ONE
Levi
“Grumpy Billionaire desperately seeks a nanny for his five-year-old daughter. Expect to work late nights, have no social life, lots of tears, and absolutely no alcohol, drugs, parties, or fun.”
That was the ad that went out this morning. My assistant, fed up with my shenanigans, decided to give me a taste of my own medicine. I can’t believe Nancy thought that’s what I wanted the ad to say, that I’m a billionaire. Is she trying to attract every gold digger?
I’ll admit that I haven’t always been kind to my assistant. She’s been required to field calls from previous dates, forced to tell them I’m not interested.
Is this her idea of payback?
“What?” I answer my phone. It’s my assistant.
“Did you get the text that your flight home has been canceled?”
“No,” I growl, and put Nancy on speakerphone while I open up my messages. There are dozens of messages and even more emails that have been ignored.
I’m a busy man, and I haven’t had time over the past forty-eight hours to deal with work.
I just discovered I’m a father, and the little girl was whisked into a temporary foster home after her mother died in an automobile accident.
My attorney handled a comparative DNA test and requested Amelia’s DNA. I saw the truth for myself on paper. Although after staring at the young girl, her eyes as blue as the depths of the ocean, I know the kid is undoubtedly mine. She has Katelyn’s blonde hair and build. She’s small for her age, but Amelia’s birth certificate indeed has my name as the father. And the kid’s date of birth matches up to when Katelyn and I had been together.
Amelia hasn’t said a word since I met her. I’m sure the kid talks, but the silence is heavier than anything I could have imagined.
I’m sure it’s because she’s grieving.
Me too.
But for different reasons.
I’m not ready to be a father.
I glance down at the little girl seated across from me. She hasn’t touched her breakfast, and I practically ordered one of everything on the menu because she refused to give the waitress her order.
“I can book you two first-class tickets direct from O’Hare to JFK.”
“Inform Douglas of the travel situation and that we’ll need to be picked up from JFK.”
“I’m on it,” Nancy says. “I’ll text you the flight details.”
“I hate flying commercial,” I grumble.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Luxenberg.”
“Yeah, me too.” I end the call and shove my phone into my jacket pocket.
Amelia stares at me, her pancakes untouched. Just like the strawberry milkshake, with whipped cream that dribbles down the side of the glass.
I steal a piece of her bacon, and her eyes narrow at me like it’s hers and I shouldn’t touch it. But she doesn’t scold me.
I’m only met with further silence. I’d almost rather her yell, scream, cry, and throw a temper tantrum. Not that I’d be good with handling that type of outburst, but the silence hurts my heart so damn much.
I’m in over my head, and I desperately need a nanny, someone who is good with kids.
My phone pings in my pocket, and I grab it, glancing at the text from Nancy confirming the seat assignments. We’re both on the same flight, but Amelia is assigned to the row in front of me.
The seats aren’t together.