by Alexa Hart
Boss Daddy
Hot Bosses Book 3
Alexa Hart
Here are the rules:
1.Don’t hook up with your boss.
2.Really don’t hook up with your boss if he is absolutely filthy rich AND drop dead sexy.
3.NEVER EVER hook up with your boss when you’re hiding a secret even bigger than your billionaire boss’s bank account.
Looks like I’m breaking all my own rules.
Becoming a nanny was never in my plans.
Getting it on with my new, mega hot, ex-military boss…
Also, never in my plans.
One look from him.
One touch.
And my panties are disappearing faster than my better judgement.
Now I’m totally smitten with his sweet daughter.
About to make him a father for the second time.
And he doesn’t even know my real name.
I didn’t know I was capable of a f*ck up of this magnitude.
How can I tell him that the woman he fell in love with doesn’t really exist?
He’ll hate me when he realizes that I’ve been lying to him from day one.
I can’t keep lying forever.
Or can I?
Copyright © 2020 Alexa Hart
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, including photocopying, recording or other
electronic or mechanical methods, without the
prior written permission of the publisher, except
in the case of brief quotations embodied in
critical reviews and certain other noncommercial
uses permitted by copyright law.
For permission requests, foreign and subsidiary
rights, contact the author or her representative
via [email protected]
Passion Pique Publishing
United States
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are
sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or
locales are completely coincidental.
Digital Edition
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Boss Hottie Sneak Peak
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Check out Boss Naughty!
Also by Alexa Hart
About the Author
This book is dedicated to all the hopeless romantics. To the beautiful lovers out there who just want love, plain and simple. Love… wrapped in a delicious, hard as nails, muscle-clad package that will make you forget your own name… plain and simple.
-ALEXA HART
Chapter 1
Alex
The thing about life is, it rarely turns out the way you expect it to. And, at least for me, it never turns out the way you want it to. One minute you’re a small-town girl with big-apple dreams, the next, you’re being called to your boss’s office in the middle of the afternoon when she said her day was booked with lay-off meetings.
“I’m sorry Alex, you know if there was anything I could do, I would.” I nod at Mrs. Meller, pushing my glasses up onto the bridge of my nose and forcing my lips into a thin, deliberate smile, and mutter something about lemons.
It isn’t her fault – state budget cuts have hit every district hard this year, and unfortunately, early-childhood teachers are always the first to be let go. Great job picking a degree, Alex. I inwardly scold myself as I bid goodbye to the frail vice principle of our little New York City public school, resigned not to show my inner panic until I am safely alone.
After gathering the measly amount of belongings I had stored in my desk, I snake my way through one of the back exits of the school, sparing myself the inevitable farewell frenzy, and set off for home. The walk is short in the fading September heat, only a couple of crowded blocks to the divided house that my little one-bedroom apartment sits in. My unit is on the top floor, and arguable the least tolerable of all the options in the building; the landlord offered me the basement apartment, but for a woman living alone in the city, the granite countertops just didn’t feel worth it.
Throwing my bags haphazardly on a chair by the door, I plop onto my futon couch with an – admittedly overdramatic – huff. My eyes prickle as they scan the nondescript contents of my apartment. Life really has a way of kicking you when you’re down. The deafening buzz of the intercom pulls my attention before I have a chance to wallow any longer. Pulling myself from the couch I press the yellowed button mounted next to my front door.
“Hello?” I ask, not bothering to stamp out the bad mood from my tone.
“It’s me, let me up.” I sigh, Bonnie. Without response I press the button to allow my best friend into the building. She must have heard I was laid off through her brother, who works at the same school I do – or did. Bonnie was the first person I met when I moved to this city, we bumped into each other at a bookshop, literally. My phone was smashed to a million pieces, but still it was the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Bonnie lets herself in with the spare key I gave her “for emergencies only,” although so far “emergency” has come to mean something more along the lines of “out of ice cream”, and “needed to borrow that one shirt.” Not that I mind.
“Do you want to talk about it?” She sits on the shabby carpet next to me, resting her pointy chin on the edge of the couch in front of me.
“No.” I sigh at her, fluffing her mass of fiery red ringlets out of my eyesight.
“Ok. Do you want to drink about it?” Meeting her oak-green eyes, I can’t help the smile that threatens to spread across my face.
“Absolutely.”
It only took about twenty minutes to wrangle Bonnie’s new boyfriend and her brother, Luke, to the little dive bar around the corner from my apartment. The place is barely lit save for a couple of tasteful neon signs and string lights, and the live music isn’t always great, but they have the best, and cheapest mojitos anywhere in the city, so we’re frequent flyers.
“Oh come on, none of that.” Luke wraps a thick arm around my shoulders, scolding the frown I hadn’t realized I was displaying. “You graduated with what? A perfect four-point-oh?” He slurs the phrase intentionally, forever making fun of me for my college habit of studying all night, and every weekend. “You’ll find a new job in no time.” Finishing his sentence with a swig of illegally imported beer, Luke winks at me. I flash him a genuine thankful smile, Luke and Bonnie are like the siblings I never had.
“What’s your degree in?” Mike, Bonnie’s boyfriend, asks. They’ve only been together a few weeks now, but he’s quickly becoming a part of the group.
“Early childhood education. Don't know why I thought I could make a career out of it.” I laugh at myself, taking an over exaggerated swig of my drink.
“I might know of something… Are you open to nannying?”
“Nannying? Is that even a word?” Bonnie interrupts t
he conversation, never one to pass up an opportunity to make fun of someone.
“No, it’s definitely not.” I giggle with my friend, the warm buzz of the rum finally lightening my sour mood, “but I get what you meant. Who do you know that needs a nanny?”
“An old buddy of mine from the service, he’s got a little girl. Can’t be more than five or six now. If you send me your resumé I can pass it along?”
I nod gratefully at Mike, scooting next to him to coordinate email addresses as Luke orders the next round of drinks. Being a nanny certainly isn’t my dream job, but for now it’s something.
Chapter 2
Alex
The loud ringing of my phone stirs me from a restless sleep; feeling around the messy sheets I search for the offensive device, refusing to open my eyes.
“Hello?” There’s no hiding the grogginess in my voice.
“Miss Bennet?” A deep male voice asks, for a moment, I am startled. Rising, my eyes forced to adjust to the bright light flowing through my curtains at – what time is it?
“This is she,” I inform the mystery caller, pulling the phone from my ear to glance at the clock. Six in the morning! Who calls someone that early?
“Good morning Miss Bennet. My name is Johnathan Cooke. I received your resumé from Mr. Benson.” Mr. Benson? Who the hell is Mr. Benson? Oh, I think to myself, he means Mike. “I’d like to invite you to come interview with Mr. Simmons and meet Ella.” John continues.
“I’d lo— “
“I’m sure Mr. Benson told you the job is in Bedford Corners?” John cuts me off. “We’ll of course reimburse you for traveling expenses. Does today work?”
I go silent for a moment. No, Mike definitely didn’t mention that little tidbit of information. Whoever this “Mr. Simmons” is, he must be filthy rich to live in Bedford Corners. Being so far from the city probably means this is a live-in nanny job. Am I ready to move away from my friends?
“Yes, today works. What’s the address?” I sigh. I’m really not in a position to be picky.
From my peripherals, I catch a glimpse of the fog-dulled New York City skyline as I round the curve of the highway taking me 6 hours west, to the uppity Bedford Corners neighborhood. Can you really even call something a neighborhood if the “neighbors” are at least a mile away? After the cold phone call, and a lot of deliberation whether to call and cancel, I finally borrowed Bonnie’s car to make the trip to the Simmons Estate. Who knows, maybe the seclusion will be good for me.
Thanks to the auxiliary cord, and some painstakingly well-curated playlists that Bonnie and I have accumulated over the past couple of years, the drive goes by relatively quickly, with only one or two rest-stops. I pull into the end of the ridiculously long driveway at around 3pm, the sun still shining, clinging to the last bits of summer.
The long, patterned brick driveway is so ornate I’m almost unsure if I should be driving on it at all. It must be about a mile before the house comes into view, and it is spectacular. The old-brick home is adorned with white pillars and grand arched windows, spattered with the perfect amount of intruding moss to give it a woodsy, classic feel. Aside from the immaculate landscaping, and what I’m sure is a vast backyard, the estate is surrounded by woods for miles on each side. Okay, I could get used to living here.
I park off to the side in the large empty opening in front of the house, suddenly intimidated as I bang the lions-head knocker against the wooden door. Who doesn’t have a doorbell?
After a few moments, a short older woman swings the ornate door open. I smile at her warmly.
“Hi, I’m Alex Bennet. I’m here to interview for the nanny job.”
“Yes Miss Bennet, come in, please.” She returns my smile with one of her own, her soft face lighting up as she flashes me the warm expression.
“I am Miss Martha, the housekeeper, however you can call me Winnie.” She nods at me, shaking my outstretched hand.
“Follow me please.” Without wasting time for further niceties, Winnie leads me through the grand foyer past several rooms to a set of double doors just off the kitchen. She knocks twice, then steps back, waiting for a response. Behind her, I smooth out my dress shirt, feeling out of place in the lush home.
“Come in.” A deep and unfamiliar voice instructs us from the other side of the door – this must be Mr. Simmons, not the man I spoke with on the phone. Without pause, Winnie opens the door, ushering me in and shutting it behind me. Damn, I was really hoping she’d join me.
I scan the room. It is wood paneled, with large windows on both sides of the room, and a slate fireplace on the back wall, big enough to walk into. I don’t allow my eyes to linger on the details, instead, they fall a few feet in front of the fireplace, to the dark-wood desk, or rather, the man sitting at it.
His black hair is smattered with bits of gray, making it seem almost charcoal in color, and it hangs over his matching sculpted brow haphazardly. His eyes, though – his eyes are what throw me off. They are the darkest shade of -- brown? Gray? Something – that I’ve ever seen, and they’re piercing into me, inquisitive. Like he’s conducting the interview by himself, reading my mind with one prolonged glance.
“You must be Mr. Simmons,” I begin, feigning confidence, “my name is Alex Bennet, I’m here to interview for the nanny job.”
“I know.” He informs me shortly, his eyes continuing to burn into me. I pause for a moment, giving him a chance to continue, but he doesn’t. Instead, an awkward silence overtakes the room. I shift on my feet, taking a few cautious steps forward.
“I graduated top of my class from New York University with a degree in early childhood education. I’m a certified teacher, and until recently I worked with 5 to 6-year-olds at Queens Elementary. I’m happy to provide you with verification, of course, and references.” I begin reciting my resumé to him, but he cuts me off before I can continue.
“I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding, Miss Bennet.”
“Oh.” I respond, dumfounded. Did I just drive 6 hours for nothing?
“You already have the job…” What? “Provided, of course, that Ella likes you. My team verified all of the information on your resumé and ran a background check prior to calling you.” Mr. Simmons’ voice is even and measured. I pause for a moment – they background checked me? I suppose I should have expected that. What could they have found?
Mr. Simmons is studying me intently, a gleam of inquisition in his eyes, like he knows that I am inwardly panicking, and he wants to know why. It must be my imagination, though, because if he really found anything untoward, he surely wouldn’t have hired me to watch after his child.
“Will I also be interviewing with Ella’s mom?” The innocent question escapes my lips – frankly, I hadn’t expected a father to be the one taking care of the childcare interviews. Mr. Simmons’ already almost-black eyes go impossibly cold, his brow scrunching with some semblance of restraint.
“No.” He bites out the strained word, making it clear the conversation is over. I can feel my cheeks burning, and I inwardly curse myself for the prying question.
Standing abruptly, Mr. Simmons’ frame towers over me, encased in a plain white button down and black slacks. Rounding his desk, he stalks towards me, his hands casually resting in his pockets, his shoulders dropping with each step, releasing their momentary tension with each step until they are entirely at ease. He comes to a stop just in front of me, almost too close for comfort.
After a brief pause, he motions towards the door. I turn on my heel, exiting the ornate room at his instruction, and he follows, close enough that I can feel his body heat grazing my back as I open the heavy wooden door, halting to wait for further directions.
Mr. Simmons walks with single strides that equal three of my own, a product of his foot-and-a-half height advantage, and his “man on a mission” demeanor. I struggle to even my breathing as I try to keep up with him, journeying through innumerable rooms to the other side of the estate where Ella, his daughter, is c
urrently having her kindergarten lessons. I make a mental note to eventually badger him about the benefits of public school.
“Winnie will give you a tour of your quarters before you leave, they’re on the south side of the house,” he explains, “you’ll begin your duties on Monday, so that will give you a few days to grab your things and get settled in. Give Winnie your details, and she will have movers gather your things. If there is anything you need, prepare a list for Winnie and she will see that you get it. Ella goes to bed at 7, so after that you are free to do as you please. Most weekends you will be off, but it will depend on my work schedule. You’ll be paid a salary; the offer is in the paperwork Winnie will give you. I think you’ll find it satisfactory.”
Mr. Simmons continues to rattle off details of the work as we climb another set of stairs – these are different from the rest of the house. We’ve entered into the West wing; its décor is considerably lighter, feeling more like a princess’ castle than a beast’s. I can hear the faint ring of a child’s laughter, growing louder with each step we ascend. When we reach the top, Mr. Simmons turns the handle, opening the door for me. I don’t expect him to follow me in, and he doesn’t.