by Paige North
Shit. Did I just sign her on without even testing her out?
Was I that blinded by her gorgeous tits, the sexy pouting mouth, those innocent yet sensual eyes?
I liked what she said in the interview room, too. It made sense to me. All you need is a ton of determination, passion, and the rest will come naturally. It’s how I built my business from the ground up. I didn’t come from a wealthy family and wasn’t given a huge business loan. I didn’t know shit about the plane rental business. But I figured out my own way. Her words spoke to me. Plus, she looked so fucking cute while making her case, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.
But now, watching her crash and burn, I wonder what I’ve done.
That’s the last time I hire someone based on how hot they’d look walking around my house.
I’m ready to take the contract and rip it up, claim temporary insanity when suddenly, Miss Rainville pulls her set of keys out of her purse and begins dangling them in front of the baby. Immediately, the thing quiets down, and watches her jingling with deep fascination. Even I’m watching with deep fascination.
Damn, the kid’s eyes. She looks like me. There’s no denying that’s my kid.
After a minute, she stops crying, and everyone lets out this sort of collective sigh of relief. Maybe Miss Rainville will work out after all.
“I’m sorry,” she says, a sheen of sweat forming on her brow. I wonder if the same happens when she’s coming like a freight train. She blows away a wisp of hair that’s fallen into her face. “Maybe I should’ve asked before, but could someone explain whose baby I’m holding?”
Eleanor from social services steps forward. “Forgive me, Miss Rainville, I thought Mr. Hawthorn would’ve explained during the interview…” I give Eleanor the evil eye and she gives it right back.
“This is why we insist on being part of the interview process,” she adds, insulting the way I wanted to handle things. Why social services should be a part of interviewing my caretaker for my baby was a mystery to me.
Eleanor clears her throat. “You’re being considered for—”
“Olivia is my daughter,” I interrupt, turning to Miss Rainville. No one needs to explain this for me. It’s my child, my situation, my nanny. “I only found out a week ago. The child’s mother, I’m sorry to say, has landed herself in jail for…what is it again?”
“Selling counterfeit purses,” George, my lawyer, says, hands in his pockets.
“Selling counterfeit purses,” I echo, facing Miss Rainville’s wide questioning honey brown eyes again. “A repeat offense, apparently. The guy she was with failed the paternity test, and then the woman claimed I was the father…and anyway, none of that is important. All you need to know is that I’ll be watching Olivia while her mother serves her prison sentence, which should be a few months, tops.”
Miss Rainville paces back and forth, still dangling the keys in front of Olivia’s eyes, quite hypnotically. “So you need a nanny temporarily.”
“If all goes well, yes.” I try to smile as if this is all completely normal.
But the truth is, I feel uncomfortable explaining this situation. I barely remember the baby’s mother.
She was the waitress at a restaurant in Atlanta when I was there for business. She assured me she was on the pill, and I had a brief moment of doubt. But sometimes, when I’m on business, and it gets a little lonely, I find companionship.
Or often enough, it finds me.
Either way, I suppose I screwed up and now I’m going to pay for my sins…
I’ve only accepted the baby’s placement with me out of pure obligation ever since the paternity test came back positive. Because the truth is, I don’t like babies, I never expected one to be dropped off on my doorstep, and I plan on avoiding it as much as I can while it’s staying at my house.
The woman to care for her has to be utterly perfect, a baby guru, but soon, the jingling of the keys begins to lose its magic, and soon, Olivia is crying again.
Fuck. I chose too quickly. “Can’t you give her a bottle or something?” I ask.
“I, uh…I think she’s fighting sleep,” Miss Rainville says, switching the baby’s position from cradling to over her shoulder, and the crying hushes down again. Within a few seconds, Olivia is sucking on her hand and closing her eyes.
I’ll be damned.
I have to say, Miss Rainville is two for two. Twice now, the tiny human has been on the edge of losing it, and twice now, Miss Nanny has managed to work some sort of baby sorcery on her. Not bad. Not bad at all. Maybe I did choose well after all, and the pretty face and voluptuous body are only an added benefit.
She’ll do fine, I decide.
And in any case, I don’t plan on having the baby at my house very long. “Great, now that everything’s settled,” I say, clapping once and throwing my bag over my shoulder. I check my watch. Time to head back to the office. “You’ll report to my home tomorrow morning at seven. These fine people will give you the details. Please be on time,” I say then clear the room like a guilty party, entering the hallway while those in the room fall into quiet discussion.
Taking a deep breath, I let out a long sigh.
Damn, I felt claustrophobic in that room. Not a pleasant situation to be in, having to hire someone that both social services and I could both agree on. Having to even think about a baby I never knew a week ago at this time. But my life was thrown off course for a bit there, though I’m glad I can get back on track now that the nanny will start tomorrow.
Some men find the prospect of being a father exciting, but not me.
Too much shit swirling around my brain. Too much heartache I can’t even think about, much less face. All I know is that I need to get my car back from the valet, need to speed through the city streets in my Bentley GT, and need to make it back to the office—STAT. The sooner I feel like myself, the better.
My copper number comes speeding out of the garage to a hard stop in the MetroLife driveway, I tip the driver handsomely, and take off, shifting through gears with professional precision. I love driving. I love my car. I love being where I can think clearly, make decisions, and having people kiss my ass for it.
This curve ball cannot and will not interfere with my life, business, or daily habits not even one iota. I expect Bailey Rainville, the baby whisperer, to ensure of that with her round-the-clock guaranteed service, which is why I’m paying the nanny agency the big bucks. Sure, the child and nanny will have everything they need, and I’ll even continue to pay the mother child support once she’s out of prison, but that’s where my involvement ends. I won’t have a role in the child’s life beyond my financial responsibilities.
I never wanted to be a father. Never. And I won’t.
The last thing I expected was to get some random waitress pregnant, someone I don’t even know, which is worse, but I’ll pay what I have to pay. It was a stupid move on my part—I’ll accept that. As long as they leave me out of getting to know the child, I’ll be fine. This baby is nothing but a small blip on my radar.
But the nanny…now she’s more my speed. And loves “learning new things.” I chuckle to myself. I wonder which new things she’s more apt to go for.
I check my side-view mirror before switching lanes.
If there’s any reason to keep the baby longer than necessary, it’s to make sure I see that fine ass every day. Fine asses are a dime a dozen, but this one was particularly striking because she was determined, too. The other nannies gave up too soon. The moment I told them they weren’t right for the job, they started crying and left the interview. Can you imagine them quitting the moment the baby’s crying gets out of control?
No, I need someone who won’t give up so easily, won’t quit or take no for an answer. I like that. Fuck yeah, I do. And she doesn’t even realize her own beauty which is sexy…as…fuck.
Can’t wait to see her again at 7 am tomorrow. I should’ve told her that the house uniform consists of tight skirts, no bra, just for shits an
d giggles.
I arrive at my building on the Upper West Side, home of JetFlash, my company that rents and sells private jets to the wealthiest of the wealthy. I got here from a middle-class family. From a fresh-faced kid in school to being worth over $2.5 billion at the age of twenty-nine. Pulling up to the valet, I grab my bag and my wallet from the passenger seat. JetFlash is where my heart belongs, where I feel most in control, where I can breathe once again.
Carlos, my valet, takes my keys with the smile I pay him to give me every day. “Welcome home, sir,” he says, taking my car as smoothly as I give it to him.
“Indeed,” I push the revolving door into my platinum-lined foyer and breathe a sigh of relief.
Bailey
This is his house?
Seriously???
This is a magazine home come to life. It’s the most amazing house I’ve ever seen.
I’m standing inside the foyer of Zayden Hawthorn’s multi-million, ultra-modern home on the Upper West Side in New York City, my stomach jittering like crazy. The place is so fancy, the platinum has platinum on it, the marble has marble on it, and the doorbell alone is nicer than anything I own in my crappy Queens apartment. Luckily, I won’t be there for long. A few months to possibly a year at the Hawthorn home, they said.
It all depends on when the baby’s mother gets out of prison and when social services allows the child to go home to her.
So sad. It’s a good thing the baby, whose full name is Olivia Noelle Bardem, is young so hopefully, she won’t remember this confusing time. I fully intend on making her transition here as smooth and happy as possible, and with the credit card Mr. Hawthorn plans on giving me for anything the baby or I should need, that shouldn’t be a problem.
After a minute, the sound of airy footsteps comes up to the door. It opens and there stands the sexiest maid I have ever seen. Like something out of fantasy porn, complete with short black skirt and apron. All that’s missing are the fishnet stockings. “Hello, are you Bailey?” At least she’s warm and friendly.
“Yes! I’m here as Olivia’s nanny?” I say brightly, even though she already knows why I’m here, considering she knew my name.
“I’m Vero. I’ll show you to your room.” Vero, slinky cat that she is, lets me in, closes the door, and proceeds to lead the way as though she were modeling a Versace gown down a catwalk in Milano. Every so often, she speaks over her shoulder, lets me know where the kitchen is, where the living room is, where the bathroom is…who that woman is cooking in the kitchen (Mr. Hawthorn’s personal chef, Miss Helga…yes, Helga), but all I can think is that I’m out of place.
Even fish out of water feel at home compared to me.
For starters, I don’t look like the rest of the staff. I don’t exude sex, and my round ass would never fit into a skirt like that. My makeup is from Walgreens, not Sephora, and I got my clothes from the clearance rack at Target. Then again, I’m the one who’s going to have baby grunge on my clothes by the end of the day, so why bother with anything nice? I’m in a class all my own, I decide. I don’t have to look like them.
My room is on the second floor at the end of the hall connected to the baby’s room. Vero says with a breathy, rehearsed, perfect voice, “I will be here until five today. Let me know if you need anything.” She should be in the movies, she’s so gorgeous.
“Thank you. You’ve been so sweet,” I say.
“My pleasure, hon.” Her smile radiates starshine.
I close the door to my room and exhale a huge sigh of relief. Taking a long look around, I notice that my bedspread is gray, my walls are lighter gray, and the furniture is gray antique wood. The rug in the middle of the room is gray, and my ceiling fan looks like the propeller of a twin-engine plane. “First thing I’m getting with your credit card, Mr. Hawthorn, is a yellow accent pillow and an orange throw blanket.” I laugh to myself. “This place needs brightening.”
“Does it?” The deep, alluring voice of Mr. Hawthorn comes out of nowhere. I whip toward the sound, and there he is, standing in the doorway to the connecting room. Was he watching me all along?
“I’m sorry,” I swallow, palm to my chest. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“It’s my house. I think I’m allowed.”
“Oh! Most definitely! I just…should stay quiet from now on is what I should do.” My smile is forced and full of hesitation. My laughter sounds like a hyena cackling in the middle of The Great Gatsby’s living room. How do I move on from this? “Your house is absolutely beautiful, Mr. Hawthorn. Clearly, you have wonderful taste.”
“Except for the drab gray room?” He stares down into his phone as he talks to me.
“Oh, gosh, no. I was just…I was just kidding. It’s perfect.”
I see the bullshit detector built into his eyebrows when he glances up at me. “Find something you like online. I’ll have it delivered before the end of the day.” He checks his watch and clucks his tongue, like he’s running late.
“Um…thank you. Should I get started right away? Is the baby awake?”
“She arrives this afternoon. In the meantime, prepare her room however you like, purchase bedding, arrange things however you need. Get yourself situated. Just so we’re clear, you are Olivia’s full-time nanny. You’ll spend time with her as you would your own child. More so, because you’re being paid well.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“You won’t go out. You won’t meet up with friends while you’re watching the baby. And also, so we’re clear…” His sharp eyes mean business. “I don’t want to be taken out of my schedule for any reason unless it’s an absolute emergency. I didn’t ask for this, so I can’t be bothered with questions. Pink or purple, this outfit or that, I don’t care. Use your best judgment. It’s why I hired you. Clear?”
It’s hard to look away from his mesmerizing, cold blue eyes. They’re like ice, so calculated, yet I can see where the laugh lines would go on his face if he were in a lighter mood. “Crystal,” I reply, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
It’s late in the afternoon when baby Olivia finally arrives from social services. By that time, I’ve already made her nursery into a compilation of bright patchwork blended with muted vanilla sheets and furniture, along with a few beautiful hand-crafted stuffed animals and a mobile for her crib. Though it was fun to order furniture from a catalog and have it all delivered and assembled faster than it would take me to dry my hair, I err on the side of sensibility and order nothing for my bedroom, as Zayden suggested.
Because I shouldn’t have said what I said.
I was lucky enough to be hired for this position, given room and board and even a credit card for my own personal use. How gray my bedroom appears is of no consequence. Once Olivia and I are finally alone, I sit the baby in my lap in the rocking chair and give her tiny hand a shake.
“Hello, pumpkin. You and I are going to become thick as thieves, we are.”
The baby stares at me with big blue saucers, like her father’s. A line of drool is poised to fall from her lips. I wipe the sliminess with a burp rag. She makes a soft noise, and I can only wonder what she must be thinking of all this. Where’s my mommy? Her wide eyes seem to want to know.
Suddenly, I’m filled with sadness for this precious angel. Criminal or not, her mom is her mom, and they’re not together, which breaks my heart. I pluck a fluffy rabbit off the dresser and wiggle it around in front of her, hoping to elicit a giggle or even the tiniest of smiles but—nothing. This cookie is tough to crack. It’s going to take time.
I read her the scintillating bestseller, Goodnight Moon, then around nine, I decide it’s bedtime, regardless of what she’s used to, I give her a nice warm bath, put her in soft, fuzzy jammies and place her in bed with her bottle. Oops. She doesn’t hold her own bottle yet, so I put her in my lap and give her the bottle of milk myself, rocking her until she falls asleep. If I’m going to be a full-time nanny, I’m going to need personal time no later than 9:
30 pm or risk losing my sanity.
Game of Thrones isn’t going to watch itself!
Everything is going great so far. The staff has gone home, which makes me feel both lonely in the giant house all by myself with the baby but also relieved that I don’t have to talk to lanky giraffe-type women when I’m most tired. Mr. Hawthorn hasn’t gotten home yet, even though it’s late. I wonder if this is how it’ll always be—late nights inside this lonely, dark house.
I shower and dress quickly in case Olivia should wake up while I’m in the bathroom, but luckily, she’s still sleeping. When it comes time to blow-dry my hair, however, guess what? Apparently, the slightest noise wakes Olivia up. Within a minute, the little light sleeper is up and wailing. I run in and pat her on the butt, having read somewhere that I shouldn’t pick the baby up, or else she’ll get used to being coddled. I hate that piece of advice. I feel like a small baby who’s going through changes should be comforted.
So I do.
But when the butt-patting clearly isn’t enough anymore, I pick her up and try singing to her. The tears rolling off her cheeks are big and fat and full of heartache. “It’s okay, baby. I know…I know…” I assure her. I hear the beeping of a door opening and closing somewhere in the house, and my heart leaps into my chest.
I hope it’s Mr. Hawthorn and not some other staff member, or worse, a burglar. I catch a laugh in my throat. As if a burglar would get past the state-of-the-art security system of a billionaire. Assuming it’s the man of the house, it’s going to be awkward living here alone with him. We’ll be the only adults around at night. Together. Me and the billionaire. Sharing this mansion. With his bedroom just down the hall from mine.
My mind goes crazy with the possibilities, but I shut them off quickly.
Olivia continues to wail like she’s lost it all. Wait, she has lost it all.
Great—just my luck. He couldn’t have gotten home while she was sleeping peacefully, could he? No, it had to be during a night terror from the depths of hell. “Shush, little baby, don’t you cry…” I sing. Ugh, this will be the second time he’ll see me dealing with his crying baby.
