The door opens on my second knock. A young woman stands at the entrance with a welcoming smile. I thrust my left hand out to shake—err, wrong hand—but I don't retract it. My daughter squeezes tight on my right hand, and I can feel the nervousness coming from her. It breaks my heart that she gets how much we need this paycheck.

"Hi, my name is Tari. Eh, Tari, and my kids. My daughter, Simir, and my son, Ade." Little Man—bless his heart—he takes that moment to pull out of his sister's hand. In a grand gesture, my son as Lando poses as if he was about to storm through Cloud City, a two-finger salute to the young woman in the doorway. My daughter shakes her head.

"Wow, Ade, that was a marvelous job," the woman smiles. "I'm Zoey Jude. Thanks for coming to the interview. C'mon in."

I reach out and awkwardly grasp her hand, hoping mine isn't as clammy as I think it is. Zoey looks like the girl next door went rockstar with an outline of a tattoo and a smokiness at the edge of her eyes.

Simir grabs hold of Ade's hand and pulls him along with us into the house. It's a beautiful two-story farmhouse—covered in quality natural wood finishes with stylish, casually modern furniture. Everything is wood, from floor to ceiling. Even the books have unique wooden book covers. Zoey picks up one book on the table, but the fancy cover does not appear to be kid-friendly.

"Ade would break that in a heartbeat." I say to Zoey.

"No, I won't," Ade proudly answers for himself.

I nod my head at her. Yes, he would. I fish in my big ole bag for washable pens and dry erase fold-up paper. Sim takes the color set and pulls Ade's hand. She plops down in the little play area and splits the haul between them. This isn't the first job I've had to bring them to, and it won't be the last. She knows the score.

"How old are they?" Zoey asks.

"They're four and six. And we've got both birthdays coming up soon in July, too," I reply and notice Zoey's warm smile. Very much the rock-and-roll star waiting to happen.

Zoey leads me down the hall to a small home office. I take out my tablet, ready to take notes. She smiles at me nervously and picks up her own tech gear from the desk. This is such an internet job moment—if you show me your tech I show you mine. I fight down my giggle by the skin of my teeth.

"Thanks again for coming. I've hired no one before," she blurts. I nod my head in reply. "This is all a little weird. I'll be unavailable for a full year during filming for The Tour, a YouTube Red singing contest. With the interviews, show dates, and all that comes with being a contestant on the show. I plan on staying at the hotel and won't be able to keep up with anything." The poised young woman looks surprised by saying out loud that she's a contestant for the show. It's in its first year and a tremendous deal. The multi-million dollar ad buys have blanketed the internet, news, and TV for months.

"Oh, congratulations! So, you need me to manage your YouTube channel for you?"

That's my normal job, but the price on this one was high—a few thousand comment replies. Some light video editing doesn't pay this much. My company manages ten channels in my small business, including my best friends. I know what this job normally takes. The price quoted on the paperwork doesn't match. Plus, room and board for the area of Sacramento is a good deal for me.

"Not exactly. Where are you from Tari?" she questions in a quick subject change, in on her chair.

"Sacramento, born and raised," I say with a grin.

"Any siblings?"

"No."

"Coffee or Tea?"

"Coffee. Is this a potential client interview or a date?"

We both laugh nervously together.

"I have no idea what I'm doing, but you come highly recommended. I read some of your replies on CakeMe channel, and you do an outstanding job."

"Thank you, that's my best friend's channel. It's grown over the years." The pride over her channel's growth is in every word. A few more big videos, and my best friend will start getting TV appearance offers.

"My YouTube channel is called ForNoah." She settles into a visibly comfortable seat as she opens the notebook to the channel page. She scrolls down the video list filled with hundreds of videos. The mouse pointer clicks on the first created video on the channel—a video that's dated at seven years old. And then she clicks through.

Four young people are in the room. The younger version of Zoey so I update my age guess for her to nineteen. In the old video she looks like a preteen. The video camera swings to a young man sitting at the piano. His dark sandy blonde hair is long.

"Ok, Noah, play Coldplay's The Scientist," a woman off-camera shouts. Two people are left on the camera watching the young man at the piano play the song. His large, rough hands start the song with sure fingers on the ivory keys. It's a pretty tune. The camera jump cuts to a younger version of Zoey.

"Hi, Noah, I want you to send me a letter every Saturday, and I think a video letter is the best thing. One letter per week, and we will all send you one back." The cheerful Zoey smiles at the camera, then she turns it on a young black man.

"Not me, I'll tag along with the girls," the young black man chuckles. Zoey smacks the young man.

She says, "Don't worry about talking or not talking. You can play the guitar, piano, or show me your latest project. Just please record me a letter." The piano keeps its tune going. I replay the words in my head because she poured her heart out in the word please to Noah. Her brother? She starts her first letter to him by singing the song he'd played for her so beautifully. The young black woman joins in with her as backing harmony. He doesn't accompany her and smiles at the singers.

"I need to hire you to manage Noah."

"Manage?" I squeaked.

"Fix things for him like buy groceries, order new pants if he rips all of his."

"Fix?" My staccato questions don't capture the dawn of my understanding. This isn't a normal job, this is something much bigger. The music from the video keeps playing.

"Like a personal assistant?"

"Not exactly."

Pictures and videos of Noah play on the screen. It shows off all the things he can do—paints, woodworking, boatbuilding with an older man who looks similar to him.

"Noah has Autism, and my brother sometimes needs life assistance."

"I think you want to hire a nurse." After blurting the words out loud I feel like an asshole.

"He doesn't need one. What he needs is a routine, so he doesn't get sucked too inside of his head. I'll be back soon. It's for one year. You will be able to easily reach me daily if you have an issue. Check on him from time to time. Take a picture for the Youtube thumbnail picture. If any fans of his Youtube channel show up, please make sure they don't bother him."

My fingers stop over the keys, and I throw my active listening notes to the wayside. This isn't a normal client or really my skill set.

"Is he safe?" Another dickhead thing to say, but I've got kids and partial custody. The kids are with me a little more than half the time. I'm not rolling the dice with this life situation with my babies.

"Autism is hard. It's so hard and different for everyone. No two cases of Autism are the same, but yes, he's safe."

I close my eyes and try to think for a moment.

"Can I meet Noah?"

She nods at me and we pack everything up, including the kids, and head out to the unfinished boat. Zoey hands me the SLR camera. I walk up to the boat ahead of her. The tap-tap of the hammer makes a beat. I wait until the taps stop. My eyes travel up his vast body. I gaze up higher than his gigantic frame. He has long sandy blond hair that falls into his eyes. When I peer closely through the long locks, I can see two bright stormy blue eyes. His tall six-foot-seven body holds his hammer like an extension of himself. The large man doesn't look like he should be a carpenter on a boat. He looks like he should do world wrestling.

"Hey, Noah, I'm Tari. Nice to meet you." I extend my hand to him with the camera in the other. His eyes catch the camera in my hand, and he turns away. Mere seconds before I see his back, I take the picture for the YouTube thumbnail. The tap-tap of the work song on the boat starts again.

"Do you want the job?" Zoey asks as she walks up behind me. I bite my inner cheek as I watch him work. This isn't like the other jobs.

"Yes, pending his background check," I answer.

"You're hired," Zoey says.

Author's Note:

Welp, that's your first intro to Noah the namesake of the book. I hope you liked the intro to him. Brock O'hurn's so dang hot. I knew it had to be him. Wait I lost focus mid A/n thinking about Brock. lol Remember to help me out by hitting that share button. For example, share it on twitter and a pixie gets a three-way.  Thank you for reading :).

-OP