The Nanny Plan. Sarah M. Anderson
played out in the press, she was worried that he might have changed his mind. The news reports had caught the look he’d given her when he’d asked her to meet him backstage and rumors about something else happening backstage had already started.
Trish had fielded a few phone calls, which was good. Sort of. Yes, any attention she could draw to One Child was good attention—but the quotes reporters had been looking for were much more along the lines of whether or not a romance had sparked.
Which it hadn’t. Really.
So Nate Longmire was tall, built and twice as handsome in person as he was in photographs. So there’d been something between them—something that she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since the moment she’d walked out of that coffee shop. It’d almost been like...like she’d belonged there, with him. For just a little bit, he hadn’t been some unreachable Boy Billionaire and she hadn’t been a dirt-poor American Indian. He’d just been a man and she’d just been a woman and that was—well, it was good. With the potential to be even better.
And that potential? That’s what she’d been dreaming about almost every single night for the past two weeks.
Well. They were just dreams. And she needed to stick with reality.
And the reality of the situation was that Nate was not her type. She didn’t have a type, but whatever it might be, a Boy Billionaire clearly wasn’t it. She would probably never have a total of five million dollars in her entire life—and he was the kind of guy who spent that on a comic book.
At least the Wonder Woman shirt had done its job, she figured. Now, in her fancy clothes, it was time to do hers.
She’d done her best to avoid answering any questions about her supposed involvement with Nate Longmire by throwing out every single stat she could about poverty on Indian reservations and how even a five-dollar donation could make a difference. In the end, unable to get a juicy quote out of her, the press had left her alone.
She’d noticed that, in any report, whether online or on television, Nate Longmire had always been “unavailable for comment.” She didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.
Trish found the right door—suite 412, The Longmire Foundation written in black letters on the glass—and tried the doorknob, but it was locked. A growing sense of dread filled her as she knocked.
A minute passed. Trish didn’t know if she should knock again or...what? She had no other options. Nate said he’d be here—that Stanley would be here. He hadn’t forgotten, had he?
She knocked again.
This time, a man shouted, “Jeez, I’m coming. I’m coming.”
The door was unlocked and thrown open. Instead of Nate Longmire’s well-dressed form, a man in a white tank top, oversize corduroy pants held up by bright red suspenders and more tattoos than God glared down at her. “What?”
“Um, hello,” Trish said, trying not to be nervous. This guy had spacers in his ears. She could see right through them. She swallowed. “I have an appointment with Mr. Longmire—”
“What are you doing here?” the man all but growled at her.
“I’m sorry?”
The man looked put out. “You’re supposed to be at his house for the interview. Didn’t they tell you that?”
They? They who? “No?”
Mr. Tattoos rolled his eyes to the sky and sighed. “You’re in the wrong place. You need to be at 2601 Pacific Street.” He looked at her dubiously. “2601 Pacific Street,” he repeated in a slower, louder voice, as if she’d suddenly gone deaf. When Trish just stared at him, he pointed again and said, “That way. Okay?”
“Yes, all right.” She stood there for a minute, too shocked to do much but not look through the holes in his ears. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, good luck—you’re gonna need it,” he called after her, then she heard the door shut and lock behind her.
Great. Trish was going to be way late. Panic fluttered through her stomach. Was this a sign—Nate had reviewed her case and decided that her charity didn’t meet his requirements? Why on earth was she supposed to go to his house—especially if he was going to turn her down? This wasn’t about to get weird, was it?
She did the only thing she could do—she started to walk. She loved walking through San Francisco, looking at all the Victorian houses and wondering what it would be like to live in one. To have a view of the bay or the Golden Gate Bridge. To not have to worry about making rent and having enough left over.
Her mother, Pat, had loved the music from the Summer of Love. When she was with a real jerk of a boyfriend—which was often enough—Pat would sometimes get nostalgic and talk about one day coming out to San Francisco to find Trish’s father. That was how Trish found out that her father had come to this city when he’d abandoned his family.
Trish did what she always did when she walked the streets—she looked in the faces of each person she passed by, hoping to recognize a little part of herself. Maybe her father had gotten remarried and had more kids. Maybe Trish would find a half sister walking around. Or maybe the woman her father had settled down with would recognize her husband’s face in Trish’s and ask if they were related.
Trish had lived here for five years. This on-the-street recognition hadn’t happened, not once. But she kept looking.
She walked to Pacific Street and turned. This was such a beautiful place, right across from the park. Nothing like the tiny garret apartment in Ingleside she rented for the subsidized sum of $350 a month.
She found the right house—she hoped. It was a sweeping three-story Victorian home, the exterior painted a soft shade of blue with bright white paint outlining the scrollwork and columns. The curtains on the ground-level windows were closed and a painted garage door was shut. Next to that was a wide, sweeping set of steps that led up to the perfect porch for a summer afternoon, complete with swing.
It was simply lovely. The small part of her brain that wasn’t nervous about this whole “interview at his house” thing was doing a little happy dance—she would finally get to see the inside of one of these homes.
But that excitement was buried pretty danged deep. To get inside the home, she had to get through the gate at the bottom of the stairs—and it didn’t budge. How was she supposed to be at the house if she couldn’t even get to the door? Then she saw a buzzer off to the right. She pressed it and waited.
Even standing here felt like she was interloping again. This wasn’t right. Nate had been very clear—she was to meet him at the office. Trish had no idea which “they” should have told her about the change, but what could she do? She needed the donation, desperately.
So she rang the bell, again, and waited. Again. She caught herself twisting her earring and forced her hands back by her sides. This was not about to go sideways on her. This was fine. She was a professional. She could handle whatever was on the other side of that door with grace and charm.
Up on the porch, the door opened and a short, stocky woman in a gray dress and a white apron stood before her. “Hello?”
“Hi,” Trish said, trying her best to smile warmly. “I have an appointment with Mr. Longmire and—”
“Ay mia—you’re late,” the woman said—but unlike Mr. Tattoo, she looked happy to see Trish. “Come in, come in.” A buzzer sounded and the gate swung free. Trish climbed the stairs, schooling her features into a professional smile—warm, welcoming, not at all worried about the lack of communication about any changes to the plan.
“Hello,” she said when she was face-to-face with the woman. “I’m Trish Hunter and—”
The woman latched onto Trish’s arm and all but hauled her inside. The door shut with a resounding thud behind her.
“Who is it, Rosita?”