1
Paige
I ought to walk out before I end up murdered.
Everything feels off.
The smell of stale cigarette smoke lingers in the air and burns my nostrils. The floral wallpaper is a dirty old yellow.
The hairs on my arm stand on end.
I should turn around.
Run.
But I need a job and the wooden sign hanging outside, squeaking in the wind with the wordsNanny Agency, Inc.caught my interest.
“Hello?” I call down an empty hallway.
I step farther into the single-story brick building. The place looks new from the outside, but the appearance inside tells another story.
A rough Italian accent, male, catches me off guard as he comes up from a back stairwell.
Abruptly he shuts the door behind him.
“Can I help you?” he asks. He glances at me thoroughly over, up, and down.
Is he ogling me?
Gross!
He’s not the least bit attractive, with his bushy eyebrows and a thick raised red scar across his cheek and arms. It looks like Hook left his mark after he fought with a crocodile.
While I realize that I’m not dressed in a suit or blazer, I have a nice pair of jeans on and a blouse. I wasn’t planning on stopping in for an interview, just an application.
“I saw your sign when I was driving by,” I say.
He steps closer and reaches for the speaker, turning the radio louder, though I don’t have the slightest idea as to why.
There are only the two of us in the building.
It’s a rather rude gesture, and I have half a mind to run before I end up chopped up in his cellar, but I also need a job. And I’m good with kids.
Aside from Mr. Ogling Scar Face, there’s no one else who I notice in the office.
I start again, deciding maybe I need to be more direct in my approach. “I’m Paige Stone. I have previous experience as a preschool director and owner of a preschool facility in Spring Valley. I’d like to find out if you have any nanny openings available.”
“We have an opening that we haven’t been able to fill yet,” the gentleman says. He glances me up and down again.
Is it something about my appearance? I glance down to make sure there isn’t a stain on my shirt or a hole in my jeans that I missed.
“You’re a little older than our usual girls who come in.”
“I don’t know what kind of nanny operation that you’re running here, but I have plenty of experience, and as far as I’m concerned, if you’re discriminating based on age or body type, I’ll contact an attorney.”
His brow tightens.
“That isn’t necessary,” he seethes. His hands clench into fists.
My threat seems to have intimidated him.
Good!
I reach for a business card on the nearby desk, prepared to file a complaint, if he doesn’t at least give me an application to fill out.
“Are you Vance DeLuca?” I ask, reading the name on the card.
“I am,” he says.
There’s no hint of a smile, and the whole place wreaks of trouble, but I’m not intending to nanny for him or his family. He’s just the middleman, the broker, and I need a job.