by Lexi Aurora
“No, but I’m pretty good with kids. They like me.”
“That’s comforting,” I said. I took a deep breath. “Listen, Monica, I don’t think you’re a good fit for this position. Thank you for coming in for an interview and I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. I stared at her, unsure of what to say. My words had been self-explanatory.
“I won’t be in need of your assistance,” I said, and when she still didn’t seem to get it, I cleared my throat. “You may go.”
She stood up and grabbed her bag without saying anything, shooting a look of malice over her shoulder before she left, and slammed my office door behind her. I sighed, rubbing my hand over my mouth as I tossed the girl’s resume in the trashcan underneath my desk. I looked at the next name on the list—Lauren Cliffson. I looked up at the ceiling and prayed that she would be the right one. I desperately needed a nanny for my daughter Ivy if I was going to get my restaurant up and running.
I stood up, leaving my office to look down at the two women who were seated in the front room with my assistant, both of them waiting to be interviewed.
“Lauren?” I said, and the younger of the two women stood up, straightening out her dress as she walked to me. I froze for a moment, stricken by her beauty, unable to do anything but look her over. She had long, dark hair that was down, curly, and tumbling below her waist. When she met my eyes, I saw that hers were a vivid, electric blue, almost neon in their intensity. She came up the stairs toward me and I offered her my hand to shake.
“I’m Greyson Stephens,” I said to her, drinking in the sight of her beautiful, full pink lips, the soft flush in her skin when our hands connected. She shook my hand firmly and I found myself tempted to hold her there, but I let go of her hand when she slipped it from mine.
“Lauren Cliffson,” she said. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Shall we go into my office?” I asked, gesturing toward the door. She nodded and went inside, passing me by so closely that I could smell a hint of jasmine on her skin. It was a deeply sexy and sensual scent, one that captivated my senses as I crossed the room to sit across from her at my desk. She had her legs crossed, part of her dress riding up slightly to show the underside of a tattoo on her thigh, one that I couldn’t fully make out. I had the sudden urge to ask her to let me see it but fought it back, knowing it would be deeply inappropriate. Instead, I met her eye, which I found to be just as distracting.
“So tell me about your experience in childcare,” I said to her, pushing forward with the questions. I had already eliminated her in my mind; I had no business hiring a woman I found so attractive. It would only make things messy, and the last thing I needed in my life now that I’d moved to Garner was to complicate things. Still, I would hear her out. I couldn’t exactly send her away without interviewing at all, especially not without looking like a creep.
“I was a part-time nanny in New York before I moved back here,” she told me.
“You’re from Garner?”
“Yes,” she said. “I grew up here.”
“I’m new to town,” I told her.
“What do you think so far?” she asked me, a soft smile on her face. She was being polite but I could tell that she was interested, her eyes holding mine as she spoke. They had lingered for far too long to be casual, though she did manage to look away before it became too intimate for her.
“I think it’s beautiful,” I said. “The people are—they’re friendly.”
She laughed. “It’s an interesting town once you get to know people.”
“So I’ve gathered,” I said. “Ivy and I tried out the farmer’s market yesterday morning.”
“Wow,” she said. “Welcome to Garner. Did you see the clown?”
“I saw the clown,” I told her. It had been bizarre at first to see him there, passing out balloons to kids at the market. Nobody else seemed to think there was anything strange about it. I had thought that Ivy might be scared of him, but she had gone right up to him and given him a hug without a thought. “Is he always there?”
“That’s Mr. Thompson. He’s always there and he’s literally always dressed like a clown. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him outside of his clown costume.”
“That is ridiculously weird,” I said.
“That’s not even the half of it,” she told me with a grin on her face. “You’ll have to get someone to show you around sometime. You might want to see all the weirdest parts of Garner before you decide to stay here.”
“Oh, I’ve already made up my mind about that,” I said. “Which is why I’m looking for a nanny.”
“You said your daughter is six, right?”
“Yes. Do you have experience with children around that age?”
“The last people I nannied for had twin seven-year-olds and a four-year-old,” she said. “I’ve also had experience with older kids.”
“You said you nannied part-time, right? You do know this is a full-time, live-in position?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “That’s what I’m looking for.”
“Why?”
“Um?” she said. “I just—I’m looking for a job and a place to stay. It just makes sense to do both.”
“So this position would be ideal for you,” I said. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Lauren was the right one—the only one—suited for this job.
“Yes,” she said again. “I can cook and clean, too, I—”
I waved my hand at her. “I have a housekeeper. I only need a nanny.”
“Oh,” she said. “Good.”
“What do you like to do in your free time, Lauren?”
“I’m a musician,” she told me. “I play the violin. I like to read. I, um—I mostly stay in. I’m kind of a homebody.”
That was a good sign, too. If I was going to have someone living in my house, I preferred that she not be someone who was too wild or prone to going out at night drinking. That wasn’t the kind of influence I wanted for my daughter.
I ran my hand through my hair, looking at the next name on the list. I tried to think about the woman downstairs but my head was filled with Lauren.
“Why do you think I should give you this job?” I asked her, curious as to what her answer would be for this question over all others.
“Because I’m the best you’re going to get,” she said simply, and I knew that it was true. I smiled at her, unable to help myself, and even though I knew it was a terrible idea, I reached my hand out to shake hers again.
“Congratulations,” I said to her. “When can you move in?”
“Now—” she blurted, then seemed embarrassed by her eagerness. “I mean, whenever you want me to.”
“Tomorrow would be good,” I said to her as she stood up and slipped her hand into mine. I didn’t allow the touch to linger before I pulled it away. If I was going to do this, I would have to stay as far away from the nanny as I possibly could. I couldn’t get involved with her no matter what.
“Okay. I’ll come by in the morning.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Lauren.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stephens,” she said, and met my eye one last time before she left my office.
Keep reading Bound By The Billionaire – it is available online, check Lexi Aurora’s author page for its availability.
PREVIEW: Bought out by the Billionaire by Lexi Aurora
I’ve never met a woman I can’t have.
I’ve never had a deal I can’t close.
Until I meet her and her family’s bakery.
I have to keep my mind sharp, my business game on.
But her sexy body is making it hard to concentrate and her passion is making me hard.
I can’t believe I fell for him so easily.
I should have known someone like that would have ulterior motives.
But I can’t stop thinking about him.
Or throwing myself at him.
When I find out what he really wants, I am hurt.
W
hy do I keep seducing him?
I should be angry, not turned on.
Is it wrong to believe this could be real?
Am I a fool to think he could be the one?
Warning: Bought out by the Billionaire contains adult language and situations. It is intended for mature readers. There is no cheating, and a HEA is guaranteed.
It is a stand alone novella that is part of the Stonecutters Billionaire series.
Chapter 1: Sloane
I woke up early, before the sun was up, stretching as I blinked the sleep out of my eyes. I glanced over to see that my daughter, Rosie, was asleep in bed, her long eyelashes fanned out over her delicate cheeks. Her hair was messy and curled around her face, and her mouth was hanging open as she slept. I smiled, my heart feeling as warm as it always did when I looked at my girl. I slipped out of bed quietly and grabbed the clothes I had laid out for myself the night before, tiptoeing out of the bedroom we shared and into the bathroom down the hall. I undressed and got into the shower, finally washing off the flour that still coated my skin in a layer from yesterday. By the time the bakery had closed last night, I’d been too exhausted to do anything but drop into bed after giving Rosie a kiss good night.
After I got dressed and ready for the day, I crept down the hallway to my mother’s room and knocked softly on the door. I pushed it open gently, careful not to let it squeak the way it sometimes did if it swung on its hinges too fast.
“Mama,” I said quietly, peeking into the room. My mother was sleeping. She blinked her eyes at me and sat up.
“Hey, honey,” she said in a drowsy voice, sounding like she was still half-asleep. “You going downstairs?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Rose is still asleep. Have her come down when she wakes up.”
“Okay,” she responded. I shut the door quietly and walked away, down the stairs and into the back room of our family bakery. I flipped on the lights as I went through the room, illuminating the kitchen, which was small but could perform miracles in the right hands. Those hands used to be my father’s, and his father’s before that. This bakery and this house had been in my family for generations, and I had grown up thinking of it as home.
I turned on the ovens to prepare for the day, standing close to them as they heated up. It was always cold in the bakery in the mornings, especially during the fall and winter, but when the ovens got going the place felt warm and inviting. I pulled out the ingredients I needed to start the morning with our usual selection—fresh-baked muffins and warm, fluffy biscuits, as well as cinnamon rolls that melted on the tongue. The cinnamon rolls were my favorite, and Rosie had a taste for them as well. They usually sold out fast, so every once in a while I would set one aside for her for when she woke up. I made a note to do so this morning; I had missed her last night. We’d had a special event at the bakery that had kept me up late cleaning up the place, and I hadn’t made it upstairs until after she had gone to bed.
As I started to mix the ingredients for the rolls, I thought back to last night and the conversation I’d had with our neighbor. I had wanted to tell my mother about it right away but didn’t want to wake her when I got upstairs. The conversation gnawed at me and had kept me up all night. Our neighbor, Mr. Eustacio, who owned the laundromat next door, had told me that some big development company was proposing to the city to buy the buildings on our block and wanted to develop it into condos. I thought about losing this place, the only home I’d ever known, the place I loved and worked and lived, and it made me sad.
When my father got sick and began his rapid decline from his diagnosis to his final days, he confessed to me that he wanted to see me take over the business and then pass it on to the next generation. I told him I would do whatever it took to make the dream a reality, that it was my wish too. An offer from a development company would probably be for so much money it would feel like I was playing Monopoly, but some things don’t have a price tag. I would never sell, no matter how tempting the offer was. I loved this place like it was a part of my family.
I sighed as I flattened out the dough with my hands, then began to roll it out with a pin, putting all of my muscle into it. I found the motions soothing and comfortable, especially since I found that I could put all of my aggression into rolling and the dough would benefit from the effort. The truth was, the money we’d get from selling this place would help us in every way. Since taking over the bakery, I was struggling to make ends meet. My father was a gifted baker and had the biggest heart of anyone I knew, but he wasn’t the greatest businessman. It took me weeks after his funeral to find the courage to go into his office and look through the business files. I was surprised to find the state they were in. He didn’t have files so much as piles. There were about two dozen banker boxes filled with papers in no discernible order. I’d find a bank statement, a Christmas card from his college roommate’s family, and a handwritten grocery list all in the same box.
I had always thought my father to be larger than life—he had brought life into this place somehow that I just couldn’t seem to replicate, no matter how hard I tried. I don’t know how much money he made, but the bills that kept arriving after his death were larger than I’d assumed they’d be. At the end of each month, I was struggling to stretch what we made to pay everything. We had steady, regular customers, but it always seemed like it was barely enough to cover what I needed to take care of mama, Rosie, and myself.
I finished putting the rolls together and placed them in the oven, then started mixing the muffins. By the time I got them in the oven to start on the biscuits, it was already just twenty minutes before we opened. I looked at the clock and cursed as I burnt my finger on the corner of the cinnamon roll pan, running it under cold water for a moment as I watched it rise and blister. I shook my head at my clumsiness, then left the kitchen and went up front to the store, turning on lights and flipping chairs down from the tables. I arranged the cinnamon rolls in the display case and turned on the colorful Christmas lights that my father had hung up around the bakery years and years ago. It gave the room a festive glow that reminded me of him every time I turned them on.
A few minutes later, I opened the front door to greet the two men who were waiting there when we opened. They were partners, older men named John and Ashton, who lived across the street and came in every morning for coffee. I beamed at them when I opened the door and welcomed them in.
“Good morning,” I said brightly as we crossed the room. I pulled out a cinnamon roll for each of them, knowing what they were going to order. It was easy to guess with these guys, who were simple and friendly.
“Morning, Sloane,” Ashton said, grinning at me as I bagged up their rolls and turned around to pour their coffee. “How are you? How’s Rosie?”
“She’s good,” I told them. “Sweet as ever. She’s probably still sleeping upstairs with my mom.”
“You should put her to work around here,” said Ashton. “She would liven the place right up.”
I put my hands on my hips, pretending to be offended. “You mean I’m not lively enough for you?”
Ashton laughed as I handed him his coffee. “You’re perfect just the way you are, darling,” he said. John winked at me. They paid, dropping a nice tip for me in the jar before disappearing with their food. A few more people came and went, and I served them in between running back and forth from the kitchen to prepare the muffins and biscuits for the displays.
When I came back out front, my hands filled with muffins, I stopped dead when I saw who was standing at the counter. I didn’t know him, had never met him before, but he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. He was tall, broad with green eyes and dirty-blond waves. He had a polite smile on his face that broadened when he saw me, especially when I dropped half of the muffins I was holding and looking down stupidly to watch them roll to the floor. I blushed and crouched down to pick them up, dumping them in the trash before wiping my hands on my apron.
“Hi,” I said, looking back up at the man, who was gr
inning at me, one eyebrow raised.
“You okay?” he asked. I nodded, cursing myself, and bit my lip.
“What can I get for you?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice smooth and soft. “What would you recommend?”
“The cinnamon rolls are good,” I said, gesturing toward the display case. He smiled at me, glancing at my name tag.
“Sloane. That’s interesting.”
“My mom named me after her first dog,” I told him. He laughed.
“Still beautiful,” he said, meeting my eye when he said the word. I felt myself blush again and then looked away.
“I’ll have a cinnamon roll.”
“Coffee?” I asked, still not looking at him. I felt his eyes on my face, felt him gazing at me, but couldn’t bring myself to meet his eye.
“Sloane,” he said softly, and I did look at him then. “Coffee would be perfect. Thank you.”