Page 2 of The Nanny Contract

“Casey!” she shouted, opening her arms and waving me over. “You made it past the gnomes!”

Past the gnomes?

I winced at the sound of my car’s squeaking brakes.

No job, no money, no new brakes for my car.

Embarrassing, especially in front of Betsy.

For a woman as wealthy as her, the sound of squealing brakes was probably foreign.

According to the press, her husband Frank passed away a year ago, bequeathing Betsy a six-hundred-million-dollar fortune. Rumor had it that Frank left a note for Betsy, requestingthat she disperse one-hundred-million of the fortune to various family members. Naturally, new Westbrook family members had appeared overnight, coming out of the woodwork and clamoring for a slice of the fortune.

In some ways, I felt bad for Betsy having to constantly deal with sycophants.

Then again, gazing around at her beautiful home and lifestyle, I suspected she was doing just fine.

“Welcome to Westbrook Meadows,” she said, exuding southern charm and grace, as I awkwardly climbed out of my old, beat-up car.

“Don’t worry,” she added, “this place grows on you. Like a fever dream.”

Betsy was a vision of high-society quirkiness. Dressed in a patterned silk caftan, the fabric flowed around her dramatically as she moved, welcoming me to the estate. On her fingers were beautiful rings with different jewels, each like a wearable piece of art. Her hair was pulled up neatly, and she spoke with a slow drawl that immediately made me feel at ease.

“And it looks like Logan is right on time too,” she said with a smile and a knowing tone, pointing behind me. “As usual.”

I turned and saw a black Rolls Royce Phantom winding down the driveway. It was the kind of car that cost ten years of my salary, driven by a sharply dressed chauffeur with a black hat and white gloves. The car rolled to a stop and out jumped Henry wearing baggy jeans and a sweater with holes and various paint stains.

No pretense from this kid, I thought.

Henry breezed past us with a casual hello, headphones covering his ears.

Next, Logan Westbrook stepped out. At first glance, he was clearly the kind of man who could stop a room with his presence alone. Tall and broad shouldered in his custom-tailored suit, heseemed like someone who was accustomed to taking charge of tense situations. He scanned the area as if looking for his next task.

Effortlessly commanding, he carried himself with a quiet intensity that hinted at inner strength and fortitude.

Logan walked over and extended his arm to shake my hand.

“Mr. Grant,” he said, professional from the start. “Thank you for coming in.”

“My pleasure.”

His smile was tight, his tone was measured, and his handshake was firm. “I’m sure my mother has already given you the full welcome?”

I nodded politely.

I had to admit, Logan Westbrook was handsome. His sharp jawline was dusted with a hint of stubble, framing a face that was rugged yet refined, and his dark hair was impeccably neat.

I had expected nothing less from someone with the Westbrook name.

Polished and perfect.

Logan’s eyes were stormy gray with flecks of blue, and I immediately picked up on the contrast between his formality and Betsy’s nonchalance.

Before either of us could say anything else, Logan’s phone rang, stealing his focus.

He answered the call, nodded at the two of us, then walked inside.

I instantly felt Betsy’s hand on my back.

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