Grandpa Garnier: If you find yourself in a hole,
the first thing to do is stop digging.
SHE SEEMED IDEAL: slightly overweight, older than the typical groupie and definitely on the frumpy side. All of which would keep things as simple as Tyson Garnier needed them to be.
“What was your name again?” he asked. But he kept his voice down. God knew he didn’t want to wake the nine-month-old monster in the other room. He’d just spent twenty-four hours alone with said monster and would rather suffer the roughest tackle imaginable than flounder helplessly through another fifteen minutes.
“Dakota Brown. I didn’t send you a résumé, if that’s what you’re looking for. Gabe posted a flyer at the grocery store, saying you’d be staying at his cabin for a couple months and needed a good nanny while you’re here, but I didn’t consider applying until he called me.” The woman met his eyes, but he had no idea what she was thinking. She certainly didn’t seem impressed with him or his fame—didn’t smile coyly, unbutton the top of her outdated blouse or bat her eyelashes. She treated him as he imagined she treated anyone else, which made Tyson even more hopeful that he’d found the right candidate. It was a major point in her favor that she hadn’t turned into an idiot just because he played football on TV.
He set aside the stack of résumés he’d been studying. The name Brown was as ordinary as she seemed to be. But Dakota. That was unusual. Especially for a woman who looked to be of mixed race. Was she part Polynesian? Native American? Mexican? Tyson couldn’t tell. But her creamy café au lait skin was clearly her best physical asset.
“And you have no children of your own?” He’d told Gabe Holbrook, who’d talked him into coming to Dundee in the first place, not to send him any potential nannies with children, but it didn’t hurt to double-check. The last thing Tyson wanted was more motion and chatter. He’d come to Idaho to get his mind and body ready for training camp at the end of July, barely two months away. Considering the recent changes in his life, that was going to be hard enough without any added distractions.
“No children,” she said.
She had no discernible accent, nothing that would give away her heritage. “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you nanny for someone else right now or…?”
“I work at the pharmacy behind the counter in the gift shop and soda fountain.”
That was pretty ordinary, too. “You realize you won’t be able to keep that job and work for me at the same time. I need someone who’s available—” he nearly said “twenty-four/seven” but quickly amended it to something slightly more reasonable “—almost every day.”
“I understand.”
“Good, because I have to be able to rely on you a hundred percent.”
“Of course. This is your son we’re talking about.”
He tried not to wince at the reminder. He wasn’t ready for a child, for fatherhood. He’d never had much of an example. His own father had been killed trying to land his private plane in San Jose when Tyson was only two. His mother had married and divorced four times since, and he hadn’t liked any of her husbands. But Rachelle had circumvented his usual defenses, had set him up so perfectly….
Reminding himself to unclench his jaw, Tyson cleared his throat. “That’s right. He’s my son.” Maybe if he said it often enough, he’d believe it. My son. I have a son. A baby. He had a paternity test to prove it, along with a stack of canceled checks he’d given the child’s mother as a result. He’d been hoping the money would be enough until an anonymous caller, a woman who was probably a neighbor or acquaintance of some kind, made him aware that Rachelle wasn’t taking proper care of Braden. Then he’d been forced to hire a private investigator to take a closer look—and, ultimately, to make a life-changing decision. He’d seen his son for the first time only two days ago, when he took over as primary caregiver.
Stifling a groan at the tremendous responsibility behind “primary caregiver,” he rubbed his face. It was all so damned ironic. There wasn’t another member of the Stingrays more religious about avoiding the groupies that congregated wherever the team went.
But Rachelle hadn’t been a groupie. She’d been a down-on-her-luck waitress without a place to stay. And he’d felt sorry for her.
The pencil in Tyson’s hand snapped in two, which caused Ms. Brown’s eyes to widen.
He tried to smile. It probably came across more like a pained grimace—he didn’t feel particularly lighthearted these days. After the injury that had benched him last year, he was hanging on to his football career by his fingernails. Grandpa Garnier, his father’s father and a central figure in his life, had just died. He had a baby he didn’t want or know how to care for. And he had the media hounding him at every turn: Would he sign for another two years with the Los Angeles Stingrays? Or would he move to another team when he became a free agent at the end of the season? How was he handling his grandfather’s death? Would his grief hurt his ability to play? Was his knee fully healed? Was he considering an early retirement? Who’d watch his baby once the season was underway? Would Braden travel with him?
Even the details of the arrangement he’d made with Rachelle had been splashed across newspapers all over the country: Stringray Wide Receiver Tyson Garnier Pays $1,000,000 for Custody.
Who the hell told the press? he wondered. It had to have been Rachelle. She loved the attention. Which was a whole other issue, one he’d have to deal with later. He’d headed for the hills the day he saw that headline, hoping to disappear and regroup—before the paparazzi could surround his Malibu home in an attempt to get a picture of him caring for his million-dollar baby.
“You realize I won’t be here long, that the job is only temporary?” he asked, struggling to stay focused on the interview. He’d been up most the night, pacing with a crying Braden, and hadn’t had the chance to shower or shave. A day’s growth of beard covered his jaw, and his eyes burned from fatigue.
“Gabe explained that to me, yes,” she said.
“And the job still appeals to you?” He hated to ruin his chances by driving home the negatives, but he didn’t want to lie to her. She was giving up her current job for an eight-week stint as a nanny. How wise could that be?
“Actually, it’s an ideal situation for me,” she explained. “I’ve been working at the pharmacy since high school, so I have a lot of vacation time saved up. Mr. Cottle—that’s my boss—told me I had to take it or I’d lose it.”
“And you’re going to spend it working for me? You don’t want to see the ocean? Go to Disneyland?”
Her eyes slid away from his, appeared to focus on the edge of the desk. “I can’t. Not right now. Anyway, I don’t want to miss this opportunity.”
Who considered such a brief job as a nanny an opportunity? “It’s only two months of work.”
“But it pays well.”
Tyson hadn’t decided on a salary yet. He’d been waiting to ascertain the expectations of his applicants. “It does?” he asked in surprise.
“Gabe said you’d pay me at least three times what
