A Nanny for Christmas

“You’re sweet, Charlie. You want to go first?”

Tim and Tom argue over that immediately but I ignore them. Yes, I do want to go first.

Her eyes captivate me in a sky blue stare. She sways slowly, rolling those round hips, arching her back and sighing.

“I’ve never done this before so…”

“Wait, what?” Stan interrupts.

Tim and Tom gasp while Hank and Stan start with alarm. But I can see it in her eyes — she’s ours. She’s already decided.

But Stan feels like he has a job to do now. He holds his hands out, delivering orders in that serious bark he uses.

“Tim and Tom, you guys warm her up,” he commands.

I shoot him a look. He knows what’s fair. I know he’ll do the right thing.

“Charlie, you eat her pussy,” he smirks, winking, until i smile back.

As Tim and Tom lay her on the sofa, I kneel between her legs, running my hands over her thighs. She shudders and sighs, biting her pillowy lower lip between her teeth. I can’t take my eyes off that shimmering snatch of fabric, just the flimsiest barrier between me and heaven. Inhaling deeply, I slide up closer, savoring every shiver as she opens her legs for me, inviting me in.

We found our princess. I know it.

CHAPTER 1

VANESSA

T he moving van rolls slowly down the long, curved driveway while heavy walnut branches scrape gently along the top. I wave a couple of fingers in greeting at the moving company driver, waiting patiently on the side of the cul-de-sac as

he maneuvers the huge truck out of the way.

After clearing the brick mailbox post by just inches, the truck accelerates toward the exit, and I slip my Subaru back into gear. I see an older couple sitting on a loveseat swing on the porch to my left, rocking slowly back and forth. They drink beverages out of tall glasses in the cool shade of the deep porch. On my other side, there is another driveway that leads back between rows of trees toward another house, but I only see the top edge of the roof line over the leaves.

It looks like something out of a fairy tale, to be honest. The curving drive, the houses tucked away behind manicured hedges and dense woods. It all looks mystical, magical.

Keeping an eye out for mischievous woodland creatures, I drive up the concrete driveway, noting how the two neighboring houses appear in flickers among the tree trunks and ample undergrowth. It's still pretty secluded out here, and not what I had expected.

When my mom told me that they had rented a house on a cul-de-sac, I thought that they had gone totally suburban on me. Now I see it just happens to be a glorified dead-end street that sprouted off a remote county road in the middle of Pennsylvania. Not suburban at all.

As I roll up toward the house, I see my mother, Anita, wandering around a well manicured turf lawn with a moving box in her arms. She zigzags back and forth, her wavy blonde hair streaming behind her in the light breeze. When she hears my Subaru, she pivots and smiles at me, squinting against the sunlight.

“Well, here we go,” I breathe into the quiet interior air. “No turning back now.”

Taking a deep breath, I slap a big fat smile on my face and open the door, waving cheerfully over my head as though I have got an imaginary banner unfurled or something. Mom tips her chin toward the house, suggesting that I take a look at it. As if on cue, my dad emerges from the open garage door, pulling on a pair of work gloves.

“Hey! You're here!” he calls out, smiling.

“I sure am!” I reply with as much cheer as I can muster. Despite my cranky mood, I can’t help but love their enthusiasm.

Striding across the lawn, I join my mom and her moving box as my dad cuts diagonally toward us. Her eyes slide toward him, then back toward me. She nods happily, but I don’t know why. This is her way: a lot of nonverbal communication that goes right over my head.

I'm happy that my dad came over to this spot on the lawn because he likes to use actual words that other human beings can understand. My mom, on the other hand, operates in some kind of super primate clairvoyance experiment instead. I assume that all these years making nature documentaries has convinced her that words are for humans who refuse to truly evolve, or something like that.

“Man, you look great!” my dad sighs, crushing me in a big bear hug. “Doesn't she look great?”

My mom tips her head to the side and looks at the toes of my shoes, then my left shoulder. She smiles and shrugs at the box in her hands.

I raise my eyebrows at my dad, hoping for some kind of clue what that all meant. He just smirks.