Page 1 of The Billionaire and the Nanny: Part 2

Bailey

The big day is here—myfirst interview as a prospective nanny.

I finally arrive at the law office on the sixteenth floor of this towering Manhattan skyscraper and have to take a deep breath before pushing the dooropen.

Why is my interview at a law office anyway? From what I’ve gathered, most nanny interviews are handled at the household…or a coffee shop, at the very least.

As I enter the lobby, several other women all look up at me. It’s clear we’re here for the same job. The wealthy clients of Le Nanny (the agency who I am affiliated with) can be notoriously picky. So it isn’t a given that I will simply walk in the door and snag this cushygig.

I’m going to have to somehow impress this client, despite the fact that I surely have less experience than all of my competition. My stomach does a flip and I feel sweat break out on my forehead.

Shit. This isn’t going to be easy, isit?

But then again, nothing in New York City is easy. If I wanted easy, I could have stayed back in my tiny little town in Ohio and played it safe. No, I’m here to make a go of it in The Big Apple, and I’m not going to let a little competition scare meoff.

I give the receptionist my name, take a seat, and pull out my iPad to pretend to read. Truth is, I’m too nervous to focus on any words. I really need this job. For myself, to prove I can make it in this city, but also to learn, get my feet wet in the world of children and childcare since I don’t have much experience.

I haven’t received any info about the person hiring, though. The job could be about caring for school aged kids, teens, or it could be for triplets, for all I know. Triplets with powerful vocal chords. All I know is that there’s a lot of money involved. I just hope the family is nice and that they want me, despite the fact that I’ve never done this job before.

After a minute, one of the other girls gets called in, even though I’m on time for my appointment. Clearly, they’re runninglate.

Logging onto the guest wi-fi, I browse articles about self-confidence during interviews. Any last-minute tips would be great. I don’t get to read more than three paragraphs of one article when the first girl who got called in comes out the door, eyes rimmed with pink, dabbing her fingertips to the corners.

Shit. That cannot begood.

I try not to care. Maybe she didn’t have the qualifications, or maybe she was already having a bad morning by the time she was called inside.

The next girl gets called in and also comes out after only a few minutes, giving us all a pale, frightened look and shaking her head as she quickly exits the lobby.

What thehell?

My stomach gives a nervous twist.

The three of us remaining girls exchange looks, as one gets called inside. The rest of the line-up goes the same way with the next two nannies going in and coming out just minutes later looking upset, rattled, and shaken. Who the hell is interviewing them—Godzilla?

No matter. I eat monsters for breakfast.

At least that’s what I keep trying to tell myself, to pump up my quickly fraying confidence.

Now I am definitely sweating, and my mouth is parched. Why is it that the one place I could use some moisture is suddenly bone dry, and the places I don’t want any moisture are basically drippingwet?

Finally, it’s my turn. The slinky gazelle-like receptionist leads me to a room, pushes the door open, and announces my arrival. “The last one of the morning, Mr. Hawthorn.”

“Thank you,” a deep, sexy voice says from inside theroom.

My stomach shoots into my throat, but I push away my nerves. I am ready. I am smart and qualified, I am... Holy crap. I nearly falter over a plushy rug at myfeet.

There’s a man sitting in a rich leather chair and staring at me in a way that I’ve never been looked at before in mylife.

Not just any man—a tall, handsome, well-put-together god of musk and sex in a dark gray suit. The kind of man you never see until you move out of the Midwest and come to New York City for the first time. And even in this city full of the swankiest of the swanky, this guy is on a whole other level.

For one thing, he’s hot asfuck.

Striking clear blue eyes hold my gaze. A chiseled jaw with just the right amount of stubble juts confidently, while plush, full lips make me shiver at the thought of feeling that mouth all over mybody…

In that moment, I absorb all sorts of information about him: he’s almost thirty, rich, he knows this city like the back of his hand, and…he’s been with hundreds of women. I’m not sure how I know these things, except that they exude from his pores. The information leaks from the fibers of his being. There’s no way God can grace anyone with those cheekbones, lips, and magnetic stare and not be all those things. There’s noway.

Strong, confident, full of himself, powerful. He breaks off that intimidating stare and then glances over my file. “Bailey Rainville?” heasks.

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