First days at a new job are always hard, and I was certain I was prepared for this challenge. To be fair, it wasn't the job itself that put me off balance today, it was my team. Resentment cascaded off them from the minute I called the morning meeting to say hello and get organized.

At lunch, my secretary, Maryam, confided that people at the company were upset so many senior employees were passed over for the promotion in favor of bringing an American into the office, then she asked me how I liked my rental car. I lied and then tried to find out whether people in England drove automatics.

According to Maryam, only pensioners and disabled people drive them. At that point, with the day I was having, there was no way I was admitting to being old or disabled. A manual car, it is.

So, it was with great relief that I climbed out of the cab in the laneway at the end of the day. Joey's excitement at having me home is always a balm, and I open the door, expecting to have Joey come running.

My first indication that Ashley's day may not have gone to plan is the stench in the house. It smells like burnt potatoes, and there is a scorched pan sitting on the side entrance table. Joey doesn't run to greet me, and the carpet still has marks on it from the vacuum.

I ask Ashley about the cookie sheet, and then I wander to the living room door. There, on the couch, is Joey, watching television. I march into the room, snatch the remote off the table, and I power it off.

"Joey doesn't watch TV."

"No cheese, Gromit," Joey says, and he glances at Ashley.

"What is he talking about?" I ask. "Has he watched so much TV that he's actually quoting the show?"

"I'll grab that pan." Ashley heads to the front entrance, and I follow on his heels.

"Did you not read the list I left you?" I ask as he takes the pan to the kitchen, and it clatters into the sink. At least everything seems reasonably tidy—not clean, but tidy. "I don't let Joey watch TV."

Ashley picks up one of the lists from the counter and seems to be running through it. "Right. Yeah. It's here. Didn't see that."

He half turns to me, and it's clear there's more he wants to say, but I am not justifying my parenting decisions to anyone. I open the cupboard next to the sink to get a glass, and I notice one of the bowls is missing. A quick glance at the drying rack and sink confirms it's not in either place, and I don't remember seeing it in the living room.

"Where's the bowl?" I take one out to show him. "We're missing one."

"Bit of an accident earlier. I dropped it." He shrugs. "You can take it out of my pay if you need to replace it. Do you want a cuppa or a glass of wine? You seem a bit stressed."

"You bought alcohol?" I frown.

"No, but I can pop to the off-license and get a bottle if you fancy it."

"I don't drink," I say. "And a cup of tea this late will just keep me up all night."

"Suit yourself," Ashley says, and he flicks on the kettle.

His easy-going, relaxed attitude is grating on my nerves, but I'm enough of an adult to realize it's partly because it mirrors the laisse faire mindset I also got at the office, as though everything is someone else's problem.

Back home, the burnt pan, the broken bowl, and Joey being parked in front of the television would have been sufficient for me to either fire my nanny or get into an argument with enough bite that she'd quit. If I keep going at him for his mistakes today, one way or another, I'll regret it, and neither of us can afford that.

"I never claimed to be a professional," Ashley says in a gruff voice. "Two weeks ago, I was laying bricks on a job site. You've taken a chance on me, and I appreciate it. No telly tomorrow."

"It's fine," I say, and I press my hands into the counter so hard they turn white. "I had a shitty first day, and I'm taking it out on you. I apologize, Ashley." My apology likely sounds sincere, but my brain, not my heart, is driving it. At least for now, keeping the peace is more important than my strict, normally unbending, standards. Gwen would be amazed at my adaptability. Necessity has bred change.

"It's Ash. You can call me Ash."

I've never been one to shorten names. On Joey's birth certificate, he's Joey, not Joe or Joseph. Although Ashley mentioned before I could call him Ash, it reeks of informality. He specifically said his "mates" call him Ash, and I can't be his friend.

Once we cross the employee and employer threshold into something murkier, it's harder to maintain standards, and inevitably, we'll both be frustrated. He'll be pissed his friend is angry with him, and I'll be upset my employee can't do anything right without me looking over his shoulder.

"Ash, it is," I say with a weak smile. If I wanted to be called Deborah and everyone kept calling me Paige, that would be infuriating. He wants to be Ash, so that's what he'll be, despite my reservations. It's not that I can't maintain a level of professionalism. Usually, that's easy. But seeing him with his daughter is a level of attractiveness I've never experienced in another male. Ever. Some sort of chemical reaction.

Ash Galvin is candy, and I fear at some point, I'll crave a taste.

Our early dinner is exactly like the previous night. Joey eats without complaint, and Chloe is content with her bottle and mixed-up rice. There's a quiet contentment at being sat around the table together, eating food we all seem to enjoy.

We dance around each other for the hour or so before the kids go to bed, as though neither of us is comfortable in our own skin or quite sure which parts of the house we should be in. I'm hyper aware of him, and I'm likely giving off serious creeper vibes.

There's no way I'll allow myself to develop an inappropriate fondness for my live-in nanny. A terrible idea on so many levels. I can't even remember the last time I was infatuated with someone, and an unrequited crush on a man I'm living with would be a disaster. So embarrassing and unacceptable. I won't be engaging in that insanity with Ash. I refuse with every fiber of my being. No. I will not go there.

Once Joey is asleep, I come down the stairs, and instead of going into the living room, I decide to finish the vacuuming. While the floor looks decent, it's clear he didn't do the baseboards or the corners. A bit of cleaning will help to calm my anxiousness about having him in the house. Next, I'll give the kitchen another tidy. Ash did the dishes, but they're still in the drying rack.

I've been running the vacuum for a few minutes in the front entranceway, and I'm heading into the kitchen when Ash wanders past with his teacup from earlier. He must have taken it upstairs with him when he put Chloe to bed. Caffeine this late would be a recipe for an all-nighter for me.

He eyes my progress, but he doesn't say anything. When he comes out of the kitchen again, he has another steaming mug of something. I will have to do a search later to see whether having that much caffeine before going to sleep is detrimental to the sleep cycle or someone's health. My nanny can't be dropping dead in the middle of a workday while he's looking after two kids.

In the kitchen, I'm on the last corner, when I turn and catch Ash watching me from the doorway, the mug in his hand. I click off the vacuum, thinking he's got a question.

"What exactly are you doing?" He takes a sip of his drink.

Seems pretty obvious what I'm doing, but I've never had someone living with me to see it. Before, whenever the nanny didn't quite get something right, no one but Joey saw the evidence of my obsessive tendencies.

"Vacuuming," I say.

He searches my face for a beat, and he seems to be considering his response. "Why?"

"I like all the corners and baseboards done when someone vacuums." I drag the vacuum back toward the doorway to start on the other rooms.

"Is that noted in one of your lists and I missed it?"

Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I hate that I'm embarrassed to have standards. High though they may be, I'm proud that I care. Lots of things matter to me, and I don't consider that quality a negative. Detail oriented and meticulous. Serves me well in architecture.

"I wouldn't normally be doing this in front of you," I say. "But since you live here..."

"Unless I'm wrong—and I could be—my job is to do what you're doing. If you don't like the job I'm doing, you need to tell me."

"I've just...always gone over the work other people have done."

"Micro-managing isn't going to get us on even footing. You need to tell me I got it wrong, and I need to try my best to do better. It's how I've been on every job site I've ever worked on. You're not screaming in my face that I'm rubbish. Anything under that bar, I can handle."

"People have screamed in your face?"

"They've never screamed in yours?"

"Never. I can't even imagine how that would feel."

"Not good. Can confirm that. Some site bosses are your mates, others are your superiors, and some are tyrants." He takes another sip of his drink. "Not sure what you are yet."

"I'm not your mate," I say quickly. "But I don't want to be a tyrant either. My sister would say that I definitely have tyrant tendencies."

This causes a corner of his mouth to quirk up, and he eyes me over the rim of his mug. "I don't have any siblings to take the piss out of me. I reckon I would have liked returning the favor. What are her issues?"

I stare at the ceiling for a moment to distract myself from how unbelievably attractive he is during this casual conversation. With his short hair, muscles, tattoos, and the somewhat aloof way he carries himself, I wasn't sure what to expect on Sunday when he showed up. None of those superficial qualities are what I'm drawn to, although I won't be complaining, either. The tenderness that lurks in him just under the surface with his daughter, and in these odd moments with me make me wonder if I've been wrong to write men off for years.

Why are the gods punishing me? I cannot develop a crush on someone I have hired, and definitely not someone I live with.

"My sister is a flake," I say. Though with the way I'm viewing my live-in nanny, I'm not exactly feeling as superior to my sister as I normally do. "New jobs. New boyfriends. New adventures around every corner. She couldn't organize a bun fight in a bakery."

He lets out a burst of laughter, and his expression is alight with amusement as he slides his cup on the counter and takes the vacuum from me. "Never heard that one. She'd be the type to bring a knife to a gunfight, would she?"

"She would not remember a knife or that any fight had been planned."

"Sounds dangerous."

"Only to my sanity."

A comfortable silence descends between us, but I miss the armor the vacuum afforded me.

"How about I finish up the hoovering for you tomorrow? Corners. Baseboards. Anything else?" he asks.

"With the vacuum? No." I let him put the vacuum away, and I go to the drying rack to clear the dishes.

"Paige," Ash says from the doorway. "Do you reckon I should buy another television tomorrow? I could set one up in my room, and then you'd have the downstairs to yourself once the kids have gone to bed."

He probably means for it to be a thoughtful gesture, and it is, but it also makes me feel as though he'd like his space away from me too. There's nothing wrong with that, I guess, even if a thin blanket of disappointment settles across me. We've been getting along okay, haven't we?

All in all, the second TV is a decent suggestion. If we're constantly in each other's pockets, there's a good chance we'll end up fighting. As my sister has told me almost every day since she learned how to speak—I'm a lot to deal with. Something I've heard or had implied about me lots of times.

"I'll leave you some money on the side table in the entrance," I say.

"You sure?"

In our previous email exchanges, he didn't hide how broke he was. Asking him to pay for a television so he and Chloe are more comfortable would be mean. I can afford a second one, and for each of us to have space to retreat to, is being proactive rather than reactive. A sound decision, even if part of me wishes he wanted to spend his evenings with me.

That thought is exactly why I should encourage the second television. Too much togetherness time will be bad for me and my mental health.

"It's no problem," I say. "Whatever you need to feel comfortable here. I'll read in bed tonight, and you can have the living room."

"I didn't mean—"

"It's fine." I step around him to head for the stairs. "I'll see you in the morning." His sigh from behind me is audible. Even when I try not to be difficult, I am. As though I'm incapable of being easygoing. My rigid attitude leads me to the same result, as though my response and someone's reaction are ingrained, impossible to sidestep.

Fighting my nature is futile, and it's another reason why I shouldn't be eyeing my nanny. At some point we won't see eye-to-eye, and he'll either quit or I'll fire him. I've been down this route too many times to count.

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