"desperate times call for desperate measures"
-- || --
They called Ramona Sanchez a student prodigy. She skipped two grades, got an internship at the Smithsonian museum, and was predicted to graduate onto an Ivy League university. All of that went...
infiltrating the Sanchez household (but in a good way, he promises)
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DONOVAN'S BROKEN UP HIS FAIR SHARE OF RELATIONSHIP SPATS IN THE PAST.
Eight years old. Got sick of listening to the neighbor beat up his wife every night. He gathered a bag of loose bricks, marched upstairs, and broke the man's nose. The wife slapped Donovan right across the face and sent him back down to his dad.
Next time he was careful. Twelve years old, and he called the police from a stolen cellphone. He told them all about the a teenage boy had been dragging his girlfriend's body down the street by the back of his truck. When the officers arrived, the girlfriend denied everything. Even as blood dripped down the right side of her face.
He should have learned his lesson. And yet -
"You're the new babysitter?" She demands.
Fuck.
Instead of an awestruck toddler, a woman with soft curves and brilliant eyes stands in the driveway. Her lips have turned white from the cold. A massive pair of glasses sits on her nose. If you liked the nerdy type - which, clearly, her boyfriend did - she might even be pretty.
Donovan nods. The girl tilts her head to get a better look at him. He shifts into the light. Maybe it'll make him seem less intimidating.
"Aren't you a little young to be a babysitter?" She demands.
So she's got attitude. Cute. Donovan's eyes gleam, the silver dancing off his pupils. "Aren't you a little old to be babysat?"
"Right," She shakes her head, curls flying. Donovan gets the sudden urge to grip onto them and force them to stay in place. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound curt. I'm surprised, that's all and... please, don't disclose anything about what happened to my dad. I don't want to him to panic."
"Sure."
"Thanks," She frowns up at him. Whatever she sees, it isn't enough to make her relax. "My name is Ramona Sanchez."
"Donovan."
"Is that Irish?"
"Do you want it to be?"
"I have no preference," She blows out a puff of air. Clouds of silver come out of her lips. "Come on. I'll introduce to you to my dad and brother. My sister is at soccer practice, so maybe you'll meet her next time."
"How old is your brother?" He asks.
"Stefan? Fourteen years."
Though his expression remains the same, Donovan's mind races. Her brother is fourteen. And she's what - seventeen, eighteen? He was expecting a trio of playful kids and a parent too tired to see two feet past his own nose. Easy to impress. Easy to convince.
