Page 15 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

The memory of last night's passion is a full-body ache, but it's drowned out by the hurt of his abandonment years ago. Every inch of me knows I shouldn't want him here, shouldn't want to feel anything for him. But damn, it’s hard to ignore the pull.

I swing the door open, my breath catching in my throat, but not in the way I expected. Instead of the familiar, heart-wrenching green eyes and tousled brown curls I had braced myself for, I find myself staring at a broad chest in an impeccably tailored suit.

My gaze travels up—slowly, involuntarily—until I meet icy blue eyes that flash with heat before quickly cooling. It's a look I’m coming to know all too well.

Austin Rhodes.

"Skylar," he says, his voice clipped, professional.

I blink, suddenly very aware of my state of undress, my cheeks flushing. "Austin? What are you doing here?"

His jaw tightens as his gaze sweeps over me, lingering a moment too long on my bare legs before snapping back to my face. "May I come in?"

I hesitate, acutely aware of the mess behind me—the half-empty wine glass on the coffee table, the mismatched couch pillows, the clutter scattered around like I’ve given up on life for a while now. And my appearance...let's not even go there.

“Um, sure. Just...give me a second.”

As I turn to grab a sweatshirt, I catch a glimpse of his face. Is that a smirk? Great.

I tug on an oversized sweatshirt, grateful for the extra coverage, and brush my hair back from my face with a hasty hand. It’s not like I’m trying to impress him—hell, I don't even care what he thinks, but a little dignity wouldn’t hurt. “Okay, come in,” I say, stepping aside.

Austin enters, his presence immediately filling the small space, his polished shoes clicking on the hardwood floor with an unnatural precision. He looks around, taking in the modest furnishings, the pile of books on my coffee table, the dusty window with half-drawn curtains. I resist the urge to straighten up.

"Nice place," he says, though his tone suggests otherwise. It’s not insulting, just...clinical. Detached. It’s the way he seems to talk about everything—like he’s dissecting it, trying to make sense of it.

I cross my arms, a knee-jerk defense mechanism. "Thanks. I'm sure it's a far cry from your mansion, but it suits me just fine."

He turns to face me, his expression unreadable. "I have a proposition for you."

My eyebrows shoot up. "A proposition? Should I be flattered or worried?"

A flicker of something—amusement?—crosses his face before disappearing. "It's a job offer, actually. I need a temporary nanny for my son. And for my niece."

I blink, caught off guard. "A nanny? Me?"

"Yes, you," he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. "It would be for a few weeks, a live-in position, with a generous salary."

My mind races, trying to process what he’s saying. A nanny? For his kid? The idea is absurd, but...the promise of financial stability is tempting. Especially after Birdie's news...and the bills that seem to keep multiplying in my inbox.

"I don't know, Austin," I hedge. "I'm not exactly Mary Poppins material."

He shrugs. "You don't need to be. You just need to be responsible and keep him safe. You’re an elementary school teacher, so presumably you can manage such a feat."

I chew my lip, considering. The money would solve a lot of problems, but living in Austin's house? Being around him every day? It sounds like a recipe for disaster. But then I think about my dwindling bank account and the uncertain future looming ahead.

I take a deep breath. "Okay. I'll do it. But I’ll be living here for now."

Austin nods, looking oddly relieved. His gaze sweeps over me, his eyes lingering a moment too long on my chest. I resist the urge to cross my arms.

"Get dressed," he says, his voice clipped, almost impatient. "We're heading to the house. You need to meet Cohen, my brother. He's Elodie's father."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and arch an eyebrow. "Right now?"

"Yes, right now," he replies, his tone brooking no argument. “Is that a problem, trouble?”

As he strides out, I roll my eyes at his back. Who died and made him king?

I trudge to my bedroom, muttering under my breath. "Sure, Your Highness. Whatever you say."

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