Her eyes warm, stretching to their natural almond shape, and I see the corner of her lips twitch as she fights a smile. Mercedes takes a few steps back, her hand dropping from the door. “Do your friends call you Lauren?”

I hesitantly step forward, trying to keep my eyes on her rather than the mess surrounding us. “Most of my friends call me Lo. But you can call me either.”

“What? I’m not allowed to be your friend?” My eyes skirt from the large wad of laundry against the wall to Mercedes’ eyes that are narrowed once more.

“No, call me Lo.”

“No, you don’t want to be friends, no?” She fists her small hands and then slams them on her narrow hips.

“That’s not what I meant. You’re welcome to call me Lo, or I’m cool with you calling me Lauren. It doesn’t matter. I’m still your babysitter, but I like the idea of us being friends.”

“You’re my nanny.”

My shoulders shrug and my eyebrows knit slightly before relaxing again. “Same difference.”

“No. It’s not. I don’t need someone to babysit me. I can take care of myself.” She leans her chest toward me and raises her voice with each word.

Thoughts of revenge against Kenzie are multiplying, not only for giving me shit for directions, but for setting me up with this miniature diva that’s trapped inside a ten-year-old’s body. “Look, I was hired to come and babysit. I ran for over forty minutes, and let me tell you, I hate running. My clothes are wet, my hair is—”

“Your hair’s a mess.”

My eyes narrow on her this time as my chin drops. “I know. Because I was running. For forty. Minutes. If you don’t want me here, say the words, and when your dad comes down, I’ll leave.”

She rolls her green eyes. “Stop being so dramatic.”

I shake my head and blink heavily a few times as she spins on her heel and heads down the hallway.

“Are you coming?” Her tone isn’t welcoming, nor is the scowl on her lips.

I’m considering zip tying every item of Kenzie’s in place like my older brother, Josh, did to me several years ago on April Fool’s, as I follow her, blandly paying attention to the clutter that seems to be drowning this house.

When we reach a large room, it takes me several seconds of looking around to realize we’re in a living room. At least … I think we’re in a living room. There’s a TV hanging on the far wall, but no seating is near it. The only couch is against the opposite wall and piled high with clothes. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling ahead of us, but there’s no table below it. Instead, my eyes search over wheels that look like they belong on bicycles, and boxes that are precariously balanced with bubble wrap flowing from each of their tops. Bags that appear both empty and full are haphazardly mixed in with endless amounts of laundry, toys, a few pillows, food wrappers, packing materials, magazines, and even shoes.

“So what do you want to do?”

I turn my head to Mercedes. She’s unaffected by the mess and doesn’t seem to care at all that I can’t stop staring at it, feeling slightly horrified that anyone could live in such chaos. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s too young to understand this would commonly be considered a social faux pas, or if she simply doesn’t care. “What do you normally do?”

She rolls her eyes again in an exaggerated fashion, her fists slamming back to her non-existent hips. “What do you normally do?”

I tilt my chin, wondering if she’s seeking sarcasm, but I attempt honesty. “I go to school and work. When I’m not doing that, I’m usually with my friends, Charleigh and Allie.”

“What do you do when you hang out with them?” There’s still an edge to her tone, but her eyes are filled with curiosity as she watches me.

“They go to school for fashion design, so sometimes we talk about art stuff, sometimes we watch movies and make Charleigh try American food, other times we just hang out.” I shrug once again.

“American food? Is Charleigh not from here?”

“No, she’s British. A tea drinker,” I add, noting an empty Starbucks cup littering the ground.

“How very Mary Poppins of her.” I feel the edges of my lips lift into a smile and note the way her lips mirror mine for a second before they stop and turn into a forcible frown.

“What do you know how to cook? I’m hungry.”

“Want a sandwich?”

“Try again.”

Raising my eyebrows, my tone becomes indifferent. “Cereal?”

“No way! It’s afternoon.”

“Mac and cheese?”

“Seriously?”

“What’s wrong with any of those?” I ask, following her into a kitchen that is shockingly clean. The surfaces are empty and wiped down. Even the floors look as though they’ve recently been washed.

“We have basil. Can you make pesto sauce?”

I narrow my eyes, drawing my eyebrows together. “Not unless it’s in a jar that I can open.”

“What about scallops?”

“I thought you were ten.”

“I am.”

“What ten-year-old eats scallops and pesto sauce?”

“Ones with refined taste buds that didn’t grow up on Cream of Wheat,” Mercedes quips.

“How about scrambled eggs?”

“Do you know how to cook anything that requires more than one ingredient?”

“Not many, no.” My frankness is not well received. Her eyes become tapered once more and her jaw clenches.

“Let’s pray there are leftovers,” she says, doing a quick spin on her heels and moving toward the fridge.

THE AFTERNOON passes at an alarmingly painful crawl. I can’t express my relief when I hear the front door close and a male’s voice call, “Mercedes, I’m home!”

The first genuine smile I’ve seen from her passes her lips, and she drops the small gadget she has been playing with for the past hour, on the floor amongst the maze of clothes and toys in her room, and heads toward the greeting.

“Hey, buttercup! How are you doing?”

“Why are you home so late?”

“Sorry, I had a long meeting with Stan.” His attention shifts to me as I trail into the room, feeling a new sense of unease. Not only have I had a terribly awkward afternoon with his daughter, but I don’t know the guy, and he’s attractive. Like ridiculously attractive. “Hey! You must be Lauren. I’m Kashton,” he says, extending a hand.

His smile is warm, inviting me to reply with my own. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, taking a few steps closer to the man who doesn’t look much older than me.

“Yeah, you too. You came highly recommended.” His hand feels slightly rough, but it’s the warmth of it that distracts me. It feels as if he just emerged from the hot sun rather than the cooler rain that has made an early appearance. As our hands slide apart, I notice several small nicks and scratches across his knuckles.

The impulse to object about my qualifications dances across my tongue, so I bite it. I bite harder when the desire to question him about not meeting me prior to allowing his daughter for the afternoon enters my mind.

“Did you guys have a good day?” he asks.

“She doesn’t know how to cook.” Mercedes announces the fact like this has been the biggest issue we’ve faced today.

Kashton’s eyes meet mine. They’re a warm brown, reminding me of well-worn leather, but are a similar shape and depth to Mercedes. “Maybe your uncle can teach her.” His voice is playful, accompanied by a smile that assures me the thought is more for Mercedes.

“He will have to; otherwise, I’ll starve.”

Kashton laughs and ruffles a palm over Mercedes’ head, triggering the same look of disdain she’s been sending me for most of the afternoon.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, then, Lauren?” Kashton asks.

“Yes, at four, right?”

He nods and shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah, I’ll be here tomorrow, but I’ll be out in the shop, so four will work great.”

I nod in response and then jerkily move forward to grab the strap of my messenger bag, still leaning beside the door, and pull it on.