Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 60131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Must have at least a decade of childcare experience.
Must be available to me at all times...
No exceptions
I wasn’t searching for a new job, and I didn’t have any nanny experience.
I was just dropping off a cupcake order…but one sweet lie never hurt anyone.
Besides, being a pastry chef is way harder than watching young children, right?
WRONG.
Before I could come clean, the grumpiest billionaire in Manhattan made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, and I was stupid enough to take it.
I just forgot to leave my heart out of the equation.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
HARLOW
“Lies are the bedrock of a miserable life.”
That quote is etched onto the entry doors at Central State Prison, courtesy of their Scared Straight Program, and it still haunts my darkest nightmares.
My stepmom insisted on shipping me there once a month because she was convinced my “creative stories” were bound to lead to a life behind bars.
In her mind, stealing a pack of strawberry bubblegum and skipping school were the gateway crimes to grand theft auto, perjury, or murder.
During my last visit—when an inmate told me she was desperate “to taste those sweet, C-cup sugar tits during lights out”—I told the truth about everything.
No matter what.
“Do I look ‘fat’ in this dress?” Yes.
“Did you like my mom’s homemade lasagna?” You couldn’t pay me to eat it again.
“How do you feel about my new haircut?” Please ask your stylist for a refund.
That blunt honesty cost me a few friends, so I learned to settle for a soft balance between fact and fiction. The truth was only required when small lies, little sweet ones, wouldn’t suffice.
My newfound balance took me far in life—through the finest cooking schools and top chef kitchens—until I met Pierce Dawson.
This gorgeous, grumpy asshole was nothing like the pastries I baked.
Hard around the edges and best left untasted, he believed his colossal wealth entitled him to everything inside New York. We peasants solely existed to steal glimpses of his beautifully chiseled face. Or to sneak sips of his bitter sarcasm…
I’m not sure if it was the thought of his full lips gracing mine or the fantasy of him owning my body for hours in bed, but trading in my apron for bibs and bottles to be his full-time nanny is officially the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.
That prison might’ve been onto something, because looking back, I honestly wish I’d told him the truth on day one…
ONE
PIERCE
Three Months Before “Day One”
Charity parties with the rich were the worst type of parties on the planet. There was no celebratory song to mark when the guests could slip through the nearest exit, and no gift presentation to segue into the host saying, “Thank you so much for coming, don’t feel bad for leaving early.”
They were a never-ending charade of wealthy people putting on airs and acting like they cared about whatever cause was on the ten-thousand-dollar-per-plate menu.
Tonight’s cause was “Winter Scarves and Mittens for Kids.” Why no one mentioned the kids would probably prefer coats over accessories, I didn’t know.
I also didn’t ask.
As the newest owner of the Brooklyn Jets basketball team and the second-youngest billionaire in this city, I had to show my face at these things often.
Unfortunately.
“Congratulations, Mr. Dawson!” Timothy Weir, the CEO of JMC, patted me on the back. “Hopefully, the team can have a better record than last year, now that you’re the owner.”
“It’ll be hard for them to do worse than 0-82.”
“Oh, I bet!” He laughed. “How embarrassing that they didn’t win a single game! Is that a record?”
“Yes…”
“Bahahaha—” He was still laughing. “I still remember when you were the number one draft pick. Do you ever long for the days when you played in the NBA?”
His words stabbed me in the chest, and I looked right through him.
Long ago, the Boston Celtics had drafted and promoted me as ‘the next Larry Bird,’ and my accomplishments during the first three seasons still held records.
But that chapter of my life was ripped out of my book without warning, just like everything else. After one too many injuries, I was forced to trade in my jersey for a three-piece business suit.
My former career was one of two topics I avoided discussing at all costs. That, and the “f”word.
Family.
“Do you still keep up with your old teammates?” he asked. “I watched a recent mini-doc where a couple of them spoke highly about your work ethic.”
“I saw that, too!” His CFO chimed in. “They said you never missed a training session, and you—”
“Excuse me, please.” I moved past them, unable to listen anymore. “I need some fresh air.”
I weaved through the crowd, ignoring their “Was it something we said?” whispers until I reached the balcony.
The only people out here were members of my staff, and they knew better than to bring up certain topics.
“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Dawson?” A server held out a tray of whiskey glasses.
“Yes, thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He returned inside, and I stared at the site where they were set to renovate my new team’s arena.
As the crane lights blinked red, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I looked through the glass doors, spotting my top two team members engaged in conversation, so I ignored the call.
It sounded again.
Then again.
The screen showed me an unknown caller.
“I don’t know how you got this number,” I said, “but this better be a life-or-death situation.”
“Mr. Dawson, this is Detective Ryan Calvin with the Manhattan Police Department. I’m en route to your Park Avenue condo regarding an emergency.”