Page 43 of The Billionaire and the Nanny: Part 2

“You’ll always be my princess.” He says this in the most dad way, without fanfare, kisses, or strokes of my hair. Just the same way he might say that a package arrived on the doorstep forme.

I look up at him and crack a smile. “Thanks.”

He sighs, sniffs around like the air in my room is stale. “Joe’s coming over. We’re going to work on a headboard-footboard combo. Want to helpus?”

Ugh. Not really. But I get it—I have to get out of this room and do something with my life. I’m not ready, but I suppose sanding a few spindles won’t kill me. “Sure, be there soon,” I say, but I take my time walking out there.

The nice thing about my dad’s garage workshop is that it’s a toasty seventy degrees all through winter. The house might be frozen, but that’s because my mom and dad agree that most of the heat needs to be where the wood is. Uncle Joe is there, my dad’s hulking huge “little” brother. He gives me a hug and starts asking a bunch of questions about the “Big Apple,” but my answers come out as mostly grunts.

Soon, I’m sitting at a stool sanding wood while my dad and uncle cut the bigger pieces. The repetition of the action feels comforting, actually, and I get lost in my thoughts. They say you shouldn’t distract yourself from your pain, that you should fully embrace it, live in it, own it so you can get over it faster. I know someone whose name starts with Z that could use this advice. Though I still don’t know exactly what made him the way he is, I know that he needs to face it head-on or risk living in pain forever.

Once my uncle leaves, and it’s just me and Dad working together, he mutters something about “that boy” being stupid. I half tune in, because I know that they were talking about Joe’s ex and I didn’t want to hear it, but I’m surprised by my dad’s take on the matter.

“Guys can be stupid, Bale. It takes them time sometimes to realize what they got. Youknow?”

Is he talking about me? About me and Zayden? I think he is, and I appreciate that he’s disguising it as being about my uncle. I justnod.

“Otherwise, they feel rushed. Pushed into something they’re not ready for. That’s your uncle Joe alright. A proper moron.” He laughs to himself then turns on the buzzsaw, slicing our quiet moment of reflection inhalf.

Is he saying that Zayden is a moron?

I would have to agree withthat.

And that’s why I love mydad.

* * *

I’ve been homesix weeks. Now it’s mid-March and spring is around the corner. The snow is beginning to melt. I even hear a bird or two outside my window in the mornings. In the evenings, people are actually going back outside to what few bars and restaurants we have in Perrysburg. An old friend from elementary school, Jessie, is in town for Spring Break and calls to see if I want to go out with her and a friend ofhers.

I really don’t want to, but I know I haveto.

I have to prove to myself that I’m capable of healing. Even though I’m still in love with Zayden Hawthorn, still stalking his social media online and scouring for any news or images of him or the baby I can find. Nothing on Olivia. Face it, Bailey, you’ll never see her again. It was just a job. The sooner you see it that way, the happier you’llbe.

Going out in Perrysburg, Ohio is nothing like going out in Manhattan.

You have two bars to choose from and both of them are mostly empty. You’d never know they’re crappy places judging from how much fun the customers are having inside the joint, playing pool and laughing over beers like it’s the best thing ever, but I shouldn’t judge. At least they’re out enjoying themselves, unlikeme…

On a barstool, Jessie wants to know all about New YorkCity.

“It’s big,” I tellher.

“But the men must be hot, aren’t they? With their fancy suits and their perfecthair?”

I don’t tell her that the guy I “dated” almost fits that description 100%. “They’re alright. Too neurotic forme.”

“But sexy,” she adds with an arch of her sculpted eyebrow.

“Sexy and neurotic. Yep, you got it.” I slam down half my beer. I so don’t want to talk about this. But too late, because now the bar is starting to fill up some more, and soon, we’re surrounded by more of Jessie’s friends who just happen to be all guys who clearly don’t work out. Not that I’m judging.

One of them, Trace, smiles and inches over to me. He’s skinny with loose brown hair over dark eyes and a habit of pushing it back off his face. “You’re Bailey, right? I remember you. I moved here back in middle school. You probably don’t remember.”

“Oh, right! Hey,” I say, but he’s right. I totally don’t remember.

But the more beers I order, the more Trace keeps talking, the more I nod my head, and by the end of the night, he suddenly moves in for akiss.

Even as drunk as I am, I manage to turn my lips away so he hits my cheek.

He pulls back to see how I liked it. I shake my head to let him know it’s not going to happen, and he shrugs, moving onto someoneelse.

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