Page 1 of The Billionaire & the Nanny: Vol. 3

Paisley

B arfingbefore any big interview sucks .

Barfing on the doorstep of the ultra-fancy penthouse belonging to Logan Raider, the hot billionaire who owns this building, who’ll be letting me into his home in a minute and staring at me with his famous silver eyes, would be tragic .

I suck in a deep breath. “You can do this, Paisley. Be chipper. Be pleasant. Be brilliant .”

When I moved to New York City six months ago with my bestie, Caitlyn Summers, I agreed to work for Le Nanny as an intermediary while planning domination in the world of accounting. It’d be a good way to save money for my own apartment while starting a small business. I expected my first client to be a yoga-pant wearing rich mother. I expected a cozy home, Pinterest-perfect wreath on the door .

I never expected a cold, steely door at the top of a skyscraper in the Financial District .

But two days ago, Logan Raider, billionaire architect and CEO of L.R. Group—the L.R. Group—looked at a line-up of head shots my agent sent him and chose me. Me! Why? Why not Caitlyn who always got picked? Caitlyn, with her long blonde hair and perfect physical aptitude. Caitlyn, who’s never had a problem getting hired by horny dads in need of eye candy .

I’m no eye candy .

I’m as plain as it gets .

In the brains department, I’m all set. I graduated from Syracuse with top honors, plus I have a nice list of small jobs and activities on my résumé. I’ve never worked as a nanny before, but my babysitting references are as solid as they come .

According to my agent, however, Mr. Raider never even looked at my references. He pointed to my photo and said, “This one. Send her Wednesday .”

So, now it’s Wednesday, I’m inside a swanky glass building outside Battery Park and my stomach’s about to lurch. I won’t ring the doorbell until I can speak without losing my breakfast .

I’ll just say it—I’m terrified of Logan Raider .

I’ve spent the last two days researching and studying him to a large degree, and holy shit—he’s swoony and scary at the same time. The man is a self-made billionaire at twenty-eight who also happens to look like every hot movie star you’ve ever seen rolled into one superhunk. As handsome as he is, owning the world’s largest collaborative architectural design firm, you’d think he’d be a playboy surrounded by women at all times. But he stays out of the public eye. From what I’ve read, the man is embroiled in the middle of a nasty divorce and custody case. His ex, Miriam Dange-Raider, can be seen on TV making allegations about him in tearful interviews, and the whole thing reeks of revenge and dirty money .

Problem is, I can’t tell who’s the victim and who’s the jerk in that breakup. And there’s always a true jerk in divorce. Some people say “there’s two sides to every story.” Um, no. My dad’s a divorce lawyer. I can tell you—there’s always a victim and always an asshole. Always .

Not that his divorce matters. I’m only here for the job. If Logan Raider is the asshole, cheater, abusive father, or any of the things his ex-wife says about him, I’ll just keep my distance. All I have to do is take care of his two-year-old fraternal twins, Becca and Price, smile, and save my paycheck. Done .

I blow out another deep breath. Ring the fucking bell already. He’s a person like anybody else. Fine. I ring .

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to make sure it’s not a text from Le Nanny asking me to abort mission and come back to home base, though part of me wishes it were. Instead, it’s from Caitlyn: SO JEALOUS .

“Yeah? If you’re so jealous, come and take my place,” I mutter just as the frosty glass door opens .

An elegant, older woman with pale skin and old lady cleavage stands there watching me talk to myself. “What’s that ?”

“Nothing.” I smile, relieved it’s not the man I came to see. I need a few more minutes to collect myself. “Hi, I’m Paisley Carrington. From Le Nanny? I’m here for the interview with Mr. Raider.” I extend my hand, and it slips into the woman’s .

Her hand feels soft and boneless. “Oh, I thought you weren’t coming. I’ll let Logan know. Just a minute .”

“I apologize for being a few minutes late,” I say .

“No worries. Though you should know, he’s a stickler for punctuality and details. A Virgo…” She mutters behind her hand, like Mr. Raider might be upset to know she’s discussing his astrological sign. From her amazing cheekbones to match his in all the internet images I’ve seen of him, and the way she calls him Logan, so informally, I’m going to assume this is his mother taking care of the children while he works .

She steps aside to let me in .

My feet slide into the most amazing living space of futuristic style and beauty I have ever seen in my entire life. It’s like I’ve stepped into the home of an ambassador on a peaceful, earth-like planet. Glossy white, silver, and pewter tones everywhere, and just beyond, a couple of housekeepers wander about cleaning and carrying things .

Yes, Mr. Raider is, in fact, is a stickler for details. And precision, perfection, and he’s very—very rich. I think I’m going to be sick again .

“Have a seat. I’ll go get him.” She gestures to an all-white living room with furniture I don’t want to get dirty with my simple woman’s clothing and hands. I’m too nervous to sit, so I opt for standing awkwardly next to a sculpture of what appears to be a smooth ebony vagina. The taller of the two housekeepers smiles at me. She wears the classic black dress with white apron. I’m grateful she’s older and not a Playboy bunny .

“Welcome,” she says .

“Thank you.” My heartbeat picks up again. I suck in another calming breath but it’s no use. I was wrong—this man is not like anybody else. He’s in a class all by himself or else the world wouldn’t be so obsessed with him like they are the British Royal Family. He’s like a prince. A prince of New York .

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