Disclaimer: I don't own any characters in this story, nor do I own Degrassi.

A/N: So, this is the 'first' chapter of the story, the last one being the prologue. Thank you for all the positive feedback on the story, and I will be continuing it. This chapter isn't as intense, shall you say as the last one. I hope you like it!

Chapter 1

Imogen Moreno took in a deep breath, sighing heavily, contently, as she walked through the white picket fence towards the brick townhouse. She was being interviewed today, for a position as the au pair for a family who's last name she couldn't quite remember. Goldsomething, she thought. She chewed on her lip nervously, ringing the doorbell, and waited. It seemed like an eternity, standing there on the front porch in the November air. She shivered, and rubbed her arm in a vain attempt to warm herself. It didn't work, as she suspected.

The door swung open, a little boy with curly brown hair and wide green eyes staring back at her. He had a curious smile on his face, freckles adorning the bridge of his nose. He couldn't have been more than four years old. "Mommy! There's a girl at the door!" he called, jumping up and down excitedly. Imogen smiled, waving to him. He waved back enthusiastically, only to stop altogether. "Who are you?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. She laughed, "My name is Imogen." He made a face, pressing his eyebrows to a line. "Im-oh-gen? Imogen, Imogen, Imogen. Imo-gen. How do you spell it? What's an Imogen? Are you an Imogen?" he asked. She pursed her lips, folding her arms, peeking inside the house. "Quentin? Who's the girl you're talking to?" a voice called, causing the little boy to jump. "Oh, your name's Quentin. That's a nice name," Imogen said, watching as his face lit up. "I like my name! My Uncle Adam calls me Q sometimes!" he exclaimed, grinning.

A man with dark brown hair appeared behind Quentin, laying his hands on the smaller boy's shouders. He looked down at him, something between a smirk and a smile playing on his lips. "Who are you talking t-" he cut himself short, looking up to see Imogen standing in the doorway. She waved faintly, offering him a small smile. "Daddy, this is an Imo-gen," Quentin announced, pointing in her direction. She giggled nervously, "Hi." His eyes flickered, scanning her from head to toe. Her heart raced; he couldn't have been much older than her, maybe a year or two. After all, she was only 21. That'd make him 23, at most. His eyes were a deep green color, hooded by his somewhat shaggy hair. He was somewhat taller than her, only by an inch or so.

"Imogen Moreno, right? I'm Eli, we spoke on the phone," he chuckled, holding out his hand. She took it, heart rate quickening as he shook it. She nodded, "About the au pair job." She'd called a few days ago, talked to him about being the babysitter for Quentin, take care of him during the day while the rest of his family worked. She'd assumed either he was a single father, or his wife worked long hours, and that he was much older than he'd turned out to be. "Come inside," he said, lifting up Quentin and stepping aside. Imogen pressed her lips to a line, walking into the house, looking around and examining her surroundings.

In the center of the room was a staircase, banisters curving away from one another at their ends. To the left was a living room, black leather couches and armchairs surrounded around a gray stone fireplace. To the right was a kitchen, cherry-colored cabinets lining the walls. Stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, an island in the center and breakfast table beside the sliding glass doors that led outside to a wooden deck. The walls were painted a simple off-white color, with deep brown hardwood floors that shone underneath track lighting. High ceilings, a few strategically placed floor-to-ceiling windows; this house was something she'd only imagined.

She swallowed, biting her lip as Eli led her into the living room, sitting down beside her on one of the two couches. Quentin escaped from his father's hold, plopping down in an armchair and folding his hands in his lap, a look of concentration on his face. "So," he said in a strained deep voice, "you want to be my babysitter, do you not?" Eli pinched the bridge of his nose, laughing to himself. "As you can tell, his vocabulary is extremely advanced," he mused, glancing at his beaming son. "I read my daddy's books sometimes. He reads a lot of Panelhuck." Imogen laughed, raising an eyebrow. "Panelhuck?"

"He means Palahniuk," Eli replied. Imogen nodded, eyes flickering between father and son. Their eyes were almost identical, the same green color. Eli's, however, were a little deeper, a little more mysterious. "His last name is funny. And you're always telling me that I'm wrong!" Quentin pouted, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. Eli waved his hand, swatting the air teasingly. "Anyway, from what you told me beforehand, you pretty much have the job. And that one over there-" "Me!" Quentin exclaimed, raising his hand. Rolling his eyes, Eli sighed, continuing. "Seems to like you. So, if you don't mind, my wife should be home in a few minutes. She went out for a little while. Usually, she would've been here sooner, but she just got hired down at a bookstore downtown, which is why we need someone to watch Quenti-"

"Me!" his hand shot up again, shaking enthusiastically in the air. Eli closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. "Quentin, c'mere," he asked, beckoning him. The boy stood up, running over to his father's side. He looked up at him with wide eyes, an innocent look on his freckled face. "Mhm?" he asked, sticking out his bottom lip. Eli let his head drop, glancing up at his son through his hair. "You're lucky you're cute," he muttered, kissing his forehead. Quentin giggled, wrapping his arms around his neck, holding onto him tightly. Imogen smiled to herself, feeling somewhat out of place; it was like she wasn't there at all, like she was an audience member thrown into a heartfelt scene of a movie, or placed somewhere in between the lines of a story.

The sound of the front door closing echoed throughout the room, followed by the metallic sound of keys clanking together. "Hello?" a voice questioned openly. Imogen turned around to see a woman walk into the living room, examining her as she set down her purse on a coffee table. She wasn't much taller than her, maybe shorter, with honey colored hair and electric blue eyes. Her hair fell about an inch past her shoulder, tousled curls tucked behind one ear. She was wearing faded jeans, and a slightly stretched brown sweater, along with black ballet flats. She couldn't have been older than 22, maybe even her age.

The woman smiled at Imogen, walking beside the couch, looking down at her. She smiled in return, standing up. She'd guessed right; the woman was shorter than her. "Hi, I'm Clare, Quentin's mom," she introduced, holding out her hand. Imogen took it, a taking in a deep breath. "Imogen Moreno, pleased to meet you," she replied, laughing nervously. Clare let go, placing her hands on her hips, looking over at Eli fleetingly. "Eli told me you two talked on the phone, and he said you'd be perfect for the job." Imogen turned around, glancing over at him; he nodded, winking. Blushing, she turned back to the other woman, muttering a 'thank you'. "You have my approval, so I guess this means you're hired."

Imogen squealed, her hands flying to her mouth. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise, I won't let you down," she assured, grinning. Clare laughed, nodding as she slipped her hands into her pockets.

"So, we'll see you tomorrow then?" Eli chimed in, leaning back into the couch, Quentin still in his arms. "At, say, 9?" She nodded, rubbing her lips together. "I'll be here," she replied, flashing the both of them an enthusiastic smile. "I better be going then," she said, playing with the strap of her purse. Clare nodded, sitting down beside Eli. Imogen waved quickly to the two, walking back to the front door, glancing back at the three before walking outside again. The cool air stung her cheeks, which were evidently flushed. She hadn't realized how much she'd been blushing, and knew exactly who was responsible.

Mr. Goldsworthy, you are going to be a challenge.