Page 4 of Triplet Trouble For My Billionaire Boss

Warm, inviting light glows through the windows. The driveway is lined with flowers and greens of some sort, which I can only see because of lights running along the borders and leading me across the property.

The driveway takes me past the who-knows-how-many-car garage that is an extension of the house and deposits me in front of the grand staircase that sweeps up to the entrance, which is flanked by large urns overflowing with even more flowers.

The double doors are dark and imposing as I pull to a stop in front of the staircase.

It’s somehow not at all, yet in some ways exactly, what I expect of the home of Cole Wagner.

I have no idea where I’m supposed to park, so I just leave it where it is on the driveway and step out. The house seems somehow even bigger once I’m outside of the car.

Nerves hit me full force as I stand there and stare at the front door.

What am I doing here? I’m a receptionist, not a nanny. I know next to nothing about kids, let alone how to babysit one. But Cole’s offer was too goodto refuse, and honestly, I couldn’t say no to him even if I tried. The man has a way of making you feel like his problems are your problems.

Taking a deep breath, I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder and smooth my skirt before reluctantly taking the first step up to the massive double doors.

Up close, the house looks even more perfect, like something out of a glossy magazine. I feel like I’ve just stepped onto a movie set.

Before I can even knock, the door opens, and I’m greeted by a woman in her 40s with brown hair neatly pinned back and sharp brown eyes that size me up in a split second. She’s dressed in a sleek black dress and heels and seems a bit frazzled but acts like she’s trying to stay calm.

“You must be Annie. I was notified by the gate that you were here,” she says briskly, stepping aside to let me in. “Come in, come in.”

I step into the entry way, my breath catching as I take in my surroundings.

The interior is as polished as the exterior—sleek marble floors, high ceilings, and an open staircase that spirals elegantly upward. Everything is pristine, from the massive chandelier overhead to the expensive looking artwork lining the walls.

“I’m Evelyn. I work the kitchen here,” the woman continues, closing the door behind me.

“I’dgive you a proper tour, but my husband and I have a show to catch.” She checks her watch, muttering something under her breath. “I’ll introduce you to Robbie, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Of course,” I manage to say, clutching my bag a little tighter. My heels click against the marble as I follow her through the house, trying not to gawk at the sheer luxury of it all.

“Now,” Evelyn says briskly, glancing over her shoulder at me, “there are a few things you should know.”

“Sure,” I say, adjusting the strap of my bag.

“Robbie’s a sweet boy,” she begins. “Quiet, polite. But he’s five, so he can get a little... energetic if he’s overtired. I’ve already taken care of his dinner and bathed him, so he’s ready for bed when the time comes.”

I nod, keeping pace with her as we move deeper into the house.

“After dinner, he usually has about an hour of playtime—he loves his dinosaurs, so be prepared for a bit of a prehistoric show-and-tell,” she adds with a small smirk.

“That sounds manageable,” I say, though I feel a flicker of nervousness. What if I screw up somehow?

Evelyn stops abruptly, turning to face me. “One rule—Robbie doesn’t watch TV or play on tablets before bed. It winds him up too much. From now until eight, he can watch TV and have two small snacks. The only sugary snack he can have is a pack of fruit snacks, otherwise, he’ll never get to sleep. Other thanthat, he can have popcorn or a bag of chips while watching TV. Anything without sugar and nothing after eight.”

“Got it,” I reply, trying to absorb everything at once.

“At eight, he brushes his teeth, which he can do on his own. Then it’s straight to bed for a bedtime story and lights out at eight-thirty.”

She studies me for a moment, her sharp brown eyes narrowing slightly. “If there’s an emergency, you can reach me or Ellis. He’s the head-of-household. Only contact Mr. Wagner as a last resort. I’ve left the contact information for you in the foyer. Oh, and one last thing: Rexy.”

I blink. “Rexy?”

“His stuffed dinosaur,” Evelyn explains. “If he doesn’t have Rexy when he goes to bed, it’s a whole ordeal. Make sure it’s within arm’s reach before he settles in.”

“Got it,” I repeat, feeling overwhelmed. He was one five-year-old. How hard could it be?

How bad would it really be if I messed up while babysitting the CEO’s son?

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