Janetta was a gentle and calm woman, content with the simplicity of her life. She didn't need to shine in a crowd or seek any special attention. Her world was made up of tender gestures, a calm that soothed those around her. Every morning, she woke with a light smile, ready to fulfill her mission: making others' lives a little bit softer. On the other side, Alexander lived in a very different world. Divorced for three months, he had become an empty shell, his heart frozen by the wounds of the past. He no longer had space for emotions, drowned in the chaos of work and responsibilities. At 32, with a ten-month-old baby to care for, he found himself at a dead end. The baby's cries, sleepless nights, and daily chores seemed overwhelming. This wasn't what he had planned. Yet, he had no choice but to find a solution. This solution came in the form of a live-in nanny. Janetta, recommended by her boss, Alexander's best friend, was about to enter his life. Gentle, patient, and caring, Janetta would be the ray of sunshine in the gloom of a broken man. But what neither of them knew was that their meeting would change everything.
Chapter 1 01
01
My blackberry vibrated violently against the table surface, the unexpected noise jarring me from the 19th-century London back alleys and straight into the fluorescent-lit present. I jumped, clutching at my papers, but it was no use-the sharp blast of cold air from the vent above dislodged them completely. Like startled pigeons, the pristine white sheets fluttered to the floor in a chaotic mess.
"Holy cows," I muttered under my breath, dropping to my knees without hesitation. My bag slid off my chair and thumped onto the floor beside me, but I ignored it, desperate to salvage the scattered manuscript before anyone could trample them.
The floor was mercilessly busy, shoes clicking past me-some business casual, some worn sneakers, all a threat to my sanity. The chaos of lunchtime in the coffee house didn't slow, and I quickly became a human speed bump among a stampede of caffeine-fueled professionals.
This clumsy, wrapped-up-in-her-own-world person is me.
My name is Janetta Summers, and I am the main editor at Blueburg Publishing House, a publishing company that I had interned at during university. During the beginning of my job, I was merely an assistant editor amongst many, of course, but our main senior commission editor had decided to put my name in the bowl when the main editor at the time had decided to resign. Through some combination of sheer luck, furious determination, and three bestselling authors later, here I am now, at the tender age of twenty-two, as the main editor.
A job at which, till today, despite my achievements, I still feel wildly incompetent doing.
I scrambled across the tile floor, heart hammering in my chest as I scooped up another handful of papers, biting my lip as I noted how out of order they now were. Five minutes of frantic gathering later, I managed to locate most of the manuscript-but a considerable chunk of thirty or so pages remained missing.
Panic licked up my spine as I stood up, running my fingers through my hair and pushing the dark strands behind my ear. My hazel eyes darted nervously around the coffee house, sweeping the slightly crowded lunchtime rush for any signs of my lost pages. My heart sank lower with each passing second.
No one else was bending down. No one else was holding a stack of papers.
Just me.
Just the strange girl standing awkwardly amidst a sea of people buying lattes and paninis.
I was contemplating whether it was acceptable to just curl into a ball under my table and disappear when I felt a light tap on my shoulder.
"Excuse me," a deep, manly voice asked, a warm, smooth timbre to it that somehow cut through the coffee-scented chaos around us.
I turned, nearly tripping over my own feet in surprise.
There he was.
A man with rich, chocolate brown tousled hair, strong arched brows, and deep, catastrophic stormy grey eyes. He wore a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into dark blue business pants, the jacket of his suit casually draped over one arm. In his free hand-the one not balancing the jacket-he held the missing pages of my manuscript, grasped with an almost reverent care.
My mouth went dry. I immediately dropped my gaze, the blush creeping up my neck hotter than the coffee that had burned my tongue earlier.
Mumbling a quick and mortified, "Thank you," I snatched the papers from his hand, clutching them to my chest like a lifeline. Without daring another glance upward, I turned on my heel, gathered my things with trembling fingers, and practically fled the coffee house.
The chilly air outside slapped my cheeks red, but I welcomed the embarrassment-induced cold as I tried to blend into the crowd. My footsteps quickened automatically, the tip-tap of my heels matching the thudding of my heartbeat. I didn't stop until I'd put two blocks between me and the scene of my humiliation.
The blackberry was still buzzing insistently in my hand.
"Hello?" I mumbled into the phone, dodging a man carrying a tray of sandwiches as I squeezed past. "I had a miscall from this number..."
There was a brief crackle of static on the other end before a voice answered, clipped and efficient, yet somehow familiar.
"Miss Summers? This is Ms. Graham from the office. I need to speak to you regarding the new author prospect. There's been a slight... development."
Development. That word never meant anything good in publishing.
"Uh, sure," I stammered, struggling to keep my papers, bag, and phone from falling to the ground in a messy display of my panic. "I'm about ten minutes away. I'll be there soon."
Ending the call, I stuffed the phone into my pocket, tightened my grip on the abused manuscript, and started toward the office with purpose. My bag thumped against my hip with every step, my breath visible in little white puffs as I picked up my pace.
I tried to shake off the encounter in the coffee shop, but it lingered like an echo. His voice. Those eyes. The calm way he had held the pages-as if they mattered.
Maybe he had recognized the author's name? Or maybe he just didn't want to see some poor woman drown in a puddle of paper. Either way, the mortification remained. I was used to being invisible, focused, pulled into the world of words and commas and deadlines. Not... noticed.
Especially not by men who looked like they belonged on the covers of the books I edited.
My office building came into view-a sleek, glass-paneled structure wedged between a yoga studio and a florist-and I exhaled a shaky breath. The familiar revolving doors welcomed me with a soft whoosh, and I hurried into the elevator, pressing the button for the twelfth floor.
Blueburg's twelfth floor was a maze of bookshelves, cluttered desks, and editors in various stages of caffeine withdrawal. The moment I stepped out, the scent of burnt espresso and paper greeted me like an old friend. I spotted Ms. Graham through the glass-walled conference room, already pacing.
She looked up as I entered, beckoning me inside with a swift wave.
"There's been a change," she said without preamble, clicking the door shut behind me. "You remember the author I mentioned-E. Langford?"
"The new one? Historical fiction? Yes," I said, adjusting my grip on the slightly crumpled manuscript. "Is there a problem?"
"Not a problem," she replied, her lips twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Just... a twist. Langford's not just some fresh-faced writer from nowhere. Turns out, he's someone the board is very interested in. They've scheduled a meeting. Today. With you."
"With me?" I blinked. "Why me?"
"Because he specifically asked for you." Her eyes glittered. "And he's already waiting in the meeting room."
My stomach dropped.
"Wait, he's here? Now?"
"Yes," she said, clearly enjoying my panic. "And I suggest you try not to run this time."
I furrowed my brow in confusion. "What do you mean-"
But I didn't finish the sentence.
Because the door opened.
And in walked the man from the coffee shop.
The man with stormy grey eyes.
Holding a new manuscript.
And looking directly at me.
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