Page 32 of Nanny for the Firefighters

Marcus holds up his phone, and my stomach plummets. It's a picture of Vanessa, his ex-wife, scantily clad and perched on a barstool, a half-empty cocktail clutched in one perfectly manicured hand. Her smile is calculated, and the caption screams thirsty.

"Apparently, Vanessa's discovered the healing power of tequila and midriff tops," Marcus murmurs, his tone laced with a dry amusement that doesn't quite mask the flash of something darker in his eyes.

I stiffen, any trace of the earlier mellow warmth evaporating.

Will, sensing the shift in mood, nudges Marcus playfully. "Dude, come on, it's just a photo. Don't let her ruin our vibe."

"Yeah," Theo adds, flashing a blinding grin. "Who needs midriff tops when you've got… well, this!"

Their easy attempts at distraction are appreciated, but Vanessa's sudden reappearance has thrown a wrench into the works. My pulse quickens with an uneasy mix of protectiveness toward Marcus and a simmering annoyance at the intrusive image that dared disrupt our sanctuary.

Just as I'm about to voice a suitably sarcastic comment, the doorbell rings, its shrill sound slicing through the air. We all freeze, our collective breath held in silent anticipation. It can't be the pizza guy. It's way too early.

Marcus stands, a flicker of tension crossing his handsome features. "That's probably… uh… just an unexpected guest."

Ethan raises a skeptical eyebrow. He gets up from the bed and drapes a robe over himself so he can go downstairs. When he comes back, he doesn't look happy. "Well," he begins with a delicate cough. "That would be the devil herself."

Theo's brow quirks. "Don't tell me it's tequila-soaked, midriff-baring?—"

"Hell no," Marcus grunts, cutting him off. He gets up to get dressed. Then, with a resigned sigh, he heads downstairs toward the door, throwing me an apologetic look over his shoulder.

Something green erupts inside my chest.

This isn't love, I remind myself. Then why? Why am I jealous?

15

ELLA

My patience with Van-pirella is currently running as thin as the budget for a high school prom. I remind myself that my sudden urge to wrap her in caution tape and ship her to the North Pole isn't solely due to my new pact with the guys. No, I merely want to keep Marcus safe from the whirlwind of havoc that is his ex.

Right on cue, as if she'd taken drama lessons from a Greek tragedy, I hear something shatter with the force of what sounds like the entire crystal section of a department store taking a tumble.

"Seriously?" I hiss, clambering over discarded pillows. "Can't a girl have a moment of bliss without a chandelier-related meltdown?"

Theo, now leaning casually against the wall like a GQ model in a disaster zone, barely even flinches. "Let's go check it out, shall we?"

Will, bless his heart, is already scrambling into clothes. Apparently, flying glass is a great motivator. Ethan is already halfway down the stairs in his robe, now looking like a grumpy, sleep-deprived teddy bear.

We burst into the living room just in time to witness Vanessa, looking like an unhinged beauty queen who lost a fight with a makeup palette, flinging what appears to be a crystal swan across the room. It explodes in a magnificent shower of glitter and shards. Marcus, to his credit, looks utterly serene.

"Doing some spring cleaning, I see?" I deadpan as I move to stand beside him, unable to resist a dig.

He shoots me a grin that could melt glaciers. "About time. Those were all gifts from her dear old mom. Just so it's clear, there is no love lost between us. Honestly, it's cathartic watching them go."

Vanessa spins around, mascara tracks forming dramatic war stripes down her cheeks. "This is not cathartic, Marcus! These were heirlooms!"

He raises an eyebrow, cool as a cucumber. "I'm not the one destroying them, darling—although you do have a penchant for ruining things. Remember, honey, you were the one caught getting… shall we say, a little too friendly… with your tennis instructor? In our bed, no less."

Her face contorts with fury. "That doesn't matter! This is my house, and I can do whatever I want!"

"Technically," Marcus counters, his voice smooth as velvet, "this house belongs to Lily. And speaking of our daughter, remember how you were, shall we say, a tad unavailable during her most formative months? You know, the whole 'hiring a revolving door of overwhelmed nannies' phase?"

Vanessa opens her mouth to argue, then deflates. The fight seems to drain out of her, replaced by a desperate pleading.

"Marcus, I… I can change. I want to come home. I love you," she says, batting her tear-rimmed eyelashes.

Yeah, right. About as believable as a politician's campaign promises. I can practically smell the insincerity radiating off her.