Reserved for the Nanny

Chapter 1: The Interview

The dual-exhaust rumble of my matte black BMW M4 echoed off the steep rock faces as I navigated the winding mountain roads above Asheville. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of pines, throwing shifting patterns of gold and shadow across the hood. I had the windows cracked, letting the crisp, late-summer North Carolina air whip through my hair while the bass from my stereo hummed through the steering wheel.

I hit the brakes at a towering set of wrought-iron gates set into a high stone wall. An understated, dark metal plaque mounted to the masonry read simply: Kingston.

I shifted into park, tapped the touch screen to mute the music, and took a long, deep breath.

Twenty-three years old, I reminded myself in the rearview mirror, smoothing down my collar. Fresh off the stage with an Ole Miss diploma in hand, zero job offers in my inbox, and living on borrowed time.

My social media following was high enough to keep my inbox flooded with free clothing packages and PR boxes, but direct messages full of clothes didn't pay for gas in an M4, nor did they cover rent. I needed a real paycheck, and more than that, I needed a fresh start back home in North Carolina.

When the agency sent over the listing for a live-in nanny position in the mountains, I'd jumped on it. High pay, full room and board, and a chance to spend my days doing something I actually loved—working with kids. The catch? The employer was notoriously selective, insanely wealthy, and had already burned through three nannies in six months.

I pressed the call button on the intercom post.

"Identification?" a crisp, professional female voice crackled through the speaker.

"Posie Collins," I said, offering my warmest voice. "Here for the two o'clock interview with Mr. Kingston."

There was a brief pause, a sharp buzz, and then the massive gates swung inward without a sound.

I put the car in drive and crept up the long, sweeping driveway. The forest cleared to reveal a sprawling, ultra-modern estate built of dark timber, local stone, and massive floor-to-ceiling glass panels overlooking the Blue Ridge valley below. It was imposing, breath-taking, and entirely devoid of any visible clutter. No stray toys, no outdoor gear, no clutter. Just pristine, quiet luxury.

I parked in the wide circular driveway, cut the engine, and grabbed my structured tote bag. Stepping out onto the gravel, I adjusted my fitted cream knit top and high-waisted tailored trousers. I wanted to look professional, but I couldn't entirely hide the bright, vibrant energy that was just built into my DNA.

Before I reached the front entrance, the heavy, dark wood door swung open. A woman in her mid-fifties with a neat grey bun and an ironed apron stepped out, offering a polite, practiced smile.

"Miss Collins?"

"Yes, hi! You must be Mrs. Gable?" I smiled, stepping across the threshold.

"I am the head of household management," she nodded, taking me in with an observant eye. "Mr. Kingston is currently on an international conference call in his study. He will be with you shortly. You may wait in the grand foyer."

"Thank you so much."

The interior of the house was even quieter than the driveway. Polished concrete floors, floating staircases, and minimalist art pieces created an atmosphere that felt more like a private modern art museum than a family home. My heels clicked lightly against the floor, each sound echoing through the expansive space.

Mrs. Gable vanished down a wide hallway, leaving me standing near a double-sided fireplace. I shifted my bag to my other shoulder, taking in the sheer scale of the place. It felt almost entirely sterile—until I caught a soft, tiny rustle coming from around the corner of the hallway leading to the west wing.