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)
Okay, that’s enough. I hit pause and glanced at the checklist Miss Hildreth gave me.
Three Categories You Must Study Before Day 1
(Rules are Different for Every Client)
Proper Professional Nanny Attire
Boundaries between you and the Parents
Being Invisible & Visible at the Same Time
I prepped two stiff sugar mojitos and took out a pack of pens.
It was midnight by the time my brain begged for mercy.
There was no way I could finish everything by morning, so I saved my place and hit the lights.
I flopped onto my floor mat, and my phone rang before I could drift into dreams.
“Yeah, Sasha?” I answered.
“Do you have any questions for me?” A deep voice that was definitely not Sasha said.
“Huh?”
“This is Harlow Hawthorne, correct?”
“Yes.”
“I believe you’ve agreed to be my full-time nanny,” he said. “If you have any questions about the position, I’m listening.”
Shit. I sat up and hit the lights.
“Yes, I’ve agreed to be your nanny, Mr. Dawson,” I said, stunned that he was calling me this late. “First thing is your children’s names and ages. I didn’t receive any notes about that.”
“William and Charlotte. They’re four months old.”
Twins? “Are you a fan of the royal family?” I asked. “Was that the inspiration behind their names?”
“No. Anything else?”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you do for a living?”
He was silent for several seconds.
I checked to see if he was still on the line.
“I manage a couple of hedge funds, Miss Hawthorne.” His voice was capable of talking me out of my panties. “Recently, I became the new owner of the Brooklyn Jets.”
“So, you’re trying to lose all your wealth?”
He inhaled a sharp breath. “What did you just say?”
“Nothing.” I flipped through my notes. “When we met, you mentioned that the job was seven days on, but the full description mentions two off-days a week. Can you tell me what you’re actually expecting?”
“It’s five days on and two off, but I may need you to work a few of those days in the weeks ahead, since I’m running behind at work.”
“Okay, noted.” I wrote that down.
“I’m also looking for a two-year commitment at the same salary, and I’ll cover the rent on your current apartment as long as you remain employed with me.”
I did the math in my head. That would give me at least seven hundred thousand dollars, not including the potential overtime.
It was more than enough to pay off my debt, get more than one piece of furniture at a time, and save for my dream bakery.
Even if I worked under the best chef in the world, I’d never make that much money as fast.
“Miss Hawthorne?” His voice cut through my thoughts. “Did you hear what I said about the commitment?”
“Yes.” I tried not to sound too excited. “Two years works for me, Mr. Dawson. Speaking of commitment though, there’s no place for me to submit my bank account.”
“The hiring agency prefers that I pay you in cash until you’ve lasted up to a certain point. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” I smiled. “Cash is perfect.”
“Anything else?”
“Um….” I still had plenty of reading materials and videos to finish, so I didn’t want to discuss anything else too soon. “Not that I can think of at this time.”
“Good. When are you moving in?”
“Well, that depends. When exactly would you like me to start?”
“Tonight.”
What? “I don’t know if I can get to you by then, but—”
“I’m sending a town car to your listed address,” he said. “He’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He hung up.
EIGHT
HARLOW
Islid from side to side on the black leather seats in Mr. Dawson’s Mercedes AMG. The moonroof hung open to give me a view of Manhattan’s tallest building, and the minibar below my feet offered top-tier champagne.
I’d never felt poorer in my life.
The closest I’d ever gotten to this car before was via a valet line when me and some fellow chefs snapped pictures with our phones.
As the driver coasted closer to Park Avenue, I ran a hand against the wood grain finishes. Under the climate control lay a stack of engraved handkerchiefs.
I picked up one and rubbed it against my cheek.
“This has to be at least five hundred thread count,” I said aloud. “Do you think Mr. Dawson would care if I kept one?”
The driver rolled his eyes and let up the partition.
When we arrived at the condo, he rolled my luggage to the elevator.
“Thanks for the ride, sir.” I took a five-dollar bill from my purse. “I’m supposed to tip you, right?”
“No, Miss,” he said. “But for future reference, that is not a tip.”
I pulled out three more dollars.
He looked at my offering like it was an insult.
Fine then. I stuffed them back into my pocket and stepped onto the elevator.
Tonight, an attendant was waiting inside. He gave me a slight nod and hit the penthouse button for me.