Mr. Hot Grinch (Alphalicious Billionaires Boss Book 3)

by Lindsey Hart

  But no, of course not. What little luck I might have had seems to have run out a long time ago.

  Sam does some fast talking to this Luke guy. She mentions something about how his nanny quit on him over two weeks ago, and he’s been struggling. After a lot of convincing—in which I die even more inside, my heart shrinking into a hard kernel of nothingness—and Sam finally pulling the ‘it’s Christmas’ card, Luke agrees.

  I know it because Sam hangs up with a big grin on her face. “You’re in.”

  “Great.” I try to sound excited.

  I am grateful. Truly. But I don’t know what my next move would be. Now, at least I have a safe place to go, and I don’t have to borrow money from Sam. Hopefully, it will take my parents a while to figure out where I am. And hopefully, they give up on their crazy ideas by that time. I can write my resume, search for other jobs, and apply. Fingers crossed I get one, so I can figure out what I’m going to do after that.

  “I owe you,” I add because Sam doesn’t look convinced.

  “You’re right. You sure as heck do.”

  “I’ll treat you to a mani-pedi when I have some cash again. Girl’s day out. I promise.”

  Sam snorts. “You don’t have to pay for that crap. My parents have an account. You know that. Treat me by coming out with me. You’re my best friend.”

  “Okay, I will. Book a date and let me know when.”

  “Sounds like a deal.”

  “Oh, and Sam? Can you wait a day to call my mom and tell her I’m safe but that I don’t want to talk to them? I know they’ll try and trace my freaking phone if I call.”

  “You should throw it out the window.” Sam grins. “I’ll figure it out.” She holds out her hand. “Give it to me. I thought ahead and brought you one of my dad’s old ones. The number is private.” She produces a phone for me. “That way, they can’t track anything, and I’ll—accidentally on purpose—drop this one into the toilet.”

  “Don’t flush it. For the love of all things holy, that’ll totally clog your parents’ sewer.”

  Sam rolls her eyes and throws me that devious look she’s so well known for.

  “I wasn’t going to flush it. There’s the pond by the house with the huge water feature. I was just going to chuck it in there.”

  “You could donate it. That would be nicer.”

  “You’re right. But that’s so not dramatic.”

  I give her that look. My best friend look—the look I’ve been giving her since we were ten and ended up in the same boarding school. We were in the same school and classes until we turned eighteen. We even got into the same college, and she also studied business. She currently lives at home and doesn’t have a job even though we both graduated last year. I feel like we’re stuck in limbo, waiting for our parents to decide what we should do with our lives.

  I also know Sam desperately wanted to pursue fashion design, and I wanted to be an English major. Both of those things were a big no-go with our parents, but maybe, I’m thankful. I don’t know. At least I have this degree to fall back on. I just really hate to admit how that was their argument all along.

  Sigh.

  “Don’t worry.” Sam sets her hand on my knee. “Everything is going to be fine.” She winks at me. “I’ll lend you some clothes. You can’t go and be a nanny while looking like a hobo with two outfits.”

  “Jesus, Sam, that’s rude.”

  She throws her head back and laughs. “I know. Sorry. Would it be better if I said you should go in looking like a boss bitch and not a basic bitch?”

  “No! For the love of peanut butter and jam!” We weren’t allowed to swear in boarding school, and blaspheming was even worse, so those are our old go-to.

  Hearing it just makes Sam laugh even harder.

  CHAPTER 3

  Luke

  This is a stupid plan. And not just the nanny bit. All of it.

  I’m letting a stranger into my house. Never mind that I do know who she is because I’m computer literate, and I’m able to do a basic background search by putting her name into a few places. Never mind that I have Samantha’s recommendation. Ostensibly. Never mind that I do want my son to have someone there for him, especially because the past two years have been the worst kind of shit show. Never mind, never mind. Never mind that I need to do this because I’m out of other options.

  I’m just worried about Shade. Worried he’ll get attached the way he does with the other nannies, and it will all go to shit.

  Worried that our home is going to be thrown into chaos again.

  Worried that after everything, this is just one more thing neither of us needs.

  I guess, for the time being, I have to stuff my worries in a sack—that was my mom’s favorite saying—and get on with it because I really don’t have any other choice. I need a nanny, and Shade needs someone who is soft and compassionate to fill the void of not having a mother. I can be a lot of things, but being a mother is off the table. I just don’t know how to be one. Elizabeth Hardington needs to figure some things out. Hopefully, it will be a win-win, right?

  Fuck. This is the worst plan in the history of worst plans.

  I have zero time to worry about that, though, because the doorbell chimes, and I know she’s here. I know because I’m standing in the kitchen, and I have a security camera installed at the door. I can see her. I take a few seconds to observe the screen. She looks different from the odd photo I could find of her online. Her family is fairly private and is hardly ever in the media. While her father can easily be searched, it’s hard to find pictures of his daughter.

  Elizabeth is not what I’d call beautiful in the Hollywood sense. Maybe in any sense. Or maybe I’m just a shitty judge because I haven’t looked at another woman since I met Brittany, and I have zero desire to do so now, even though she’s been gone for over two years.

  I stalk through the house, trying to work off all the negative energy so that I don’t look like a monster when I open the door. Apparently, it doesn’t exactly work because the first thing Elizabeth does is shrink back.

  “Whoa,” she whispers.

  “Whoa,” I echo because I’m an asshole.

  Elizabeth swallows so loudly that it’s quite obvious she’s nervous. Her hands clasp in front of her, and she’s wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and canvas shoes. Very hipster of her. I wonder if she’s into playing the bad-ass rich girl who does whatever she wants and gives her middle finger to the world or if this is just how she normally dresses. She has a huge black duffel bag looped over her shoulder and a designer purse hanging off the crook of her arm.

  I suppose, up close, she’s actually passably pretty. She has long hair that tumbles over her shoulders and down her back. It’s dyed this strange ash blonde color that sets off her light green eyes, bow mouth, high cheekbones, and pale skin. How anyone can be pale in Florida is a mystery to me. Clearly, Elizabeth isn’t the outdoor type. She’s quite petite. She’s on the thin side, but her shirt and those tight jeans do outline some stunning curves. And she’s average height, around five-six.

  Once I’m done with my body scan and overt scrutiny, which I know is ridiculously rude, I clear my throat. “So. Elizabeth.”

  She winces. She probably doesn’t want me to know who she is. She gives me this no-nonsense, I’m not about to answer questions about my family, background, life, or myself if it doesn’t pertain to the job look she’s probably perfected for the media over the years. Maybe everyone else too. Her chin tilts defiantly, and her eyes flash.

  I’m slightly surprised to find I’d describe her as adorable when she tries to be tough. It’s obvious she has some sass because running away from home, leaving everything behind, even if it is temporary—yes, I have all the details from a few phone calls—takes guts.

  “Are you going to let me in, or should I call Sam to come and pick me up?”

  “No, I’ll let you in. But I want you to know this is a favor. If you suck at being a nanny or you upset Shade or I find that you’re any l
ess fit for the job than anyone else, you’re out.”

  “Thanks for that warm welcome. Let’s try this again, like normal people.” Elizabeth sticks out a hand. “Hi. I’m Elizabeth. I hate that name, so please call me Feeney. Everyone does. I’m here for the nanny position.”

  I very nearly break into a smile. Those who know me know what a major achievement that is and I’m slightly floored at the impulse, even though I check it before it wrecks me. I haven’t done a lot of smiling in the past two years. My son aside, there hasn’t been much to smile about.

  I make some sort of grunting noise that sounds very troll-like and leave the door open. Feeney, and what a ridiculous name that is, saunters in behind me and shuts it noisily. I wince. That’s a strike against her. I can’t stand door slammers.

  “Shit. Sorry. I mean, shoot. Yeah. Shoot.”

  I have my back turned and that crazy urge to smile is back. It very nearly happens, but I bite it back. Maybe she won’t get that strike against her after all. Yet. I’m sure it’s coming. A spoiled rich girl who was born rich, raised rich, and handed everything, can’t possibly handle this. I’m torn between the urge to make sure it doesn’t, just to have some amusement in my life and be less of an asshole and make sure that it does because there’s more than just me at stake here. There’s Shade, and so many other things.

  I’ve given myself talks about sucking it up and getting on with it. I’m going to have to start, and that means giving Feeney the benefit of the doubt.

  I watch her with this strange periphery look as she follows me. She’s taking it all in. The house. It’s not very impressive. There’s a reason for that. I could afford much much better, but I like living low-key. I like giving Shade a normal life. I was raised with nothing. Came from nothing. Scratched a living out of nothing. This house is something. It might not be a mansion in some glamourous area. It definitely didn’t cost six figures, but that’s alright. It blends in. The neighborhood is nice. Ten years old. Normal. It’s all very normal. The house has a two car garage, four bedrooms, two baths and is two stories. Normal. No pool. Maybe that’s not normal for Florida. Open concept. Normal. Regular furnishings you can actually eat off of and sit on. Normal.

  “Where’s Shade?” It’s the first thing Feeney asks as she lets her duffel bag hit the floor with a thump and a sigh in the living room. She doesn’t wait for me to ask her to sit. She just does. The couch is micro-suede and is overstuffed and nearly swallows her whole.

  My lips twitch when I notice how very ungracefully she tries to arrange herself on it when she’s basically a tangle of arms and legs. She finally sits upright, tugs her shirt down into place, swings one knee over the other, sets both hands on it, and gives me a direct look that mean she’s ready to talk about the job.

  Right. The job.

  “He’s not here. I didn’t want him to be here for this in case it didn’t work. It’s confusing for him.”

  “I get that. I wouldn’t want my kids meeting strangers either.” Her lips purse like the next words are going to come out bitter, but surprisingly they don’t. Her voice is full of genuine feeling. “Thank you for considering me for the job. I know I’m not very qualified. I know you’re doing a favor for Samantha, or something. I don’t know how that all works but thank you. For even interviewing me.”

  I don’t bother to tell her that even if I wasn’t super desperate, she’d already have the position. I could tell her a lot of things actually but I choose to keep that to myself at the moment.

  “You can cook?”

  “Not really.”

  “Clean?”

  “I can figure that out.”

  “Have you looked after kids before?”

  “You know I haven’t.”

  “Casually?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “Do you like them?”

  “Kids? Of course! I don’t think I would be here if I hated kids. I would have made Samantha lend me money and I would have gone to live in some hole in the wall apartment- uhhh, never mind. Sorry. I just would have found a different job if I didn’t like kids. I know that I’m not overly qualified, but I’ll try ridiculously hard. If you find that it’s not a good fit, feel free to turf me out.”

  “Oh, I will. I can promise you that.”

  “You know, I can see why you’ve gone through a few nannies now. Sam told me.”

  I make that grumbly noise again that sounds like chewing rocks between my teeth. “My demeanor isn’t the reason I’ve had to fire nannies. Them not knowing how to take care of my son, how to keep him safe, how to do the basics, is.”

  “Basics. Hmm. We’ll see.”

  Jesus. The way Feeney looks at me, her face perfectly innocent but somehow still challenging, makes me feel like I’m the one being interviewed. This girl has courage, I’ll give her that. Girl. I know she’s almost twenty-three. I’m thirty. That’s not that much difference.

  Maybe I just feel really fucking old.

  Centuries old.

  “Alright. Fuck it. You can have the job. It’s a flat rate of one hundred and fifty per day, free room on the second floor right next to Shade’s. Free meals if you can cook them, and by if, I hope you can because I don’t want my son to starve. Try and make them as nutritious as possible, although good luck with trying to get a four year old to eat anything, even if by some miracle, you do produce something that is edible. I do have cleaners that come, but I don’t like the house to be an ungodly mess for them, so picking up is a must, especially toys. You can have a day off if you need it, without pay, if you tell me in advance. You’ll be responsible for keeping track of any and all of Shade’s appointments. He’s just turned four so he won’t be going into kindergarten this year but I might pay for pre-school. I haven’t decided yet, but if I do send him, you’ll be responsible to drive him. I do hope you drive.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I have a car you can use. You’ll do the shopping. Grocery shopping and anything else I need. If Shade needs something- clothes, shoes, anything, you’ll be the one who gets them. If Shade is sick, you don’t get a day off. I have a demanding work schedule and that’s part of the reason I need a nanny. I don’t take days off. I work seven days a week. Sometimes, I work from home in the office upstairs, and it’s vital that things are pretty quiet during that time. I do make sure that I’m home by five every night to spend the evening with Shade. It’s less vital that you’re around during that time, but I still might need you. If you want to take a break during those hours, please ask and have your phone with you so I can get in touch if I need to.”

  “Okay.” She pauses. “Yeah. Okay. I can see why you need a nanny.” She pauses again. Her face gets a pinched, curious look and I know she can’t help herself. “Why Shade? That’s a unique name.”

  “By unique you mean stupid.”

  Feeney’s lips curl up. Not in a snarl. Half in surprise, half in challenge, half a smile. “By unique I mean unique.”

  No, this woman isn’t exactly pretty, but I can see how some men would find her beautiful. Normal men. Men who appreciate intelligence, wit, and spirit more than they do big boobs, a big butt, and massive lips. Most men would also probably appreciate her family’s money. I can’t imagine what kind of dates Feeney’s been on. Or endured. It can’t be easy, that’s for sure.

  Unexpectedly, I feel myself softening just a little.

  Other men would find her pretty, but I can’t. I can’t because I’m a thousand years old. Because my eyes don’t work properly. Because my emotions are shot. Because if I didn’t have a son, I know I would have crawled into the grave right alongside Britt and let them bury me too.

  “Fine especially since this is coming from someone who calls herself Feeney.”

  “It was my grandma’s name, and it’s special. She died before I was born.”

  “Shade’s name is special too.” I should leave it at that. I shouldn’t be an asshole, but I can’t help myself. I guess it’s just a habit now. “His mother gave i
t to him because it meant something to her, and she’s also dead.”

  I expect Feeney to get all weird and try to give me platitudes and say sorry and talk about grief like everyone else as if they know all about it when they haven’t lost a damn thing ever. But, instead, she keeps her face controlled and nods.

  “I know. That’s why you need a nanny. And by unique, I meant unique, really. I did think it was kind of strange at first, but I have to admit it’s grown on me. Your wife did a good job with the name. And I’m sure with everything else too. I’m sure I’ll never measure up, and you’ll probably hate me, but if your son likes me, I hope you keep me around and give me some grace for his sake. Deal?”

  This. Woman. Wow. Maybe she’s exactly what I need. Someone to tell it to me straight, someone who can stand up to me, someone who isn’t afraid of me and the massive black cloud of grief that follows me around everywhere, and someone who can fill even an inch of the incredibly large shoes Britt left behind.

  “Deal,” I mutter and stand up fast.

  No, Feeney isn’t just pretty. I can see how, after a while—my crushed-up emotions and dead insides not-withstanding—I might find her extremely beautiful too.

  CHAPTER 4

  Feeney

  I get shown to a basic room with a double bed, a dresser, a nightstand, and not much else. There’s a big window, at least, but of course, the blinds are shut tight. It is indeed right next door to Shade’s room, which thankfully shows some signs of life. The bed is one of those loft beds, and it has a blue canopy overtop. Underneath, there are toys spilling out everywhere—cars and car mats, a train set, building blocks, action figures…well, so much for picking up.

  In a few curt words, Luke informs me he’s going to pick Shade up from wherever he is, and then he’s gone. The house is silent, and I’m still standing just inside the doorway of the room that’s going to be mine, my heavy bag cutting into my shoulder.

  Zweeeerrrrrppppp. Ugh. That’s the sound of my ovaries exploding when I think about Luke at all. I purposely resist, cutting off thoughts about how tall he is, how broad, and how maddeningly attractive he is. I mean, the guy looks like he’s hewn out of granite and cheese. Granite, because duh, and cheese because…because everyone likes cheese. Cheese is tasty and delicious, just like Luke. Except cheese doesn’t scowl, cheese doesn’t glare at you, cheese doesn’t glower, and cheese doesn’t look like a hot grinch. So, maybe cheese is totally not like Luke.