Page 1 of The Biker Needs A Nanny

CHAPTER ONE

Grace—

I fasten the last few buttons on my blouse and sling my cross-body bag over my head.

Sliding the door open a crack, it’s evident the landing is clear of my landlord. I step into the hallway and close the door with a soft click. The orange eviction notice glares at me. I rip it from the wood and crumple it into a ball. Then jog down the flight of stairs.

“Grace!” The yell carries from above. “Rent was due three days ago!”

“I got it, Mr. Ramone.” I call but don’t stop my descent.

“Grace, I mean it. If I don’t have it by close of business today, you’re out.”

“Mr. Ramone, when have I ever failed you? My tips today will cover the difference.”

“Five pm. That’s it.” Mr. Ramone leans over the railing. He has worn, tan skinned, and his mustache is curled in a snarl. “Five pm,” he says with finality.

Hopefully, my meager job at Nick’s Diner will come through with four hundred dollars.

But walking into the diner twenty minutes later reveals it isn’t promising. There are three patrons sitting atop metal stools at the long counter and a couple of older ladies chatting in the red cushioned booth. The rest of the place is empty. Music pipes through the diner, and Dolly Parton singsHard Candy Christmasin the background. Right now, that’s just how I feel.

The smell of coffee and bacon hits my nose, and my stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten since that pack of Ramon noodles Ihad last night. Hopefully, I’ll have a little extra left over money, and I can grab a pack of hot dogs and some buns.

I sneak a piece of crispy bacon off a pan as I punch in for my shift.

Only thirty minutes into my day, an elderly man shuffles in and takes a spot in a booth along the windows. He dumps a small pile of change onto the tabletop with a jingle. His shaking hands count the coins.

Grabbing a fresh pot of coffee, I head to his table. “Can I start you off with some coffee?”

He glances up at me. “How much can four dollars and eighty-three cents get me?” He tries to drop the change into my hand, but his tremor causes several coins to fall to the ground, rolling across the floor.

“I’m sorry.” He moves to slide from his booth.

“I’ve got this.” Squatting, I grab the loose change and place it in his hand. “Would you like some eggs, toast, bacon? Maybe some hash browns or waffles?”

His face seems conflicted.

“It’s on the house,” I assure him.

“Thank you.” His eyes crinkle, wetness glistening in the corners. “You’re an angel.”

Smiling, I flip his cup over and pour some steaming coffee inside. “Would you like anything else to drink?”

“No, this is great.” His wrinkled hands close over mine. “Thank you.”

Fifteen minutes later, and the old man says a prayer over the delicious breakfast placed in front of him. The counter glistens where I drag a rag across it, watching the old man. I’m not any closer to paying my rent, but it feels good to help somebody in need.

When the old man leaves, those warm fuzzy feelings vanish. Nick, my boss and the owner of the diner, stalks out of the back office.

“Did that man not pay?” He points toward the door. His hefty six-foot frame gets me nervous. “I didn’t see you ring him up.”

I step back, biting my lip. “I told him it was on the house.”

“On the house? Whose house? Not my house.” Nick jams his thumb at his chest and takes a step toward me, causing me to retreat. “That’s the same as stealing.”

“Sorry. You can take it out of my paycheck,” I plead.

“Oh, I will. Yourlastpaycheck. Get the hell out. You’re fired.”

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