Page 7 of The Billionaire and the Nanny

“Nothing, only that we’re late a couple of mortgage payments. The Etsy store isn’t bringing in enough money, your dad has been searching for something better, and I know I’m going to have to start looking for something full-time.”

“Ugh, Mom. I’m so sorry.”

My mother has been running an Etsy store of handmade scarves, which are absolutely beautiful, but not enough people appreciate artistry like hers, making for difficult bill-paying. “I’ll send you money as soon as I get paid,” I tell her, thinking how much it sucks to keep giving away half my paycheck. At this rate, I’ll never be able to pay for my winter semester.

I look around at the stylish furnishings, the mansion I get to live in, and feel guilty. My family needs the money more than I do. If I can stay employed by Ethan Townsend, thatis.

“I didn’t want to worry you, Penelope, but I didn’t want to keep secrets from you either. You don’t have to send money. Well, maybe just a little to get us by. I’ll get a job by the end of the week, if it killsme.”

“What about thekids?”

“Patty can take care of Callie, and Nancy next door can watch Brandon, since she has two boys anyway. Don’t worry, we’ll make it work somehow.”

“Don’t worry” is my mom’s favorite phrase, and it does little to soothe my worries.

After hanging up, I move to the window and gaze out upon New York City at night. It’s then that I notice I have a balcony. An actual balcony facing the city. How did I not notice this before? Oh, yes, three busy days of child-care.

I open the French door and stand outside in the cool air. The full moon is out, absolutely gorgeous, and again, I feel guilty for having a view such as this. I hope things get better for my family. I get to look out upon Central Park and take care of a delightful little baby. It’s a blessing to give back to my family.

Lying in bed, I have trouble falling asleep. New surroundings, new sounds, and besides, I’m used to sleeping with very little on, but with Ethan Townsend set to come home any moment now, I’m wide awake. I wonder if he’ll go straight to the kitchen and living room like he usually does, or if he’ll go to his bedroom, which is on the other side of this wing. I know he never stops by to see Lilly Belle, which saddens me. Remembering his rule about keeping the door locked, I get up and follow orders then head for the bathroom.

Such a strangeman.

But I have to remember what Wilson told me—his childhood upbringing wasn’t ideal. Something made him this way. I only wish I knew what that was. It’d help me understand him better.

I shuffle barefoot to the bathroom to rub water on my face. Maybe the cool air drifting through the slightly open French door will evaporate the moisture, creating a soothing effect. I still remember long nights as a child when I was sick, and my mother used to cool me off with a damp washcloth. Between that and her singing, I’d fall asleep right away. It’s worth ashot.

I return to bed and lie there staring up at the ceiling, my legs stretched out and my arms on either side. The chilly air works its magic, and I begin drifting off, thinking about the day, Ethan’s demands, his angular handsome face, his terrible attitude, and how mysterious he is. Does he ever have relationships? I wonder how a woman would get along withhim.

But I keep coming back to Wilson saying there are other sides to him, which intriguesme.

Somewhere in the house, I hear footsteps. Wilson went home several hours ago, so it must be Ethan coming home fromwork.

After a while, I hear careful footsteps moving up the stairs. I don’t bother covering up, because I’m locked in my room, just like he demanded I be. For a moment, I allow myself to fantasize that I left the door open, that he comes in and sees me in my undies. And thenwhat?

Would he yell at me? Would I beg him not to fire me by sucking hiscock?

Jesus, Penelope, get a freakin’ grip.

Suddenly, I hear what sounds like a handle turning. I startle and sit up in bed, drawing the sheets up to my chin. But I locked the door. I know I did! I stare at the door but it doesn’t open and neither is the handle turning. Am I imagining it? I stand to double-check the lock but before I can test it, I see him standing in the bathroom doorway.

My heart stops. I can barely breathe. I wrap my arms around my torso, fighting off sudden chills. “Mr. Townsend…”

“I thought I told you to keep the door locked at night,” he growls, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeved shirt and rolling them up. He has tattoos on his forearms.

“I—but I did. This door is…how did you…” The bathroom. He came in through the bathroom’s second door—not the one to the bedroom, but the one to the hallway. Damn it. I’m so stupid. “I’m so sorry. That was my fault.”

“Indeed it was your fault, Miss Wallach.” He crosses his arms and gazes at my body in the feeble moonlight coming in through the French door. “And why is that dooropen?”

“I like the breeze at night. I can close it, though, if you want. I’m so sorry…” I make for the door, but he stopsme.

“No, leave it. It’s fine. I like what it does toyou.”

Does tome?

His gaze falls to my chest, and I know that my nipples are hard and aching. I don’t stop to think about it often, because I’m so busy surviving life, but I need a man. Sometimes I feel my body will explode. Ethan steps into the room and looks around, as if to see what I’ve been up to. I don’t know what it is about him, but he makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong even when I haven’t. I feel naughty in his presence, and though I didn’t have an aggressive father growing up, I feel like he’s going to spank me for being insolent.

Isn’t that what he called me on Monday? Something about impertinent?

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