Page 1 of Nanny for My Billionaire

Prologue - Melissa

IstareattheHR rep at our door and my hand flies up to cover my racing heart. The words coming out of his mouth sound strange, like he’s speaking through a long tube.

Guilt slams into me as I comprehend the words. My dad, an international pilot, is dead. Only a few days ago, when I finished my freshman year at Syracuse Business College, he offered to bring me along to France with him before I headed back to Concord, Massachusetts, for my summer break at home.

If I had agreed to be on his flight instead of telling him I would rather just head home, I would have died too.

“We don’t have an official report yet,” the man explains, “but there was some sort of a malfunction shortly after takeoff from Paris-Orly Airport, and the plane turned around but unfortunately there was no avoiding the fatality when it struck the runway.” I’m conscious of my sister Megan clutching my arm.

I can’t stop visualizing myself being in that plane, and I can’t scold myself enough for thinking about that. About how glad I am to still be alive.

“I know this is a devastating loss,” he adds. “The airline is more than happy to help you in any way we can. If you want to go to grief counseling, we’ll provide the means.” He keeps talking, but I don’t really hear him.

We don’t need counseling, we have each other, I think, though I still can’t seem to speak. My sister Megan says exactly what I’m thinking, and I’m grateful to know we’re so much in sync.

Although we grew up in Concord, a small historical town just outside of Boston, our father commuted to Logan International Airport for his flights because he loved the old Victorian mansion he and our mom bought, and he hadn’t wanted to move when she died of cancer five years ago.

Megan is four years older than me, so she’s probably the one who ought to be talking to the HR rep anyway. They schedule a meeting at the office of the executor of Dad’s will, and three days later everything is arranged, including a funeral for our father once his remains have been shipped home.

At the meeting, it was no great surprise that my sister and I inherited the grand old mansion along with all the antiques our parents had collected to fill it with. My father also had a life insurance policy that went to us, but the bulk of that money was used to pay off the rest of the mortgage before we ever received a dime.

So, I had a guaranteed roof over my head forever, but inside my heart was screaming at another loss. Without my father’s income, Megan and I would have to work hard to pay the bills. There was no college fund that would allow me to return to Syracuse for three more years so I could earn the specialized IT degree that I’d selected. If I don’t think of something, my whole future will shatter and fall firmly down at my feet.

The only way I’ll get a degree now will be to find work. If I can find a position as a nanny, I can pay my tuition and also have a place to live. Once the funeral is over, I go onto the school website to look for the perfect job, and I find it. I’ll be working as a nanny for a couple with three kids. In three years, their youngest son will turn fifteen and probably no longer need a nanny, so the timing itself is perfect.

“They say they’ll cover all my tuition and provide a generous allowance in exchange for care and a bit of tutoring,” I tell Megan. “September is all set up for me.”

“I’m so glad, Missy,” she says, smiling. “We were all so excited for you to get your degree and come back to use it to open some sort of business around here.”

“You know I never promised to live in Concord after I got my degree, Sis,” I remind her. “Of course, maybe I could work someplace nearby like Dad did. I don’t mind a bit of a drive.”

“That’s true, it worked well enough for him,” she agrees.

We spend most of the summer mourning, but with just a week left to go before I’m meant to go back to New York, Megan puts her head together with our mutual bestie, Sara Barlow, and the two of them decide the best way to pull us up out of our depression is to throw a party. I think throwing a party just a couple months after the death of our father is a terrible and disrespectful idea, but as usual my opinion is dismissed because I’m the ‘baby’ of the bunch. I’m only twenty, while Megan is twenty-four and Sara is twenty-two. I’ve never quite worked out why that’s a thing, but it never seems to change so I’m pretty much forced to just go with it.

I suppose I am a bit of a pushover.

I can’t blame them, though, really. We’re young, it’s summer, and we’ve got this huge, gorgeous house to do with whatever we will. How can we not succumb to the temptation to cheer ourselves up by inviting over about fifty people who could help us cut loose for once in our lives? When the party is in full swing, about half of the people there are women, and about half of those women are young and single. Sara brought along her brother, Adam, who is about fifteen years older than me, and also super-hot. I can remember that he went off to California several years ago to study under a master chef.

From what I hear, he’s got money of his own. A couple years ago, before he finished culinary school, I saw him on a magazine cover. Seems he and a college roommate made some game like Dungeons & Dragons, and when the first one was successful, they made a few more. Adam’s no programmer, so his contributions must have had more to do with creating the stories. Anyway, nobody ever talks about his money, but he doesn’t have to work unless he wants. to. The whole cooking thing is more of a passion.

He was eventually meant to come back to work at his father’s five-star restaurant midway between Concord and Boston, but before he made the decision to do that he’d met and married some actress. Last year the woman asked him for a divorce, saying that he was holding her back in her career. Sara had told me that Gena had only ever landed bit parts or commercials, but I could hardly believe that was Adam’s fault. It was probably more likely that Gena Conway was a sucky actress and also a sucky wife. She did manage to give Adam a set of twin boys a couple of years ago, but she had blocked most of his efforts to visit them over the greater part of a year since he’d returned to Concord.

Of course, the last time I’d ever seen Adam myself I was only a little kid, since he’d left town when I was really young, seldom visited, and finally returned while I was away at school. I have to admit, I don’t remember the guy being so hot, but it’s not like I would have noticed something like that when I was barely out of toddler-hood.

Still, right now I’m twenty, and I sure as hell notice it. The Barlow siblings both have dark hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. Adam is a surprise. He has a touch of gray and I think it’s sexy as hell. He also seems quite tall, but maybe I just think so because I’m not. He’s got a bit of stubble on his chin, but I suspect he shaves before he goes in to cook. I don’t know what kind of food he made in California, but working for his father in a five-star Italian restaurant, I’m sure he does what he needs to before he goes there to create his culinary masterpieces.

I can’t help wondering what he sees when he looks at me. Am I just Sara’s little friend, or has he noticed yet that I’m all grown up? At twenty, I’m still hopeful that I’ll gain a few bra sizes and a bit more curve in my backside, but at least I’ve filled out enough that I no longer look like a gangly twelve-year-old. My hair is long and a sandy brown color that goes well with my deep brown eyes. Tonight, I took a curling iron to it, but I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if after an hour in a room full of people it’s once again started to droop.

“Ladies, I really could use your help,” Sara suddenly announces to the room at large. “The single ladies, that is. My dear brother has been divorced nearly a year already, but he’s still never even glanced at a woman since he came home. Now, I’m not saying that any of you would have to do anything sexy, but I want to play a little game. One spin of the bottle, and whoever the thing lands on spends one hour in the guest room with Adam. You have to at least talk to each other, and neither of you can leave until the time is up. If you agree to those rules, get into the circle and let’s see how it goes.”

Adam frowns. “What ifIdon’t agree?”

Sara scoffs. “Dude, what’ll it hurt? It’s not like you’re doing anything but standing against the wall and watching people anyway. You might even feel happier to be one-on-one.”

He leans against the wall and crosses his arms. “Okay, fine. Whatever it’ll take to get you off my case.”

I snicker. “I thought chefs were supposed to like people.”

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