Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
It does nothing to reassure me that my New York story isn’t about to hit a major speed bump.
On the seventy-second floor I’m waved into an office. The man behind the desk stands as I enter, a polite, if indifferent, smile on his face as the polite, yet surprised, smile on mine disappears.
Because Mason Cooper? He’s hot. New York television hot. Tall, with a sharp jaw, bright green eyes, and a smile worthy of a toothpaste ad.
Don’t even get me started on his suit.
Definitely worthy of a runway.
“Hi,” I offer, approaching his desk, hand outstretched. “I’m Liberty Parker,” I explain, waiting for something in his expression to acknowledge that he was expecting me. Surely he’s not so busy that he forgot he requested childcare. The agency said it was an emergency, immediate start situation.
“The nanny,” I prod, when his expression remains friendly but blank. His gaze travels down my body, all the way to my sneakers, before he works his way back up. He’s cataloging every detail and when his eyes meet mine I’m positive this is about to go to shit. But I give it one last try.
“The what?” he replies.
Yup. It’s official.
New York, we have a problem.
Chapter Two
Only in New York could someone hire a nanny without having a kid. Right? This feels like a very New York thing to happen. I can assure you, I never once showed up for a babysitting gig in Iowa only to be turned away because the couple suddenly realized they didn’t have a child for me to watch.
“So you don’t have a baby?” I clarify for the third time in as many minutes. I’m pacing back and forth while he watches me from behind his giant desk.
“I don’t.” He shakes his head as he watches me pace as if this is all terribly amusing.
Of all the luck. Only I could go into a nanny gig thinking I was about to be working for a single father and instead discover that said man is just plain single.
Single and sexy as fuck.
And laughing at me.
“You have got to be shitting me,” I mutter as I take another lap pacing in front of his desk.
His brows rise, the hint of a dimple appearing in his cheek as he runs a hand over his tie, ensuring it’s perfectly smooth. The room is silent for what feels like an hour, but I’m sure is just an annoyingly long twenty seconds.
“You got hired as a nanny with that mouth?” he asks, breaking the silence.
The audacity of that question from this man, considering the circumstances we’re currently in. I pause my pacing to glare at him and I do not miss the smirk tugging on his perfect lips. “Did you hire a nanny for a baby you don’t have?”
“It does seem odd that no one from your agency verified that, doesn’t it?” He leans back in his chair while continuing to look me over as if I’m some kind of fascinating oddity, like a baby giraffe who’s escaped from the zoo. Or a nanny who’s been placed with a childless bachelor. Either-or.
“Oh, yes, very funny for you,” I say, resuming my stomping around his office. “Less funny for me, since I quit my job to take this position.”
I probably shouldn’t be saying these things, but they’re bursting out of me in a panic. Charity likes to tell me that I suffer from a horrible case of “word vomit” when I’m mad. Or sad. Or hungry. I am a known rambler, I guess. Something that wouldn’t be a problem for a nanny, seeing as babies don’t repeat much, if anything.
“I’ll have to see if they’ll take me back,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “Which is unlikely as I told my manager to go fuck himself when I quit.”
It felt like such a triumphant moment yesterday. Now, not so much.
“That mouth.” Mason shakes his head in faux sadness. Sure, I don’t know him well enough—or at all—to know with certainty that his concern isn’t genuine, but trust me, it’s not. He’s smiling. I hate him.
Then something else occurs to me. I stop pacing and cross my arms over my chest, doing my best to look intimidating. Or at least capable of running. “Am I being recruited for sex work? Is that what this is? Do you hire nannies you don’t need in order to traffic them?”
“You’re wearing leggings and a hoodie. No one is hiring you for sex work. I assure you that you’re flying well under the radar in that”—he leans forward in his chair, gesturing vaguely from my head to my toes—“outfit.”
The. Audacity.
“I dressed,” I hiss, crossing my arms in annoyance, “for a day with a toddler.”
“Yeah, I don’t have one of those.”
“Then why did you hire a nanny?” I hiss again. Because I’ve already messaged the nanny agency to reconfirm the appointment—without, I might add, sharing the horribly embarrassing detail about there being no child to nanny—and they were more than happy to tell me that I had everything right.