The Billionaire And The Nanny (Book Two)

by Paige North

  This is what happens when you fall in love despite your brain warning you not to, despite your mom telling you not to. Now I have to deal with the aftermath of my stupidity. It’s going to take a while, because I fell pretty damn hard.

  Not just with Zayden but with Olivia, too.

  Over the next few weeks, I’m in a fog. I wander around wondering why I walked into a certain room. I’m almost sure I went in because the baby called me, but lo and behold, there’s no baby, no bottles to warm, no diapers to restock, no floor toys to play with. There’s only my mother talking endlessly about football, my grandmother bringing a different flavor pie every day, and my dad quietly nodding at everything being said while staring into his new iPad.

  At least he’s moved on from a newspaper. I’m proud of him.

  Me, I’m practically a mute zombie. Other than the standard no’s and yes’s to the zillions of questions asked about what I want, what I would like, to eat, to drink, to watch on TV, to do, I barely speak. The term “depression” comes up a lot behind closed doors. I know I’m depressed, but there’s nothing I can do about it now except wait it out. Because it will end one day. Hopefully. I know it will. I’ve never been this wracked. I know I’ll snap out of it one day, because one thing I’ve never been is beaten.

  Bailey Rainville may go down for the count, but she always, always gets back up.

  For now, the only thing on my schedule is: paying the price of my stupidity.

  Dad comes into my room as I’m looking for another good book to read on my tablet. I’ve already gone through five short horror novels. I can’t read about love.

  “Hey, princess.”

  “Dad, I’m not a princess,” I mumble without looking up from my screen.

  “You’ll always be my princess.” He says this in the most dad way, without fanfare, kisses, or strokes of my hair. Just the same way he might say that a package arrived on the doorstep for me.

  I look up at him and crack a smile. “Thanks.”

  He sighs, sniffs around like the air in my room is stale. “Joe’s coming over. We’re going to work on a headboard-footboard combo. Want to help us?”

  Ugh. Not really. But I get it—I have to get out of this room and do something with my life. I’m not ready, but I suppose sanding a few spindles won’t kill me. “Sure, be there soon,” I say, but I take my time walking out there.

  The nice thing about my dad’s garage workshop is that it’s a toasty seventy degrees all through winter. The house might be frozen, but that’s because my mom and dad agree that most of the heat needs to be where the wood is. Uncle Joe is there, my dad’s hulking huge “little” brother. He gives me a hug and starts asking a bunch of questions about the “Big Apple,” but my answers come out as mostly grunts.

  Soon, I’m sitting at a stool sanding wood while my dad and uncle cut the bigger pieces. The repetition of the action feels comforting, actually, and I get lost in my thoughts. They say you shouldn’t distract yourself from your pain, that you should fully embrace it, live in it, own it so you can get over it faster. I know someone whose name starts with Z that could use this advice. Though I still don’t know exactly what made him the way he is, I know that he needs to face it head-on or risk living in pain forever.

  Once my uncle leaves, and it’s just me and Dad working together, he mutters something about “that boy” being stupid. I half tune in, because I know that they were talking about Joe’s ex and I didn’t want to hear it, but I’m surprised by my dad’s take on the matter.

  “Guys can be stupid, Bale. It takes them time sometimes to realize what they got. You know?”

  Is he talking about me? About me and Zayden? I think he is, and I appreciate that he’s disguising it as being about my uncle. I just nod.

  “Otherwise, they feel rushed. Pushed into something they’re not ready for. That’s your uncle Joe alright. A proper moron.” He laughs to himself then turns on the buzzsaw, slicing our quiet moment of reflection in half.

  Is he saying that Zayden is a moron?

  I would have to agree with that.

  And that’s why I love my dad.

  I’ve been home six weeks. Now it’s mid-March and spring is around the corner. The snow is beginning to melt. I even hear a bird or two outside my window in the mornings. In the evenings, people are actually going back outside to what few bars and restaurants we have in Perrysburg. An old friend from elementary school, Jessie, is in town for Spring Break and calls to see if I want to go out with her and a friend of hers.

  I really don’t want to, but I know I have to.

  I have to prove to myself that I’m capable of healing. Even though I’m still in love with Zayden Hawthorn, still stalking his social media online and scouring for any news or images of him or the baby I can find. Nothing on Olivia. Face it, Bailey, you’ll never see her again. It was just a job. The sooner you see it that way, the happier you’ll be.

  Going out in Perrysburg, Ohio is nothing like going out in Manhattan.

  You have two bars to choose from and both of them are mostly empty. You’d never know they’re crappy places judging from how much fun the customers are having inside the joint, playing pool and laughing over beers like it’s the best thing ever, but I shouldn’t judge. At least they’re out enjoying themselves, unlike me…

  On a barstool, Jessie wants to know all about New York City.

  “It’s big,” I tell her.

  “But the men must be hot, aren’t they? With their fancy suits and their perfect hair?”

  I don’t tell her that the guy I “dated” almost fits that description 100%. “They’re alright. Too neurotic for me.”

  “But sexy,” she adds with an arch of her sculpted eyebrow.

  “Sexy and neurotic. Yep, you got it.” I slam down half my beer. I so don’t want to talk about this. But too late, because now the bar is starting to fill up some more, and soon, we’re surrounded by more of Jessie’s friends who just happen to be all guys who clearly don’t work out. Not that I’m judging.

  One of them, Trace, smiles and inches over to me. He’s skinny with loose brown hair over dark eyes and a habit of pushing it back off his face. “You’re Bailey, right? I remember you. I moved here back in middle school. You probably don’t remember.”

  “Oh, right! Hey,” I say, but he’s right. I totally don’t remember.

  But the more beers I order, the more Trace keeps talking, the more I nod my head, and by the end of the night, he suddenly moves in for a kiss.

  Even as drunk as I am, I manage to turn my lips away so he hits my cheek.

  He pulls back to see how I liked it. I shake my head to let him know it’s not going to happen, and he shrugs, moving onto someone else.

  I can’t get Zayden out of my head with another guy. But when you’re used to mind-bending kisses that weaken your legs and a man who takes control of you like he owns you, a sloppy cheek kiss from Trace isn’t going to cut it.

  I end up back home early in bed with another book.

  “Did you have fun?” Mom wants to know.

  “No,” I say. Hey, it’s the truth.

  She gives me a disapproving look then retreats back to where she came from. I know I have to get over this. I know I’m going to spend the rest of my life comparing Zayden to every man I meet, because he was my first. And if he was the best, too, then Houston, we have a problem. Because I won’t want anyone else. I want him. I miss him.

  Maybe that’s the remnants of beer talking but as bad as he was for me, I still miss him.

  I miss Olivia, too.

  And this night, for the first time in six weeks, I cry my eyeballs out. I cry them out hard, sobbing all baby-like, really owning the heartache and abandonment. I pray that Olivia’s mom is treating her right. I pray that the little girl is happy to be reunited, that she’s not too confused at all the turmoil going on in her life, and I pray that one day, I can get over this.

  Because this sucks.

  Massively.

  I
wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

  Zayden

  There’s a party in Chelsea this weekend. I’ll be there because I can’t stay home alone anymore. If I see my empty house, the colorful rooms where Bailey and Olivia slept, I’ll fall into deeper depression, and it’s bad enough I still have to sleep there. Staying sociable is what’s kept me alive. It’s an act, I know it is. What used to feel familiar and normal now feels forced.

  As much as I’ve tried to get back into the swing of things, my regular routine, I’m a different person. For one thing, I haven’t slept with a single woman since Bailey left, something that infuriates me to no end. Why can’t I just go back to who I was before she came to work for me? It’s not like someone flickering into your life for five months should make such a difference. You’d think I could’ve hooked up with someone by now.

  But I’m determined to keep trying. I’ve gotten close, going so far as to bring a woman into my room, hoping to erase the ghosts of Bailey, only to claim that I’m suddenly sick and send the woman home with one of my drivers.

  But one way or another, I have to become myself again.

  The party is for Ada Benson, one of my low-profile celebrity friends I haven’t seen in a while. She just got the lead role for a new Netflix series she can’t stop talking about. Maybe when she moves to LA next week, I finally won’t have to hear about it anymore.

  An older woman with a great rack and red dress has been hanging off of me all night, talking about her ex, what a jerk he turned out to be, and how she would so engage in revenge sex if she could only find the perfect guy to do it with.

  Her smile appears and disappears in my field of vision like the Cheshire cat. I’m half drunk and not listening to her. I nod and pretend to, but I keep scanning the trendy apartment. I know that Bailey would never be here, yet I keep imagining that she is, that any moment, she’s going to walk in with that little attitude of hers and I would be so happy to see that. I’d give anything to see her again, even if it’s to catch the rage and hate she surely feels for me these days.

  Shit, I hate me too. I can’t blame her.

  My friends Carson and Jackie are there, and Ada announces that something is about to make the night even more special. Then, right there, in the middle of the flowing champagne, endless snaps of Instagram selfies and socialite conversation, Carson takes Ada’s spotlight with her full permission.

  He gets down on one knee and pulls out a box, and right away Jackie’s hands fly to her mouth, and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Jackie, you’re the light of my life, the apple of my eye, and the pain in my ass, but I can’t live without you. Will you marry me?”

  “Don’t do it,” the woman talking to me mutters behind her wine glass then joins the chorus of cheers and laughter erupting all at once.

  I feel myself spinning through my alcohol fog, raising my glass for a toast as Jackie accepts, happy for them but hating them all at the same time. Why does your friends’ happiness upset you? This is what you wanted, asshole, I tell myself. Now own it. Love it.

  Fuck it.

  I stay a reasonable amount of time so it won’t look like their engagement sparked my leaving in any way, even though I’m dying to get out of here and erase the pain. “I’m taking off,” I tell the woman whose name I still don’t know. Better that way. “Do you want to come with me?”

  Her green eyes sparkle. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  After hugging Carson and Jackie one last time, telling them I better be in the wedding party if they know what’s good for them, I bolt out of the apartment with red dress lady, slamming back one more drink on the way out. My driver is there, and we crawl into the back seat. “Your place or no place,” I tell the woman.

  She stares at me strangely, trying to figure me out. If only someone could, I wouldn’t be in this state of mind. Her hands are all over my chest, my hair and neck, and at one point, she dips down and reaches for my cock, which is completely dead. Carson and Jackie’s engagement left a bad taste in my mouth, though that’s a fake reason. I know the real reason and I can’t think about it.

  “Save it,” I tell her, pushing her hand away.

  The delay of gratification only makes her more horny, as she bites her lips in anticipation the rest of the way.

  Fifteen minutes later, we reach her apartment building, which fucking great—happens to be right across from the MetroLife Building, the same building where I first met Bailey. I ask my driver to wait for me. If I go through with this, it won’t take long, because I don’t plan on cuddling. He winks and closes the door. Once in the elevator, red dress woman smashes me against the mirror and presses her red wine stained lips onto me.

  “You’re driving me crazy, Hawthorn,” she breathes. “But now you’re in my territory.”

  If it’s possible to feel absolutely nothing when a beautiful woman with a great rack is kissing you, then this is it. I do my best to kiss her back but, no offense to her, it’s like kissing an ash tray that’s been washed with peppermint water. Great—a smoker. Before even getting to her door, I already know this ain’t gonna happen.

  “Hey,” I say, regretting that I still don’t know her name after spending half the party and a whole car ride with her. “I just remembered I have somewhere I have to be.”

  “Can’t it wait?” Her hands are now on my ass.

  “No, but I can come back later.” I don’t know why I say that other than to protect her feelings because now I see the insecure little girl in her starting to creep in. “Actually,” I add, doing my best to stay honest. “I probably won’t. I can’t. I’m so sorry.” I kiss her cheek and take off down the hallway.

  She shouts some choice expletives at me, but I’m too far gone to even care.

  Besides, she’s right. I am all those things and more. I don’t blame her for being angry. I am and always will be the biggest asshole I know. And now I’m the loneliest asshole, too, because as I get to my building and walk in through my door, I can hardly breathe from the emptiness in the house.

  The silence screams at me. The bar calls to me. And I can’t bear to go upstairs with the darkness looming, all light and love totally sucked out of the bedrooms. You had to do it, I remind myself. To save them from future pain.

  But then, as I’m pouring myself yet another drink in the hopes of poisoning myself slowly, I think about the mantra I’ve been repeating since the day Bailey took off on me, leaving me to spend hours trying to console Olivia when she woke up without the person she was closest to being there to greet her with familiar routines and love.

  So much love…

  Are they really saved from future pain? Is anyone ever really saved from future pain?

  So Olivia is now with her mother, but is she spared from pain?

  We all live with pain, some more than others. If you’re going to have pain, isn’t it better to have it while being with someone you love? Someone who can make you smile most of the time, someone who doesn’t take that pain and exponentially multiply it?

  I slam my ass into the leather chair, drink in hand. I hate myself right now. I hate life, and I hate this situation, but I asked for it. I miss Bailey more than ever. I wish she would materialize in the darkness of this living room like a ghost from the night we made love right in this chair, and the thought turns me hard immediately. See? No problems there.

  It’s who’s turning me on that’s the problem.

  Because she’s no longer here. I ruined any chances I ever had with her, and I did it on purpose. But am I really saving anyone from hurt or am I only choosing not to love? Right now, the only thing I’m doing is reminding myself of my father who’d I’d sometimes find asleep in his leather chair in the morning, his hand down his pants, snores emitting from his nostrils.

  After my mother couldn’t take the pain and left my father, my dad tried to cope the best he could. He seemed so pathetic to me, that he couldn’t brush her aside and go make a life for himself post-Mom, but who can come back from
losing your own child and losing your wife all in the same year? There’s only one difference between my dad and me right now, and that’s that he didn’t have a choice in the matter. My dad was a victim of death and abandonment.

  Whereas I made this choice myself.

  I may have been a victim once, as a kid, of losing my little brother and then everyone else I depended on.

  But I’m no victim now. I did this. I chose this life of sitting around like a sad sack of shit, drunk and conjuring up skeletons from my closet to see me through. Bailey comes to me as a vision in T-shirt and panties, her nipples hardened and her pink lips full. The wet heat between her thighs envelops me and soon she’s riding me slowly, deliciously, using my chest to hold herself up. Her hair falls in rivulets, creating blinders that curtain off the rest of the world.

  Inside our bubble, it’s just me and her and sweet surrender, and it doesn’t take long for me to explode, for me to call out her name, for me to give the ghost one last kiss as the vision dissipates, leaving me alone again. A billionaire loser in my fancy house. What good is this fucking life if I have no one to share it with?

  Sad sack of shit indeed.

  And now I know why I can’t go back to being myself again.

  Because the man I’m trying to get back to doesn’t exist anymore.

  Bailey

  It’s a warm day in Perrysburg. Warm enough for my dad to open the garage and let a little air into the workshop. Which means the house can finally use the A/C unit, and I don’t have to feel like a genie in a bottle anymore.

  I love my family and all, but I need to get out. Luckily, today’s the perfect day, as I have an interview with an elementary school in a neighboring town. Just last week, I was considering moving back to NYC and looking for a teaching position there. After all, I always wanted to live in New York. That is, until he-who-won’t-be-named gave me a bad taste in my mouth for it.

  But that was then.

  It’s time to move on.