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)
Which means the problem is sitting in the overly expensive, leather office chair in front of me, clearly unbothered by this entire chain of events.
I stare at him as I wonder if he’s an idiot. He’s definitely rich, based on being able to afford a nanny at the rate I’m getting paid for this gig. Nice office. Expensive suit. Still, plenty of idiots have money. He rocks in his chair and stares back, like watching me think is his new favorite hobby. Definite idiot.
I bite my lip and avoid his gaze. “Is this some kind of nanny porn fetish? You know it doesn’t work like that, right? You can’t hire an actual nanny to fulfill your weird kinks. You have to hire a prostitute who is willing to pretend to be a nanny.”
He laughs again, and I want to stab him.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Liberty Parker.”
“Liberty,” he repeats back, sitting up straight in his chair and leaning his elbows on the desk. “I’m going to tell you a secret.”
“Okay,” I agree because I’m not really in a position to object. Also, who doesn’t love a secret? Like maybe this whole accidental nanny thing is some kind of reality show that pays even more than nannying in Manhattan? A flare of hope surges in my chest because I really, really need this to work out.
“If I wanted a woman to enact some nanny fantasy with me,” he continues, his voice seductively low and unhurried—he pauses, eyes locked on mine before continuing—“I wouldn’t need to pay her.”
I swallow, suddenly uncomfortably warm, sure a flush is creeping up my neck. He’s obviously not lying about that. He likely has no shortage of volunteers for whatever he’s into. I attempt to clear my throat, but it comes out like a squeak.
“Are you sure you don’t have any children?” I push, needing to get this conversation back on track. “Maybe there’s one you don’t know about yet, but it’s getting dropped off today? A fun ‘surprise-you-have-a-kid-but-I-got-you-a-nanny-so-we’re-even’ kind of thing?”
Even I can hear the hope in my voice as I take a quick glance around his office, as if an Amazon driver is about to deliver a baby via Prime. I’m desperate for this job.
“Dropped off,” he repeats and I don’t miss the tone of incredulousness in his voice. “By a stork? Or what exactly were you envisioning?”
Well. I’m definitely not mentioning that Amazon offers two-hour delivery in Manhattan.
“Just saying, you might have a baby momma somewhere,” I explain. Then, chastised by his raised brow, I mumble, “You can’t possibly know for sure.” I add this a little sullenly while eyeing every inch of him I can see sitting behind his desk.
“I’m reasonably sure,” he replies with a smirk, not taking his eyes off me as he presses a button on his desk phone. It rings three times. I know this because he’s made the call on speakerphone. We’re in the midst of a stare-off when the call is answered with a curt “What?” on the other end of the line, the voice that of a much older woman. I’d wonder if she was an angry ex-girlfriend, but she sounds more like a mother or, more likely, a grandmother. An estranged grandmother. In fact, her greeting—and attitude—is so unexpected that I have to look away so I don’t start laughing.
“Mrs. Hollis, my office, please,” Mason instructs via the speaker. We both hear Mrs. Hollis’s exasperated sigh on the other end before he disconnects the call. I watch him for a sign of annoyance at this obvious insubordination, but the same smirk just plays on his lips. All I can do is stare at him, curious at how unperturbed he seems at the blatant disrespect by someone who must work in this office.
“My assistant,” he says, by way of explanation. “It’ll take her about twenty minutes to get here but I’m sure she’ll clear this right up.”
“Twenty minutes?” I ask, mouth dropping open. “Do you keep her desk in the basement two blocks over?”
“No. She’s in the office next to mine.” He gestures vaguely at a wall to his left. “It’ll take her twenty minutes because she’s an insolent old battleaxe. But I’m attached to her after all these years, so what can I say? Can I get you something to drink while we wait?”
He’s already standing, moving to open a mini-fridge situated under a marble countertop tucked under a window with a view of Central Park. The same park I had earlier hoped to enjoy via long stroller walks and leisurely reading of my study notes. It taunts me through the window, a reminder of what I came so close to having.
My annoyance isn’t helped by the fact that his office is nicer than my entire apartment. Even without the view. Or the mini-fridge.
“I knew this job was too good to be true,” I mutter.