Page 29 of Damon

“She’s fine, Damon. Now, go and care for your daughter.”

Chapter twelve

Damon and Annie's Home, London

February 2022

Damon

My cell rings again. It’s the boss. Again. Reluctantly, I pick up my phone from the armrest beside me and tap the accept call button.

“We need you back, McKinney,” he growls as soon as I answer. “Get your childcare sorted and get back to work. Be at HQ, Tuesday 08:00.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No more excuses. This operation is causing more issues every fucking day. Be here or be prepared to move downward. I can’t afford to give you any more time off.”

“Yes, sir.”

The phone line cuts, and I lower the handset from my ear. My mother watches me, astute eyes assessing my body language as she attempts to guess what conversation I just had. She crosses her arms over her chest, then straightens her shoulders.

“Who was that?”

“The boss.”

“And what did he want?”

“Me, back to work,” I reply shortly.

“You are eligible for paternity leave, Damon,” she hisses. “He can’t force you back to work.”

“I am aware of the law, Mother.” She rolls her eyes, and the irate feeling she causes within me resurfaces. Though she has been a godsend for childcare these past eight weeks since my daughter was born, my mother is now getting on my last nerve with her never-ending opinions and advice. “However, he can make my life and job very difficult when I return if he wants to. As much as thirty-seven weeks of paid leave sounds appealing. In my position, it’s not possible.”

“Well, you better get a nanny sorted for Constance,” she snaps. “Have you even looked at the list I provided?”

“Annie,” I correct her, ignoring the question. No, I’ve not looked at the fucking list. “We call her Annie.”

“Her name is Constance.”

“Yes, but Annie rolls off the tongue much easier from day to day. Please use it.”

She snorts, narrows her eyes, then turns to march from the room. I love my mother, but hell, I can’t live with her. Small doses are fine. A few days of her company is more than enough. After every day for fifty-six days, I may end up in jail myself if she doesn’t leave soon.

“Two weeks,” she calls over her shoulder. “I can give you two more weeks, son, but after that I will be leaving. You piss me off as much as I do you.” She doesn’t wait for my reply, only leaves without looking back. Once gone, I walk over to the kitchen counter where the list of names and credentials sit of the women my mother thinks would be suitable to help me raise my daughter. After climbing up on the bar stool, my eyes fall on the first candidate.

Veronica Marmont

54 years old

30 years’ experience in early-years childcare.

Fully insured and DBS checked.

After working within a preschool for twenty years, Veronica has spent the past decade nannying around the world for families needing her support. She cares for children from birth to eighteen years old. Veronica believes discipline, daily routine, and house rules are key in a child’s development to become a productive adult in modern society.

She sounds fun—not. My focus moves to the next candidate.

Sasha Friel