Destiny and the devil, p.1
Destiny and the Devil, page 1
Knocking up his Nanny
Olivia Noble
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Faking it with Bossy
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Copyright © 2022 Olivia Noble
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Chapter 1
Juniper
“Honey,” my mother says, once the nurse finally manages to get the needle into her arm. “Are you ever going to introduce me to a nice boy before I die?”
The question is not fair.
I watch as the tube connected to the needle fills with a yellow serum, slithering down into my mom’s veins. It’s liquid gold. It’s poison. It’s saving her life. It’s hurting her. It’s costing a fortune.
“I don’t know any nice boys,” I answer as I pull her knitting supplies out of her handbag. I hate these chemo treatments. I have so many mixed feelings. It might seem innocent enough, but it gives me a ton of anxiety. None of my sisters have driven our mother to these appointments and had to sit here for hours and watch.
“Oh, well, he doesn’t have to be that nice,” my mother corrects, trying to be understanding. “He can be a little naughty, I suppose. Just have some fun, dear. I want you to go out there and live your life, and I want to see you smile more.”
“I have lots of fun, Mumsy.” We all call her that—not just our family, but the entire town. She’s very old—old enough to be my grandmother. She couldn’t have kids of her own, so when she adopted all of us, she was already way past the natural age of any mother. Still, she’s always been so full of energy, love, and good advice—even the chemo hasn’t been able to keep her down. It wrecked her hair, but it couldn’t steal her smile.
Mumsy has been the surrogate grandmotherly figure for all of Silver Mountain. So, when she turns to all the other people in the room, they all pay attention. “My Junebug never has any fun,” she complains to the others receiving chemotherapy, as she resumes knitting a warm winter hat. “She’s basically a nun. Can you believe that I raised a nun?”
“Youth is wasted on the young,” says another old woman with a deep sigh.
“I am nothing like a nun,” I tell them all stubbornly. Although, my favorite movie of all time is The Sound of Music. And I may have considered becoming a nun once or twice after I got my heart broken really badly—and watched my sisters’ hearts get smashed into a million pieces. Sometimes, I wouldn’t mind retiring from the dating scene, hanging up my heels, and putting on a habit.
But I’m not a nun YET. There is still a tiny spark of hope left somewhere in this sad, dusty vagina.
“Junebug,” my mother asks, “When is the last time you went on a date?”
“Uh,” I say, trying to remember. “Recently?”
“How do you expect to meet a nice boy if you’re so shut down and closed off?” she asks.
“It took me years to build up the courage and talk to my wife,” says an old man in the room, holding up the hand with his wedding ring proudly. “Best thing I ever did. My only regret is taking too long—I wish I hadn’t wasted that time, and could have been enjoying life with her much sooner.”
“That’s a lovely story,” I tell him. “But these days, guys aren’t the same as when you were young. They aren’t serious—they just want to mess around and walk away. Everything is super casual.”
“That’s okay,” my mother says hopefully. “Maybe you can’t have serious without starting as casual, sometimes.”
I don’t know. Why bother starting anything if it never leads anywhere? This conversation is making me feel gloomy, and I am craving some Cheetos.
“Ah, Juniper,” says another old woman in disappointment. I know her from the daycare where I used to work. “I think I see the problem, young lady. Why are you wearing such a horrible potato-sack sweater? How do you expect to attract any man like that? Why, if my boobs weren’t sitting way down by my bellybutton, I would show off the girls!”
I look down in surprise. But I love this sweater. I knitted it myself.
Begrudgingly, I undo a few buttons and slide it off one shoulder. “Is that better, Mrs. Merriweather?”
“Yes, dear. Now you have to go out and have some fun for all of us!”
“Well, I actually have started dating someone,” I tell all the cancer patients. I feel horrible as soon as the words leave my mouth. I hate lying. I’m sure I’m going straight to hell. But how can I disappoint all of their poor, sweet faces, looking for some good news today?
I am sure that the best news they are all seeking is the R-word. Remission. But since I can’t give them that… the next best thing is another R-word. Romance? I bet they would love some Raunchy, R-rated Romance.
“Who is he, Juney?” my mother asks with excitement. “Why haven’t you told me about him?”
“Oh, it’s still very new,” I respond. “He is very handsome and seems wonderful, but I didn’t want to talk about it too soon and get my hopes up. Just in case it ends up falling apart.”
“Tell me all about him!” my mother says, her eyes lighting up. “Is he good enough for my little girl?”
“Oh, he’s the best,” I say, as I begin to share a vague and enchanting tale about some dashing mystery man that I’ve never met. I tell them all how he opened the car door on our date, and held my hand as we walked in the snow. All kinds of romantic things that probably don’t happen anymore—I doubt they want to hear the truth. That most ‘dates’ consist of Netflix and chill and never speaking again.
Mrs. Merriweather listens and nods. “Just don’t wear that sweater when you see him, and I’m sure everything will be just fine.”
I groan. After entertaining them all with my story, I excuse myself from the room to stretch my legs. My only comfort during these chemo sessions has been to find all the hospital vending machines and buy as much junk food as humanly possible. I must say, the coffee vending machine isn’t terrible either.
But very few things in this world comfort me like Cheetos.
After a quick stroll through the hospital halls, I am grateful to see that there is still one small bag of my favorite treat left in the vending machine. I reach into my ugly sweater to extract some money, and feed a crumpled bill to the machine. I am running low on cash—my mother doesn’t know that I can barely afford the gas to get us to the hospital, which is two towns over. I’ll have to ask my sisters for help later.
The machine eats my dollar, then I punch in the code for Cheetos. B3. It’s like a Bingo number.
Maybe one of these days I should bring a set of Bingo cards to chemo to entertain the old people, instead of knitting or inventing stories about a thrilling love life that doesn’t exist.
I stand here, waiting and waiting for my Cheetos to drop so I can collect them. But the metal coil around the junk food twists, and fails to push it out completely. It hangs there, halfway out—but no longer moving. And I don’t think I have another dollar.
“No,” I whisper in horror, placing both hands flat against the glass. “Please. Please, Cheetos, I need you—I beg you to come down out of there and into my stomach. We are fighting cancer and you’re the only thing that cheers me up in this whole hospital. Please don’t fail me, today.”
I’m really bad at praying and begging, so I quickly turn to cursing and threatening.
“Damn you, Cheetos! I paid good money for you, and you’re just stuck there, staring at me, taunting me.” I press my finger against the glass, angrily. “You better behave yourself, or I’m going to come in there, and knock some sense into you. Don’t think I won’t. I’m not a nice little nun like they all say. I’m a hungry, angry—hangry woman—I will eat you alive!”
Beginning to beat my fists on the machine, trying to dislodge the junk food, I want to scream in frustration as I kick the machine and curse at it. I let out all my anger at cancer, chemo, and rising gas prices on the poor vending machine.
I notice the Cheetos just barely beginning to budge. It’s working!
Dropping to my knees, I shove my entire arm into the hole where the Cheetos are supposed to fall, and try to reach up and grab them. “Come on! Come on!” I say with frustration, getting into every weird position I can to try to reach my prize. Finally, with my body pressed against the floor, and my shoulder thrust up into the bowels of the vendi
“Yes!” I say. “Right there—I’ve got it!”
But then I manage to push the Cheetos up a few inches, instead of pulling. And they still don’t fall. It’s completely out of reach. My shoulder happens to get a bad cramp at the same time, and I wince, letting out a string of curse words suitable for a sailor.
This is a bad day. I feel like I was drowning at sea, and those Cheetos were the only life raft for miles. I clutch my shoulder miserably.
But then, someone behind me clears his throat. It’s a masculine sound.
Kind, but filled with amusement, like he is trying not to laugh at me.
“Uh. Can I help you with that, Miss?”
Chapter 2
When I realize the awkward position I am in, on my hands and knees in front of the vending machine, I realize that my butt must be in the stranger’s face.
A small blush touches my cheeks as I quickly right myself, rising to my feet and trying to reclaim some morsel of my dignity. “I just paid for a snack, and it isn’t working,” I say in a small voice, trying to appear cool and conceal how emotional I am about this situation. But I’m close to tears. A quick glance at the man reveals that he is even more handsome than the fictional fellow I was just making up stories about. Dammit. Probably not single, then. I look down and fix my gaze back on my ugly sweater.
The stranger steps forward, and grasps the side of the vending machine.
He stands very close to me, and I am hit by a whiff of his cologne, which floods my senses. It leaves me dizzy—the musky scent of sandalwood and spice. Whoa. Where did he come from? I can barely process that he is firmly tapping the side of the vending machine, and like magic, the Cheetos fall. He then reaches down, and retrieves the snack, before handing it to me. “The machine is tricky. It’s like a temperamental woman. You have to know just how to touch her. Yelling and cursing and shoving your arm up inside her like you’re trying to deliver a baby isn’t going to do the trick.”
I take the Cheetos from the man, still feeling embarrassed. “Thank you for helping. So—how long were you watching me?”
“Long enough,” he says with a light chuckle.
I take this moment to study his features. Something I definitely shouldn’t do, because he is way too gorgeous. A full head of dark hair, and blue eyes sparkling with amusement. His jaw is sharp and defined, and I can see the outline of shapely muscle beneath his shirt. His waist is trim and small, and well, I try to force my eyes to stop roaming lower. I look away, but his scent is still surrounding me, and making me keenly aware of his presence.
Remember that tiny spark of hope in my neglected lady bits? Breathing in the smell of this man feeds a bit of oxygen to that ember, without my permission, and the light that was about to fizzle out completely into ashes, somehow burns a tiny bit brighter. But it shouldn’t. I mean—sure, he’s saved my life and rescued my Cheetos—but that doesn’t mean he’s even straight, or interested in me, so I tell my dumb body to calm down.
“I just have one question,” he says, lifting an eyebrow as he looks down at me, with a bit of a grin. “Shake it like a polaroid picture?”
This makes me freeze.
I am keenly aware that I wore panties today with that exact phrase on them.
Everything else was in the laundry. But how on earth would anyone be able to read the words on my butt, unless—my cheeks begin to turn red-hot as I realize my skirt must have flipped up in the back while I was wrestling with the vending machine.
June. June. This is bad.
Stop standing here with your mouth open in horror. Say something.
“I am an entrepreneur,” I tell him, once I gather my composure. Lifting my head high, I smooth out my dress, making sure it is properly arranged down over my bottom, in an effort to salvage some pride. “I dabble in fashion design, and I make specialty lingerie. I was only wearing these to test out the fit and comfort.”
“Is it comfortable?” the man asks, genuinely interested. “I don’t think I have ever seen so many sequins on a woman’s ass since I got dragged to strippers in Vegas for a bachelor party.”
My embarrassment is only growing, and I clutch the Cheetos tightly against my chest for comfort. “This is from my ‘Dance Like No One’s Watching’ collection. There’s also a pair that says ‘Badonkadonk’ and ‘I wasn’t farting, I was blowing you kisses with my butt.’ I also have a Christmas collection with phrases like, ‘Ho Ho Ho’ and ‘Let it Snow Right Here.’ It’s supposed to be eye-catching, and clearly it worked. I caught your attention, didn’t I?”
“Ah, I see. So, who is your target audience?” the man asks. “People who like to put on goofy underwear and twerk in their bedrooms for TikTok posts? Circus performers?”
“If you must know, I design a lot of custom costumes for drag queens who work at The North Pole.” I try to say this proudly, but clearly I am a failed entrepreneur. Although I have sewn and sold many outfits, it hasn’t been nearly enough to pay the bills. My friend Rudy is a performer who has supported me by buying many of my creations, and recommending my work to all his friends. But I still don’t even have a few extra dollars for gas, or Cheetos.
“You’re full of surprises,” says the man. “When I first saw you, I had you pegged for a kindergarten teacher or a nun. Until you bent over, of course.”
“Why does everyone keep calling me a nun?” I say with exasperation.
“I think it’s your hairstyle,” he suggests. “It’s very old-timey and proper.”
“How dare you insult my hair,” I say defensively, reaching up to touch my braided buns. “I looked up so many tutorials on YouTube to learn how to do this style!”
“Were those tutorials from the 1800s?” he asks playfully.
“No, because there was no YouTube in the 1800s,” I respond.
“Well, I know that,” he says with a chuckle. “Just the middle part and updo reminds me of Queen Victoria.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with a bit of Victorian style. I consider it classic,” I inform him stubbornly.
“It is quite classic,” he says, reaching out to touch my braids. “May I?”
“Sure,” I say in an anxious squeak. I can feel the heat of his hand near my ear. It’s a very gentle and curious touch. Who is this gorgeous man and why is he fussing over my hair? “Are you a hairdresser or something?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. I just know a little girl who would kill for hair like this,” he responds.
I find the answer adorable, but at the same time a bit disappointing. He seemed intrigued and fascinated by the glimpse of my bottom, perhaps—but my hair is reminding him of a child. I seem like a cute kindergarten teacher, not someone he would ever find attractive. A sobering reminder of my failed love life.
The little spark in my tummy threatens to fizzle out. But I don’t want to let it die just yet.
“Would you like to go on a date with me?” I blurt out.
Chapter 3
“It doesn’t have to be a real date,” I say quickly to cover up my awkwardness, and remove any pressure on him. “You see, my mother is currently receiving chemo in the Wintergreen Wing. She was complaining that I never go on any dates, and I just want to make her happy. I don’t want to lie. I just want to tell her something real and see her smile. So, you would be doing me a huge favor—maybe we can grab a chocolate milk together down at the cafeteria or something?”
“Chocolate milk?” the man responds with amusement. “Is that the sort of thing you would normally drink on a date?”
“I don’t know,” I admit with discomfort. “I don’t go on many dates.”
