Page 4 of The Biker Needs A Nanny

Fifteen minutes later, she pulls to the side of the road near a mailbox.

There’s a little red car parked next to it.

I peer down the driveway and see a nice house and the blue water of the bay beyond it. “Well, here goes nothing.” I climb from the car, and Cindy leans over.

“I’ll wait to see if you get in.”

“Thanks.”

Tall pines sway overhead, and closer to the house, two palmettos sit on either side of the wide staircase that leads a fewfeet up to a cream brick house with a covered veranda and pretty double doors.

I walk toward it, the crushed shells of the driveway crunching under my feet.

The door opens, and a girl about my age storms out. She’s got long, straight blonde hair to her waist, a mini skirt, and a short denim jacket on. She turns and flips off a man who stands in the doorway.

His eyes move past her to me, and he pauses in the doorway. The blonde reaches me, her eyes giving me the once over.

“Honey, if you’re here for the nanny position, don’t bother. He’s the world’s biggest asshole,” she warns.

Everything in me wilts. Ineedthis job. And if it comes with a place to live, it would be perfect. And living by the bay would be a dream. How bad can the man be? I’ve put up with bad bosses before.

Gripping my bag tighter, I keep walking, taking in the man as I approach. He’s tall and muscular with dark hair and a close-cut beard, but it’s those hawkish eyes that drag me under.

“That didn’t scare you off?” he snaps.

I shake my head. “I need the job.”

“She’s the sixth one to walk out,” he warns.

“Then I’ll be lucky number seven,” I say with all the positive energy I can muster. Standing at the bottom of the steps and gripping tightly to my bag, I wait like Mary Poppins came calling.

His gaze drags over me, his eyes narrowing. “Any experience with kids?”

“I raised my brothers and sisters. Does that count?” It’s notexactlya lie.

“How many?”

“Five.”

“You’re hired.”

My entire being lights up, and I want to jump with joy. “Really? Thank you.”

Tires squeal as the last applicant peels out, and he looks toward the road, then lifts his chin. “That your ride?”

I turn to see Cindy idling. I give her a thumbs up. “Yes, she was waiting to see if I make it in the door.”

“Well, come on,” he steps back, tapping his foot.

I wave her off with a big smile, my body buzzing with excitement.

“I haven’t got all day,” he snaps, and I hurry up the steps and in the door.

He slams it, and the glass rattles.

I glance around. The place has a British Colonial Plantation feel to it, like something you’d find in Bermuda or the Bahamas. The floors are wide plank with a dark satin polish. Crown molding and plantation shutters all speak of money—all except the furniture, which looks more modern and chosen for comfort rather than style.

I follow him to a dining room situated off the foyer to the left. He plops in a chair, and I notice a framed photo on the buffet. I take a seat diagonally from him.

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