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A young woman with long, dark brown hair, deep hazel eyes and skin as pale as winter snow sits by the fogged windows in the restaurant, dressed in a checkered white shirt the front tucked into a pair of well-worn black jeans, a pair of brown rectangular glasses perched on her nose.

Polly Nichols, a Whitechapel whore, was profoundly grateful to gin. ~Gin helped her. It cured her. It took away her hunger and chased the chill from her joints. It stilled the aching in her rotten teeth and numbed the slicing pains she got every time she took a piss. It made her feel better than any man ever had. It calmed her. It soothed her.

Picking up the ceramic mug from the table in front of her, the young woman’s eyes move along the page burying herself in the thick papers on her lap, totally entranced, she minorly burns the tip of her tongue when she subconsciously draws in a particularly large gulp of the steaming hot liquid from the mug.

Swaying drunkenly in the darkness of an alley, she raised a bottle to her lips and drained it. The alcohol burned like fire. She coughed, lost her grip on the bottle, and swore as it smashed.

In the distance, the clock at Christ Church struck two, its resonant chime muffled in the thickening fog. Polly dipped her hand into her coat pocket and felt for the coins there.

Jumping from the sudden ringing from her blackberry on the table in front of her, her gentle fingers their grip on her papers, the cold air from the air-conditioner above her disperse the papers everywhere, mumbling something about holy cows, the young woman gets on her knees and begins to gather her papers, not giving any of the coffee house’s patrons a chance to step on the pristine white papers.

This clumsy wrapped up in her own world person is me.

My name is Janetta Summers and I am the main editor at Blueburg Publishing House, a publishing company that I had interned at during university. During the beginning of my job, I was merely an assistant editor amongst many of course but our main senior commission editor had decided to put my name in the bowl when the main editor at the time had decided to resign, and through some luck and three bestselling authors later, here I am now at the tender age of twenty-two as the main editor.

A job at which till today despite my achievements, I still feel incompetent doing.

Scrambling to get collect the well-scattered manuscript from the tiled floor, I barely manage to locate most of the manuscript five minutes into seaching for them but a large remainder of thirty or so pages remain at large.

Getting up, I push my long hair behind my ear, frantically looking around the coffee house in case I’m not the only one picking up papers. Sweeping the slightly busy lunchtime crowd with my eyes, my heart sinks when I see I’m the only one who’s not buying food that’s standing around holding a slightly thick stack of papers.

« Excuse me, » a deep manly voice asks, a long slender finger taps me lightly on my shoulder. »I believe these are yours ? »

Whirling around in surprise that someone would approach me, I realise that a man with rich chocolate brown tousled hair, strong arched brows and deep and catastrophic, stormy grey eyes in a crisp white shirt with dark blue business pants, the jacket of the suit gracefully draped over one of his arms, the missing papers of my manuscript are grasped firmly in his jacket free hand.

Looking down at my feet, I avoid eye contact with the stranger, blushing as I take the paper out of his hand, mumbling a quick thank you, quickly walking back to my table, gathering my stuff, I hastily leave the coffee house to avoid any further embarrassment, recalling the number that startled me.

« Hello ? » I mumble into the phone, dodging the people on their lunch break. « I had a miscall from this number… »

« Hey, Etta, » My boss, the aforementioned main senior editor, Lucifer King, sings from the other line. « What’s my favourite editor doing ? »

Sighing softly at the sound of my boss’s voice, I round the block corner heading straight for a ten-story office building in the middle of the street with Bloomsburg Publishing House written discreetly over the glass front doors in steel.

« I’m on the way back to the offices, » I reply, panting a little from the pressure of walking, talking and carrying the thick stack of papers. « Is there something you need ? »

Turning into the enormous – and still intimidating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby, I briskly stride over to the bank of elevators past two security men one of whom nod at me when I flah my security card.

Scanning my card to summon an elevator, the heavy steel doors slide open almost immediately, sending me to the ninth floor.

« Wonderful, » Mr King cheerfully responds down the line, the joy of hearing my return is platable through the phone. « I have someone coming in to meet me and I want you to be there. »

The elevator doors slide open and I hang up, entering the office through the glass doors seperating the elevator lobby and the twenty-something desks facing two doors on the other end of the floor, weaving through the workstations, passing by my assistant editors who all scramble to go back to work as I walk by them.

Dumping my bag in my office, I head to my Mr King’s office which is next door, not bothering to knock, I go in.

« There she is ! » he exclaims as I enter, looking at him in surprise. « Why do you always return fifteen minutes into your lunch break ? Those poor junior editors… »

Giving a small laugh and I reply, »They don’t have to resume to wok the second I step into the office…they just do… »

« Right, » he drones, like his only realising it now, and I give him a small smile. « I wonder how come they never do that for me…strange.. ! Now, I did some extream thinking into this and I have decided to ‘lend’ your wonderful nanny skills to a friend of mine, in fact, he’s the one coming to meet me. »

« Huh ? » I tilt my head sideways in confusion. « Lend…nanny skills ? »

Let me explain : While I was doing my internship here, Mr King’s wife, Elaine, had forced him to be ‘responsible’ by taking care of their three-month-old son, Leo, in fear that he wouldn’t recognise his own father with Mr King being at work so often. With this irritating new arrangement, Mr King was struggling to do both his job and be a father.

That is where I came in.

Naturally drawn to the baby, I had totally taken it upon myself one fateful workday while Mr King was in a meeting and Leo was crying outside the meeting room, to comfort and take care of him while completing my own work at the same time and it worked out and after I had begun to do this Mr King let me take care of his baby, dubbing me his Nanny, therefore ‘nanny skills’.

« He’s a really nice guy and he desperately needs a woman’s help, » Mr King continues, not hearing my confusion, placing his chin on his palm in an innocent gesture. »He’s been divorced for about three months now and he’s been looking for a nanny only recently cause his kid is young and he has to work. »

« He hasn’t been too successful in finding one so I recommended you over this one particular phone call, » he chirps, innocently, his eyes shining with pride at what he has done. « I mean I’m sure you won’t mind since you love babies. »

« What ? » I squeak, my eyes widening. The thought of working for someone unknown terrifying me for more than the obvious reasons. « Mr King…I…I »

« It’s alright, » Mr King chuckles, knowingly flapping his hands at me. « I thought it was a great opportunity to earn some extra income since you did say you want to move out of your current living space and he also mentioned that it would be best if you moved in with him to take care of his baby full time. »

Gulping nervously, staring at my boss as if he had just grown horns out of his head. If this is one of his, I’m-going-to-find-this-girl-a-boyfriend-before-I-turn-thirty-even-if-it’s-the-last-thing-I-do plans, I’d rather die than participate.

I still remember the god-awful dentist he set me up with last month. Jeez, the guy kept glancing at my teeth throughout dinner. I shudder at the memory.

« Mr King, I… »

« Lucifer, » a vaguely familiar voice comes from the office door as it swings open. « I need that girl you were talking about. Where is she ? »

Mr King smiles excitedly, pointing to me, and I feel like I’ve just received a death sentence, slowly turning around, I come face to face with the man who had picked up my papers for me at the coffee house, his eyes are solely trained on mine causing me to blush and turn away immediately.

Oh no.

So, this is how I met him. Alexander Holt. CEO of Haven & Holts Incorporated and my boss’s latest ‘set up my editor with a guy’ plan.