There sat Mochi, my reddish-brown Alaskan Malamute—a hundred-pound giant, quiet in the evening light. To me, he wasn't just a pet. He was family. I'd raised him for six years. He was my heart.
Catching my eye, Mochi panted, tongue lolling out in a goofy, adorable grin.
The tension in my chest loosened. My heart softened, and the words of dismissal died in my throat.
Mochi was a hundred-pound Alaskan Malamute with an insatiable need for exercise. Since my role at Swanson Group kept me buried in work, walking him was the most critical part of the nanny's job.
With that in mind, I headed toward the study, tossing a command over my shoulder.
"Clear the table. Don't disturb me today. I have work to finish."
Once inside, I pulled out my phone and dialed the agency. I needed a replacement within three days. After confirming the request, I exhaled slowly, tension easing from my shoulders.
For Mochi's sake, I'd tolerate Violet for just a few more days.
The next morning, a man's low rumble pulled me from sleep.
My pulse spiked. I threw off the covers and hurried to the living room, tightening my robe.
A stranger was sitting on my sofa.