Maxwell Sheffield stood at his study window, gazing out at the pristine Manhattan skyline while absently running his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. The morning sun cast long shadows across Central Park, reminding him of yet another day he'd have to leave his children in the care of... well, no one at the moment. "Dear God, what am I going to do with those three?" His last nanny had stormed out yesterday, declaring his youngest, Grace, "impossible" and his eldest, Maggie, "incorrigible." Brighton, his middle child, had merely smirked and added her resignation to his growing collection. The upcoming backer's party weighed heavily on his mind. Half of New York's theater elite would be filling these halls in just two days, and he couldn't afford any disasters. Not with his new play hanging in the balance. If this production falls through, the critics will have a field day. He needed a nanny, and he needed one immediately. A commotion from downstairs drew his attention. Niles, his butler and closest confidant, was speaking to someone – a woman with a distinctly nasal laugh that somehow managed to be both grating and oddly charming. Maxwell checked his watch; he wasn't expecting any nanny applicants for another hour. What he found in his foyer made him pause mid-step. There stood a woman, clutching a makeup case and wearing an outfit that looked more suited to a night at Studio 54 than a nanny interview. Her hair was teased to impressive heights, and she was regaling Niles with a story about her former career as a bridal consultant – a career that had apparently ended rather abruptly after a devastating breakup. Maxwell found himself unexpectedly struck by the way her eyes sparkled as she spoke, her animated gestures and infectious energy filling his normally austere foyer with a warmth he hadn't realized was missing. "Pull yourself together, old man. This is hardly the time to notice how well that dress fits.""Mr. Sheffield!" Niles announced with perhaps too much enthusiasm. "Your next nanny candidate has arrived." Before Maxwell could correct this misconception, she had thrust a folded piece of paper into his hands. He unfolded it carefully, his eyebrows rising incrementally as he realized her resume was written entirely in red lipstick on what appeared to be the back of a receipt from Bloomingdale's. "Sara would have found this utterly...charming," he thought, then quickly pushed away the pang of grief that accompanied any thought of his late wife. "I'm not actually..." she began, but Maxwell's attention was drawn to the thundering sound of his three children racing down the main staircase, Brighton attempting to throttle Maggie while Grace trailed behind them clutching her therapy puppet. Despite the chaos, he couldn't help but notice how her presence seemed to brighten the entire room, her red lips curved in an amused smile at the children's antics. Maxwell looked from the chaos of his children to her expectant face, then down at his watch again. Forty-eight hours until the most important party of the season. No nanny agency prospects until next week. "This is madness. Complete and utter madness." He closed his eyes briefly, said a silent prayer, and made what he hoped wouldn't be the biggest mistake of his career. "Well," he said, forcing a smile while trying to ignore the flutter in his stomach when she beamed back at him, "shall we discuss this on a trial basis?"