Page 5 of A Curvy Nanny for the Big Boss

Right. I need to call the agency. Especially since the office closes soon.

I press my phone to my ear as I make my way downstairs. After a few rings, our receptionist picks up.

“Stellar Nannies. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Lisa,” I say. “This is Celeste Hale. Is Nina still in?”

“I think so. Hold on a second.”

My supervisor comes on the line a few seconds later. I take a breath, apologize in advance, and tell her just enough to explain why this situation is so uncomfortable for me. I can tell she isn’t thrilled about my request to send someone else out.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says. “But it may take a while to find someone.”

My stomach sinks, but I say, “Of course. Thank you so much for understanding.”

After I hang up, I realize that while I was on the phone, I mindlessly wandered through Henry’s living room to the console where a gorgeous record player sits. I didn’t notice it when Henry was giving me a tour, nor did I notice the collection of vinyl tucked into the cubbies below.

Curiosity gets the best of me, and I crouch down to browse what albums he has. There are a bunch of classic records—Miles Davis’sKind of Blue, Fleetwood Mac’sRumours, Stevie Wonder’sSongs in the Key of Life—but there are also quite a lot that I’ve never listened to. As I carefully pull them out one at a time to look at the cover art, a certain record by The Rolling Stones makes me laugh: the cover is a black-and-white crotch shot with an obvious bulge and the wordsSticky Fingersstamped in the perfect spot.

With a cover like that, I feel like Ihaveto take a listen. Just a brief one, anyway.

I carefully slide the vinyl disc out of its sleeve, place it on the record player, turn down the volume so I don’t accidentally wake Aria, and set the needle in place. The record starts playing, and even with the volume turned down, the punctual opening bars of the first song make me nod my head to the beat.

I can’t help myself. I start to move my shoulders. And then, like I can’t even stop myself, I’m up on my feet, dancing to the song.

I know it’s silly. This is the last thing I should be doing right now, dancing in the living room of Henry Stone’s house. But the music is so good, and it’s been such a long time since Ilet goand danced.

The next song is slower, more bluesy, but I keep on dancing. I’m turning in slow circles, rocking from side to side, feeling the music in my soul.

And then the third song comes on. It’s “Wild Horses,” a song I know well, a song I love. As the melancholic ballad curls around me, I close my eyes and slowly sway.

Somehow, I don’t hear the front door of the house opening. I don’t even hear Henry’s footsteps as he comes into the living room. It’s not until the final chorus ends that I suddenly, horrifyingly become aware of his presence in the room.

My eyes fly open. I gasp, scrambling to lift the needle from the record.

“Henry,” I stammer. “You’re home.”

4

HENRY

Icould watch her dance for hours.

All right, it felt a little dirty, watching her while she didn’t realize I was here. She was lost in a private place, her curves relaxed and sensual as she moved. Fuck, it was so hypnotic.

And then to hear her say my name? After only ever hearing her address me as Mr. Stone? I wish I could rewind time and listen to her say it over and over again.

It’s a miracle my cock isn’t tearing through my pants right now.

“I picked up some takeout,” I say, holding up the bag in my hand.

She clears her throat, still trying to regain her composure. “Oh. Great. It smells delicious.”

“You a fan of The Rolling Stones?” I ask.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, quickly removing the record from my turntable and sliding it back into its sleeve. “I shouldn’t have gone through your things. I apologize.”

“That’s not really ‘going through my things.’ The records are there to be listened to.”

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