The Nanny & The Bodyguard

I wake to the sound of waves and the scent of jasmine climbing outside my window. The Mediterranean morning light filters through gauzy curtains, painting golden streaks across my small bedroom.

Two minutes before my alarm is set to go off. Story of my life—I’ve always been an early riser, even on an island paradise where time seems to move at its own leisurely pace.

“Another day in paradise,” I murmur, stretching my arms above my head.

My phone chirps, and I silence it with a swipe. I remove my satin bonnet, setting it on the nightstand before swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.

My right foot touches the cool tile floor while my left leg ends mid-thigh. My prosthetic rests on its stand beside the nightstand. It’s a state-of-the-art model.

One of the perks of working for one of the wealthiest families in Greece is comprehensive health insurance that covers the good stuff.

I hop to the bathroom and start my morning routine. The hot water helps wake me fully, and I take my time, wetting my hands and smoothing a little moisture into my hair.

After toweling off and lotioning my skin, I slide on the liner and secure my prosthetic. After all these years, it’s as natural as brushing my teeth.

Eight months on Thalassía, and I still can’t believe how my life has changed—from a cramped Boston apartment juggling nanny gigs to this Mediterranean dream.

When the agency posted this job, I applied on the spot. During the interview, Kayla had mentioned needing two nannies, and I immediately told her about Nia—my twin who also had early childhood education experience and was looking for a change in scenery.

Best decision I ever made.

Dressed in khaki shorts and the light blue polo that’s become my unofficial uniform, I twist my curls into neat braids and pull them back into a ponytail. The early shift—6 AM to 2 PM—means I handle breakfast, morning activities, and lunch for the Christakis children before Nia takes over for the afternoon shift.

In the kitchen, Nia is already up, leaning against the counter and sipping her coffee.

“Hey sis,” she says, her smile bright. “Kayla texted. The girls slept straight through for once.”

“So they’ll have a lot of energy this morning. Great.” I groan dramatically while pouring my own coffee.

My sister laughs. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks, right?”

Despite the obscene wealth of the Christakis family, I’d fallen hard for those babies the moment I met them. TJ with her curious eyes and budding independence, and little Tasha with her playful personality.

“I should get going. Morning beach walk is on the schedule, and I want to get them out before it gets too hot.” I kiss the top of Nia’s head. “Dinner tonight? I was thinking pasta.”

“I’ll cook,” she says. “My cooking’s getting better.”

“Really?” I ask, because I’ve always been the one to prepare our meals.

Nia’s mouth curves. “I started getting… lessons.”

“That’s what you’re calling it?”

She gives me a sweet, innocent smile. “Don’t start.”

I bite back a dozen comments. Ever since we arrived on Thalassía, Nia’s been sleeping with the head chef.

I still don’t understand it. He’s quiet, strict, and looks at people as if he’s grading them. Somehow, my sister likes that.

“Fine,” I say, grabbing my bag and slipping my water bottle and sunscreen inside. “See you later.”

After our parents died in that car crash five years ago, we became each other’s only family. I took this job to keep us close. I’m not risking that over who she sleeps with.

Nia’s grin softens. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” I tell her, and head out.

The morning air carries the scent of salt and pine. Thalassía is truly magnificent, a private island owned by the Christakis family, tucked in the Aegean not far from Athens. There are olive groves on the hills and hidden coves opening onto pristine beaches.

Staff housing is a cluster of whitewashed cottages with blue trim, nestled in a small valley about a ten-minute walk from the main villa. The path winds through bougainvillea and cypress trees, and I take my time, enjoying the quiet.

As I round the curve toward the main house, I nearly collide with a solid wall of muscle. Hands grip my shoulders to steady me, and I look up into the most intense pair of eyes I’ve ever seen—dark as espresso and just as bitter.

“Sorry about that,” I say automatically, stepping back. “Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Restricted area,” the man says in heavily accented English. His voice is deep, gruff, and completely devoid of apology.

“Hold up.” I blink, confused. “This is the path to the main house. I take it every day.”

“New protocol.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

The movement makes the muscles in his forearms flex beneath tanned skin. Despite my annoyance, I can’t help but notice how his black polo stretches across broad shoulders. The man looks as if he was carved from the same marble as the ancient Greek statues in the Christakis’ sculpture garden.

“Staff use service road only,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for debate.

That’s when I notice the earpiece, the tactical watch, and the unmistakable bulge of a concealed weapon under his fitted polo. Security. And judging by the way he carries himself, high-ranking.

“I’m Amara Johnson,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m one of the nannies for the Christakis children.”

He looks at my hand as if I’m offering him a dead fish.

“Nikolaos Stavros. Head of security.” He doesn’t take my hand. “Service road. For staff.”

I drop my hand, irritation spiking. “The service road adds ten minutes to my walk, and it’s got no shade. I need to get to the villa for the kids’ morning routine.”

“Not my problem.” His eyes scan over me, pausing briefly on my prosthetic leg before returning to my face. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Security protocols must be followed.”

“These protocols weren’t here yesterday,” I point out. “Or any day since I started working here eight months ago.”

“I start three months ago. Changes necessary.” His expression doesn’t shift. “Service road is monitored. This path now family only.”

Something about the way he says family makes me think he doesn’t include the people who care for said family in that category.

“Look, Mr. Stavros—”

“Niko,” he corrects automatically, then looks like he regrets the informality.

“I get that security is important, but I need to do my job properly. The girls have a routine—”

“Routines change.” His eyes flick to his watch. “You go now. Service road take longer.”

A knot forms in my stomach. Kayla and Konstantin are particular about the children’s schedules. If I start showing up late, it’ll end up in my performance review.

This job—with its comprehensive health insurance that covers my medical needs and the free private cottage—is too important to jeopardize.

I want to tell him exactly what I think, but I know I’ll be late if I stand here arguing with this Greek statue of a man. And the last thing I need is cranky toddlers because I messed up their schedule.

“This conversation isn’t over,” I warn him, turning to head back the way I came.

“It is for now,” he calls after me.

I resist the urge to flip him off. Barely.