ru

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Mayfield!Reader Warnings: potential angst, lots of dad!steve fluff, incoming Hallmark levels of cheese and tooth-rotting fluff Word Count: 3.4k Summary: In which widower, D1 basketball coach Steve Harrington needs a nanny to help him keep up with his three children. Author's Note: Please, please, please send in asks/prompts/ideas/episodes/moments you'd like to see in this series! I would love to hear what you guys have to think on this lil idea of mine and what you'd like to see next! Thank you all for your interest in the OG masterlist post! Taglist: @spam-love @harringtonsdiary @stevesgother @moonstoneandmoonlight @noralia20 @ashyyboyy @keeryhours @xxreyofsunshinexx @jamesyrobin @celestialbeings101-blog @sorryharrington @drrivelikeido @lasagnamonkey (If you would like to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know! I'm still learning how this works- longtime lurker/first-time-ish poster lmao)

Series Masterlist

Part One: Esquire's Most Eligible Bachelor

You didn’t know what to expect, coming from Berkley, California to the small town of Hawkins, Indiana. Come to think of it, you didn’t really know what to expect anymore. 

  Being left by your fiance Danny a month ago had really taken its toll on you, especially considering that you had been together for almost five years. It was a shock going from being happily in love with your freshman year sweetheart to being dumped in lieu of his pregnant girlfriend. 

It wasn’t that she was necessarily younger than you or prettier than you–it actually would have been easier to understand the whole situation were that the case. No, as Danny had explained, it was just an accident. One that he couldn’t take back or ignore, especially if he wanted to be a senator by the time he was thirty. 

So, now, here you are. All of your measly belongings packed into your car, on route to crash with your cousin Max for as long as she’ll have you. You didn’t intend to stay in Indiana for long if you could help it– just long enough to find your footing in the wake of World War Danny. Luckily, you had a little money saved up, but you hoped to use this time to either find work with your newfound Bachelor’s degree or find a pathway to earning your Master’s degree whichever one came first. 

—

Within a week of staying at the Mayfield’s trailer, your aunt had twisted your arm into taking her place in selling Avon door-to-door. It wasn’t exactly what you would consider glamorous, but you hoped that it would help to get your face known around the town. 

On a sunny afternoon, you find yourself walking with your pink suitcase full of samples down the wealthier, historic part of the town. Where, in front of you, stands a large white house that, despite its size, is quite welcoming. Bypassing the carefully constructed flower beds in the front yard, you make your way up the gently winding paved pathway to the front door. As you prepare yourself to ring the doorbell, you mentally rehearse the sales pitch that your aunt had taught you over dinner. 

With shaking fingers, you reach out to ring the doorbell. To your surprise, however, the door opens before you have a chance to touch your fingers to the small button. In front of you stands a tall, thin man wearing cleancut but casual clothes. You immediately notice how he carries himself, confident and assured. He appears to be young though older than you by some years, and despite your best efforts, you notice how handsome he is. 

He looks at you with a short-lived look of impatience but quickly rectifies it, clearly waiting for you to announce your reasoning behind appearing at his doorstep.

“Hello I’m Y/N Mayfield, your–” 

“Yes, come in. We’ve been expecting you.”

“You have?”

The man didn’t answer you. Instead, he opened the door wider and gestured for you to follow him inside of the opulent home. 

You openly sized up the place, taking in the beauty and cleanliness of the home. You were so sidetracked and caught up in the surreality of the moment that you barely registered that the man was still talking to you. Luckily, you tuned back into the conversation as he directed a question in your direction. 

“You are here for the Nanny position?”

Distantly, you heard yourself reply, “I could be.”

You forced yourself to keep a calm facade, to maintain a tone of nonchalance, despite the anxiety churning in your gut. He gestured for you to sit on the plush, cream colored sofa in the parlor. Opening the pink cosmetics case that you carried, you laid it on your lap to fish out one of the lipstick samples and a compact mirror. From the corner of your eye, you caught him watching you applying the satin formula to your lips. In a manner that you hoped was demure, you turned to him.

“What’s the matter? Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

“No, all’s clear. May I present your resume to Mr. Harrington?” 

You nodded affirmatively. Capping the lid of your lipstick tube, you couldn’t help but notice the blush lightly dusting his cheeks. 

You kept your motions slow and controlled, hoping to bide your time as you scrambled to gather your wits. Resume, you thought. How am I going to pull this one off? Despite your nerves attempting to get the better of you, you managed to keep your voice steady as you said:

“Resume? You know what? Why don’t you go get Mr. Harrington and I’ll do the

resume presenting myself.”

He regarded you for a moment before bending his body into an overexaggerated bow.

“As you wish,” he said with finality.  

As the man climbed the carpeted stairs to the second level of the home, you found yourself rifling through the cosmetics case. You knew what was in the case and yet, you were hoping that—somehow—a pen and paper would miraculously appear. 

What the hell am I going to do for a resume? you thought miserably. 

You decided to write your resume on the back of an order form with a tube of lipstick and were hastily scribbling when you heard a loud thud coming from behind you. 

Staggering into the parlor with an arm around his midsection was a blonde boy, who you guessed to be about ten years old. Stumbling in front of you, he dropped his arms to reveal a prop knife secured to his stomach with a mess of ketchup. He took a deep suffering breath and fell in a heap in front of your feet. 

This must be one of the Harrington children, you thought. Best make a good impression.

Leaning down to where the boy lay, you asked in soto, “Do you have a pen?”

In response, the boy gasped loudly before falling still. You sighed, trying to conceal your smile at his theatrical antics. 

“Alright, then. As you were.” You adjusted yourself on the couch, laying your now-closed briefcase on the ground and crossing your ankles. 

You had just started fluffing your hair when you heard two sets of heavy footsteps on the stairs. You knew without looking that the man from earlier and his presumable boss were coming to meet you. Ready or not. 

From the stairs, you heard an unfamiliar voice say, “Brighton, you’re losing your touch.” The boy—Brighton—did not flinch, to his credit. 

With as much grace as you could manage, you rose to your feet, avoiding the small body laying prone on the rug, to greet the two men now standing before you. You gave a small smile to the man that you had met prior before turning to meet the man of the house. And as you turned to face him, you had to stifle your moan of approval because the man was beautiful. His hair was full and soft, his clothes neat and speaking of quiet wealth, and his form was tall and athletic. 

He gave you an easy grin, all teeth and swooping hair, and extended his hand, “I’m Steve Harrington, and this is my son, the late Brighton Harrington.” 

Taking his hand in yours, you firmly shook from your elbow like your father had taught you when you were younger. You maintained careful eye contact, hoping that you came across more confident and capable than you felt in the moment. Regarding him, you felt recognition clinging to the edge of your consciousness. Then, suddenly, it clicked into place. 

You fought the blood rushing into your cheeks as you realized that you were currently in the home of Steve Harrington, head coach of one of the most successful collegiate basketball programs in the country. You were shaking the hand of the Steve Harrington. 

“Wait, I know you. Esquire magazine: ‘New York’s ten most eligible widowers.’” He flinched, as you continued, “My condolences, by the way.” Nice.

He raised an eyebrow, taking you and your wardrobe in, “You read Esquire?”

You gave a small laugh and a smile of your own, hoping to break the tension, “When they list the ten most eligible widowers, I do. I’m Y/N Mayfield.”

“Mayfield?” A look of recognition briefly crossed his face before he gestured for you to follow him. “Well, do come with me to the living room, Miss Mayfield.”

You didn’t ask what the purpose of having two sitting areas served, figuring it was above your would-be paygrade. You did, however, make note of how much unused space there was in the home. How, even though your ex-fiance’s family had been “well-to-do,” the Harrington home was much grander than their manor in California had been. 

As you entered the new space, you realized it was larger than the initial parlor had been and that there was far more privacy in this room. You blushed at the implication, forcing yourself not to fidget as you found your place on an armchair across from Mr. Harrington. 

He crossed his legs casually, asking, “May I see your resume, please?”

Stuttering, you passed him your shameful resume with shaking hands, “Sure.”

Pulling a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and placing them on his face, he took in the paper in front of him, “Crayon?”

Flushing, you glanced down at your heeled feet, “Lipstick, actually.”

You saw the corner of his lips moved toward a grin before hastily looking to the ground again, “Of course. And what a lovely shade.”

You couldn’t help but release a short laugh at his words, knowing that the interview was likely over before it began. You knew from the second you had been pulled into the Harrington home that this was not going to go anywhere favorably for you. Like the trainwreck you were though, you couldn’t help but see the embarrassment through. It was like a dumpster fire—you couldn’t look away. 

Before the conversation could continue, the blonde boy from earlier entered the room. The prop knife had been discarded, but he was still covered in ketchup. His face was scrunched into a pinched look, and you somehow knew that it meant nothing pleasant for you. 

Approaching his father’s side, the boy said, “I hate her,” with a glare in your direction. 

Placing a hand on his son’s shoulder, the man spoke, “Now Brighton, let’s not be hasty.”

Scoffing and unable to resist, you egged the boy on, “Yeah, I haven’t sung ‘Climb Every Mountain’ yet.”

The boy stuck his tongue out at you when his father laughed with you, clearly pleased that you’d chosen to stand up for yourself. Adjusting his glasses, Mr. Harrington continued to look at your resume while his son stood guard-apparent. 

Placing a finger on a line as reference, he looked to you in curiosity. “So let’s see, shall we? Three years at the Lancome counter at Bloomingdale’s, a degree from the Ultissima Beauty Institute… Well, that certainly spells out ‘nanny’ to me.” 

His words reeked of sarcasm, but his curiosity seemed earnest. You felt the silent question pressing its way forward: Why are you here? However, you knew that the man wouldn’t like the answer being that you’d never applied for the position in the first place. He looked at you expectantly, clearly waiting for a response that you were in no way prepared to provide. Before you could stumble your way through one though, two new figures entered the room. 

The figures belonged to two girls, an apparent gap between their ages. The smaller one wore a frilly dress, lopsided bows in her mousy brown hair, and a scowl that seemed years too old for her little face. The older girl, a teenager, wore a frumpy school uniform that hid her figure. You would have questioned who they were, had the two girls not so clearly resembled both their father and their brother. 

The little girl ran to her father and climbed into his lap to give him a big hug, exclaiming, “Hi, daddy!”

You watched as he returned her hug and patted her hair with a soft smile, “Hello, sweetheart.” Looking at his other daughter, he nodded with a smile “Maggie.”

And nothing about the entire situation was odd or abnormal until the teenager replied to her father with an apathetic, “Hello, father.” Then, there was a defining silence that felt a lot like a challenge in your mind. You decided you had to break the tension and fast, not knowing why it suddenly felt so important to you. 

Standing, you reached for the arm of the teen exclaiming, “Oh, aren’t you gorgeous? Look at that hair!” You looked to her father before continuing, “You can’t get color like that out of a bottle.”

The man nodded, “Ah, there’s that Ultissima training shining through.”

The girl, Maggie, preened under your attention like a flower in the sun, and made her excuses to leave the room in lieu of homework assignments. Ducking her head, the girl left the room and her brother broke his temporary silence, “She really lights up a room, doesn’t she?”

“Brighton,” warned Mr. Harrington. 

You weren’t sure what it was that made you want to challenge the boy, but he inspired a fight within you that you’d forgotten you had. On some level, he felt like a kindred, combative spirit. You liked that quality in a person. 

“So?” you questioned the boy. “Who needs personality when you’re an heiress?”

Defending his eldest daughter, Mr. Harrington said, “She’s a little withdrawn, but I’m sure it’s just a stage.”

“For fourteen years now?” questioned Brighton. 

Breathing deeply through his nose and steepling his fingers, the man turned to his son, “Brighton, you’re ten. Would you like to see eleven? Now, that’s enough.” Then, leaving no room for the boy to argue, he turned his attention to the little girl on his lap. “How was therapy today, darling? Any breakthroughs?”

“Dr. Bort and I did some regression. She took me back through my childhood.”

Before you could stop it, you snorted a bit through your nose before saying, “Must have been a quick trip.”

She turned to look at you, her expression deathly serious, “Oh, you have no idea how complicated I am.” 

You chose not to engage, knowing that she wouldn’t like what you had to say and knowing that it could come across as insensitive. So instead, you asked Mr. Harrington, “So you’ve got your kids in therapy?”

With a huff of indignation Brighton chimed in, “Yeah, it was easier than talking to us directly.”

Face turning red in anger, the elder man exclaimed, “That’s it, Brighton. Go to your room!”

And instead of immediately exiting the room, the boy came around his father’s chair and removed the little girl. Setting her on the ground and pulling her by her hand, he said, “Come on, Gracie. Let’s leave father alone to hire someone else to take care of his problem children.”

Ouch, you thought to yourself. There’s a lot to unpack here. 

The door to the living room slammed, leaving you and Mr. Harrington alone with the weight of what you’d just witnessed. 

With hurt evident in his tone, the man directed his attention to you, “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’ll show you out.”

He stood, gesturing for you to do the same, before handing you your lipstick-stained resume and leading you back into the foyer. Like the gentleman you assumed he’d been raised to be, he carried your pink briefcase for you. You realized, seemingly a moment too late, that he was signaling to you that the interview was over. 

Before he could push you out of his home, you couldn’t help but sass the older man, “What did I do? One smartass remark from the kid and I don’t get the job? That’s not fair!”

Handing you your cosmetics case, he gave you a look of earnest, “You can see for yourself I need help here. More help than can be provided by a door-to-door cosmetics girl.”

Inside of the house, you hear the ringing of the landline. It’s an insufferable noise, only made louder by the awkwardness surrounding you and Steve Harrington. 

After two rings, the man yells out to someone in the house, “Eddie!”

When silence responded, the man yelled again, “Eddie!”

You assumed that Eddie was the man that had escorted you into the house, but were not sure. When no one answered the man’s calls and the phone continued its merciless cries, you decided to take action.

Shoving Mr. Harrington aside and walking toward the landline, you said, “Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll get it.”

Picking up the phone and bringing it to your ear, you spoke: “Harrington residence.” A female voice on the line asked for Steven, to which you replied, “No, honey. This is—”

Wrenching the phone out of your hand, the man scowled, “Give me that! It’s the Nanny agency.”

You stepped to the side, watching him speak into the phone. “Steven Harrington here.” From the corner of his eye, he spots you still waiting on the side. He gestures at you in a dismissive manner. Momentarily holding the phone away from his face and covering the speaker, he looks to you and says in a low voice, “Thank you. It’s really been a pleasure meeting you.”

Defeated, you turn to walk back to the foyer as Eddie, who you’ve now determined to be the butler, comes down the stairs. As he walks to meet you and escort you to the door, you can’t help but eavesdrop on Mr. Harrington’s conversation. You walk as slowly to the door as possible, hoping to at least get some good gossip to share with Max and your aunt later that evening. 

“No, Monday is not acceptable. I need a nanny this weekend!” You stop, slowly turning at the desperation that was starting to creep into his tone. You cast a grin in Eddie’s direction, hoping that Mr. Harrington’s situation would turn favorably in your direction. He returns your grin with one of mischief, slowly opening the front door. 

“Please! I’ll give you courtside tickets to our next game if you can make something happen.” His tone now reeked of begging, and you hoped against your better judgement that your presence would be looked upon favorably. 

There was some bickering over the line until finally, he looked at you in defeat. “Do you have any experience with children?”

“Hey, with where I come from, there’s nothing these kids can throw at me that I haven’t seen before. Except maybe their trust funds.”

Hesitatingly, he said, “All right, you’re hired. But only on a trial basis.”

He hangs the phone back on the receiver, and behind you, you hear the sound of Eddie shutting the door. 

Before you could think better of it, you ran to your new employer and wrapped him in a big hug. Though you loved your aunt and cousin dearly, you were ecstatic at the prospect of being able to support yourself and have your own space in your newfound home. With your arms still around him, you spoke against his shoulder, “Thank you, Mr. Harrington. You won’t regret it!”

Awkwardly breaking out away from your hold, he sighed, “Somehow, I’m rather sure I will. Eddie will show you to your room.” He left the room in a hurry as your screech of joy filled the room. Like an overexcited puppy you turned to Eddie, bouncing on the balls of your feet. 

“So, the nanny gets to live here?!” you said in a breathless tone. 

“Is that a problem?” asked Eddie with a small smile. 

“Well, I’m sure I’m gonna miss being in my twenties and still living with my family, but if it’s best for the kids…” you trailed off, still beaming. 

The two of you continued to chat, the conversation easy, as he led you around on a tour of the house. At the sight of each room, you were amazed at the beauty of the home and how cozy it was despite its gargantuan size. 

It didn’t hit you until you stood in the center of what was now your room: the enormity of what you’d just resigned yourself to. You had begun the day as a twenty-something-year-old girl that was sleeping on her aunt’s couch, and you were ending it as a woman with a place to call home and a new career. What had started as a day selling makeup door-to-door ended as the day that would change your life forever. 

Exiting the room and taking one last look at the space before flipping the light switch, you smiled to yourself. For the first time in what felt like years, you felt grounded and the world felt full of possibility.