
“Right, and I have a feeling what you’re about to ask me to do isn’t my idea of fun.”
He shakes his head. “No, but you’re pretty much the only person in the world who can help, so I need you to think before you reply.”
“Okay.”
“I need you to nanny for a little girl until they find a suitable replacement.”
Uh, of all the things he would ask, I never would’ve thought it would be to nanny for someone. I have babysat a total of three times in my life. The first time, the kid ran away and I had to call my father to search for him. The second time, we ended up in the ER because when her parents saidpeanutallergy, they meantnutallergy. And the last time was when I was watching Asher Whitlock’s daughter and she cut her own hair—and not just a trim to the bangs. No, she cut her hair to her scalp on the side. It happened so fast, and I’d felt horrible, which only just got worse when he got home and lectured me about paying attention. I hate that guy.
“Dad, we both know I am not really good with kids.”
“No, but she’s not little, and it has to be you. You’re the only one who can handle this.”
“Why?” Dread fills me because if it has to be me, then it’s for a particular skill set I have, and that means it’s—
“Asher’s nanny quit, and I need him at work.”
Yeah, about that luck I don’t have, it’s officially gone.
* * *
You can do this, Phoebe. You’re not a little girl anymore. You are a strong, independent woman who has been through the wringer, but that’s okay. It builds character. Watching a kid for the summer may not have been part of the plan, but neither was sleeping with your married professor, and you’re still breathing. Asher Whitlock doesn’t scare you, and you definitely are not into him. Sure, he’s ridiculously hot, but you’re not into hot guys. You know how that turns out. She’s not three, she’s nine and probably won’t want to cut her hair again. You’ll do this for Daddy, get some money, which you desperately need because you had to pull money from your inheritance to get home and . . . you’re a mess.
As I open my eyes to exit the car, I scream when I see Asher standing there, arms crossed as he watches me through the window.
“You scared me!” I yell.
He doesn’t say anything back, just looks at me and . . . dear God. This man is even better looking than I remembered. He’s one of those cops you see on social media whose posts are full of comments like: