Page 14 of Big Trouble

The first decent nanny we’ve ever had. The only nanny Clementine has ever gelled with.

Why?

Why is this the nanny I want to fuck?

“Everything is okay, pumpkin. I’ll be down in a minute,” I call.

I look back at Winnie, lying on the bed, spread out like a damn feast. I know I should walk away.

I know I will walk away. Because she’s my daughter’s nanny. And she’s the first nanny my daughter has actually liked. And I’d be a dick and a half to fuck that up.

“Thanks for saving me, Brody.”

I nod, ignoring the half erection in my boxer briefs.

“Anytime, Killer.”

diary entry 3

Dear Diary,

Daddy told me to ask Winnie to start eating dinner with us. I tried, but she said it wouldn’t be appropriate. Daddy said he’d fix it, and he must have because tonight Winnie had dinner with us. We were almost like a family. And it made me think that maybe Daddy and Winnie should get married. Then I would have a mom. Then the next time Billy Jennings asks me why I don’t have a mom, I can tell him I do now. Then I’d also tell him that he smells stinky a lot because he’s always eating beef jerky. Beef jerky smells gross. When I grow up, I won’t marry a man if he eats beef jerky.

Love,

Clementine

chapter

seven

Official Rules for Wind from the East Nanny Service

Rule #6: Nannies shall dress professionally at all times.

Winnie’s take away: a bikini is professional if there’s swimming involved

Winnie

The first time Clementine asked me to join them for dinner, I assumed it was just her asking. After all, she’s been making little comments lately that make me think she has it in her head that her father and I would make a good couple. She might be invested in that fantasy. I, however, am not.

I know the truth. Single dads of precocious children never fall in love with the nanny. They’re above that.

Super hot, former footballers are definitely above falling for the nanny. Which means I have no illusions when Brody invites me to join them for dinner.

Of course, I’m using the phrase “invites me for dinner” generously. What he actually does is storm into my room one night at 6:07 and announce, “It’s silly for Mrs. Billingsly to make you your own tray for dinner.”

It takes me a moment to process his words. Mostly because I’m so surprised by his presence, but partly because his presence is just so … much. Every time he walks into a room, my senses spring into high alert. It’s like he’s so big that the actual amount of available oxygen alters.

I want to tell him that not once have I asked his cook to make me a plate. Ms. Billingsly, the adorable aging woman makes enough food to feed Brody and his enormous brothers. I’ve only met Bryant, but I’ve seen the other two from a distance. They work on the ranch or farm or whatever this place is actually called.

Ms. Billingsly and I came to an agreement early on when Brody made it clear that I should make myself scarce during dinnertime. I’d run downstairs, make myself a quick plate while she was busy telling Brody and Clementine that dinner was ready, and they should wash up and meet in the dining room.

I’m not even sure if the brothers eat at the house every night; I just know that Ms. Billingsly makes enough food for a small army.

“I’m fine having dinner on my own. Besides, you previously made it clear that dinner was family time, and I am not family.”

He merely arches a brow. Then he takes a step further into my room and drops his voice to a growl. “You will start joining us for dinner.”