Iris
Arthur swings open the front door to reveal an older woman with graying hair standing in the hallway.
“Mrs. White,” he says, stepping aside and gesturing for her to enter. “Please, come in.”
The woman shuffles into the foyer, clutching a small duffle bag to her chest. She stops in the center of the room and looks around with a discerning eye before her gaze lands on me. Something seems to harden her weathered features, and she presses her lips into a thin line.
“Iris, this is Mrs. White, our new nanny,” Arthur says, gesturing between us. “Mrs. White, this is my mate, Iris.”
The use of that word—mate—sends an unwanted thrill through me. I can’t help but wish he’d chosen a different word, because although we are technically still mates, we’re not… together. And yet,
