Page 2 of Knotty New Year

My mind spun. “Extra… bonus?”

“Yes, the ten thousand dollars. The holiday pay.” Picking up a tablet from a nearby credenza, she opened a document. “Here is the NDA; please sign it now. It’s standard,” she grumbled as I attempted to read the impossibly tiny text.

I signed with my index finger on the tablet, fumbling as I tried to juggle it with the baby monitor. “The child, Mr. Paxson’s nephew. Benjamin? He’s here for how long?” It was unorthodox for a PA to do the sort of care she was asking for.

“Almost two weeks. While his mother and father are out of the country, until New Year’s Day. It’s Mr. Paxson’s Christmas gift to his sister, Lindyann.” She frowned, her dark eyebrows drawing together as she tapped away on the tablet.

I could hear the distant chords of a familiar lullaby from the plastic monitor in my hand. “I’m sorry, but… who exactly do you think I am?”

The woman’s head snapped up, her watery blue eyes filling with suspicion. “Youarefrom the Blue Skies Concierge Agency, yes? Theodore Sands set up the placement, at my request.”

I forced a cool smile. “Blue Skies, yes. That’s the agency that sent me here.”

The woman’s long nose seemed to get longer as she stared down at me. “You’re very young.”

“I’m twenty-four,” I told her, “and if you’ve seen my résumé, you’ll know that I have experience working with—” She cut me off with a tsk.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re a very acceptable betasitter.” She checked the tablet again. “Right, Mr. Paxson’s PA now has the NDA. He already has your details. You have your instructions. I have to be at the airport in thirty minutes, so I’ll leave you here—”

I skidded to a stop as her words registered. “Wait, abetasitter?” My voice sounded like a rubber duck being stepped on. “I’m here for the PA spot, I think? For Mr. Paxson.”

“Oh… no.” Her face went pale. “The PA spot was filled last week, by Mr. Sands. The one who called on behalf of Mr. Paxson yesterday. You’re the nanny. Well, the replacement nanny.” She stared down at her tablet again, then back at me, looking like she was about to faint, so I reached out to grab her arm. “Oh god, you haven’t had the background checks run. You don’t have a degree in childcare. If you’re not a betasitter, I can’tleave.”

“I’m so sorry,” I gasped, as the severe woman began crying.

“It’s my mother. She’s in the hospital in Madrid…”

The corners of my lips trembled in sympathy. “Well, you’re going to make it. You’re going to see her for Christmas,” I said firmly. “And don’t worry. I have years of experience with children. My résumé for betasitting is even more extensive than my office work.” It was true; back when everyone had thought I was a beta, I’d had constant requests to betasit for the families in our upscale neighborhood. It was only after I perfumed as an omega that the requests stopped. No one wanted an unattached omega in their homes, tempting their menfolk with wicked wiles and sexy smells.

“I can’t,” she said, her tone thick with pain and resignation. “I’ll have to call my family and let them know.”

Before I could think better, I did something truly shameful. I placed my hand gently on top of hers and sent a wave of what I called my “omega whammy” in her direction. “No, Mrs. Vincad. Go to your mother. I promise, I have this under control.”

Alphas had a forceful, powerful pheromone that could make grown-ass adults pee their pants. They could growl and bark and do all sorts of things to get their way. Omegas had the same skill, but expressed differently. We could soothe and calm with a touch and a word.

It came in handy when omegas got pulled over for speeding. Not that I had ever used it that way more than once. Or twice.

“Are you sure?” Her gaze skated over my outfit, like she could tell I was dressed in my mom’s work clothes. “What’s that delicious smell?”

I wiped some crumbs off my top, laughing nervously.Crap.Using my omega whammy had overwhelmed the blockers, making my scent leak a bit. “A little of my breakfast custard tart, I’d imagine. So sorry.” I nodded briskly, competently, adult-ly, when Mrs. Vincad’s eyes narrowed. So I sent another wave of my mojo at her. Her eyes went slightly cloudy.Oof. Maybe too much.“You can call Blue Skies now and ask them to send over my childcare résumé.” My nonexistent one. I lifted an eyebrow, trying to imitate the expression my friend Rain called “Let Me Talk to Your Manager.” It worked.

In ten minutes, I was alone in a massive kitchen with a monitor in one hand and a manual that read more like a contract than babysitting instructions. Hearing some cooing on the tiny speaker, I dropped it into my enormous purse, filled with everything I could possibly need for a long weekend, other than a change of clothes. But I was set if I got stranded in an airport, or in case of a sudden zombie apocalypse. My friends could laugh at me, but I’d told them my preparedness would be why we survived. I probably had enough candy and energy bars in there for a month.

“Upstairs, she said,” I muttered, rounding a corner to where I assumed the stairs would be. “But which stairs?” I scanned my surroundings, humming the Christmas song that had been playing on the radio on my way over. “Okay, Candy, if you were a nursery, where would you be?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” A deep voice had me looking up. And up.

And up.

Standing not three feet in front of me was Nicholas Paxson. Six foot, seven inches of muscles and power, wrapped in navy dress trousers and a crisp white shirt, undone at the collar. The open buttons revealed a triangle of tanned skin that for some reason I wanted to lick more than any ice cream cone I’d ever held in my life.

“I bet you taste like chocolate,” I whispered.

He made a low, strange growling sound, like a motor had started up in his chest. I blinked. Was he purring?

A wave of…somethingwashed over me—heat? Lust?—and I felt my knees go dangerously weak.

He had mahogany hair that was sculpted into a wave over his forehead, and the tiniest bit of salt and pepper at his temples. His cheeks above the trimmed, dark beard were tanned, as if he spent most of his time outside or on a boat, and his deep brown eyes had lines at the corners. His suit was cut perfectly, but the body beneath it was too muscular to be concealed, and I could see his thighs flex as he shifted his weight.

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