The big day is here—my first interview as a prospective nanny.

I finally arrive at the law office on the sixteenth floor of this towering Manhattan skyscraper and have to take a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Why is my interview at a law office anyway? From what I’ve gathered, most nanny interviews are handled at the household…or a coffee shop, at the very least.

As I enter the lobby, several other women all look up at me. It’s clear we’re here for the same job. The wealthy clients of Le Nanny (the agency who I am affiliated with) can be notoriously picky. So it isn’t a given that I will simply walk in the door and snag this cushy gig.

I’m going to have to somehow impress this client, despite the fact that I surely have less experience than all of my competition. My stomach does a flip and I feel sweat break out on my forehead.

Shit. This isn’t going to be easy, is it?

But then again, nothing in New York City is easy. If I wanted easy, I could have stayed back in my tiny little town in Ohio and played it safe. No, I’m here to make a go of it in The Big Apple, and I’m not going to let a little competition scare me off.

I give the receptionist my name, take a seat, and pull out my iPad to pretend to read. Truth is, I’m too nervous to focus on any words. I really need this job. For myself, to prove I can make it in this city, but also to learn, get my feet wet in the world of children and childcare since I don’t have much experience.

I haven’t received any info about the person hiring, though. The job could be about caring for school aged kids, teens, or it could be for triplets, for all I know. Triplets with powerful vocal chords. All I know is that there’s a lot of money involved. I just hope the family is nice and that they want me, despite the fact that I’ve never done this job before.

After a minute, one of the other girls gets called in, even though I’m on time for my appointment. Clearly, they’re running late.

Logging onto the guest wi-fi, I browse articles about self-confidence during interviews. Any last-minute tips would be great. I don’t get to read more than three paragraphs of one article when the first girl who got called in comes out the door, eyes rimmed with pink, dabbing her fingertips to the corners.

Shit. That cannot be good.

I try not to care. Maybe she didn’t have the qualifications, or maybe she was already having a bad morning by the time she was called inside.

The next girl gets called in and also comes out after only a few minutes, giving us all a pale, frightened look and shaking her head as she quickly exits the lobby.

What the hell?

My stomach gives a nervous twist.

The three of us remaining girls exchange looks, as one gets called inside. The rest of the line-up goes the same way with the next two nannies going in and coming out just minutes later looking upset, rattled, and shaken. Who the hell is interviewing them—Godzilla?

No matter. I eat monsters for breakfast.

At least that’s what I keep trying to tell myself, to pump up my quickly fraying confidence.

Now I am definitely sweating, and my mouth is parched. Why is it that the one place I could use some moisture is suddenly bone dry, and the places I don’t want any moisture are basically dripping wet?

Finally, it’s my turn. The slinky gazelle-like receptionist leads me to a room, pushes the door open, and announces my arrival. “The last one of the morning, Mr. Hawthorn.”

“Thank you,” a deep, sexy voice says from inside the room.

My stomach shoots into my throat, but I push away my nerves. I am ready. I am smart and qualified, I am... Holy crap. I nearly falter over a plushy rug at my feet.

There’s a man sitting in a rich leather chair and staring at me in a way that I’ve never been looked at before in my life.

Not just any man—a tall, handsome, well-put-together god of musk and sex in a dark gray suit. The kind of man you never see until you move out of the Midwest and come to New York City for the first time. And even in this city full of the swankiest of the swanky, this guy is on a whole other level.

For one thing, he’s hot as fuck.

Striking clear blue eyes hold my gaze. A chiseled jaw with just the right amount of stubble juts confidently, while plush, full lips make me shiver at the thought of feeling that mouth all over my body…

In that moment, I absorb all sorts of information about him: he’s almost thirty, rich, he knows this city like the back of his hand, and…he’s been with hundreds of women. I’m not sure how I know these things, except that they exude from his pores. The information leaks from the fibers of his being. There’s no way God can grace anyone with those cheekbones, lips, and magnetic stare and not be all those things. There’s no way.

Strong, confident, full of himself, powerful. He breaks off that intimidating stare and then glances over my file. “Bailey Rainville?” he asks.

“The very one,” I answer, adding a stifled, nervous laugh. Why did I say that? It wasn’t even funny or witty. “Yes, pleased to meet you,” I add, walking forward and extending a handshake in his direction.

He stands and our hands connect. He’s got big, warm, manly hands. Something about this man’s hands immediately makes me feel small and timid, feminine and meek. His gaze rips right through me, those steely gray-blue orbs, scrutinizing everything about me as though he’s summed me up in mere moments of looking at me.

“Have a seat,” he orders, sitting back down again himself, glancing at my chest for a nanosecond, then back up at my face.

“Of course. Thanks for having me.” I sit and place my hands on my lap, then on the armrest, then on my lap again. I fold them and unfold them, waiting while he reviews my file. My knee begins bouncing, and I force myself to stop.

“Tell me about your experience with children,” he says without glancing at me. “You can’t be more than what, twenty?”

Wait. Is this the guy in charge of hiring? I can’t see him being a Dad, but then again, this is New York City, so anything’s possible.

“Twenty-two,” I correct him.

“Ah. A mere baby yourself.”

He’s trying to rattle me. I can do this. No need to feel nervous. I’ve already been here longer than the first girl who entered. Obviously, I can’t lead with the fact that I don’t have much experience with children, so I go with the positives. “I graduated with a degree in Elementary Education, and—”

“Do you have experience with infants?” he cuts me off, marking something on the sheet with his pen.

“No, but I—”

“That will be all. Thank you for your time.” He gives me a curt nod, and even though he’s definitely handsome, there’s a level of intolerance in his face. He doesn’t give people much of a chance, does he?

“That’s it?” I grip the armrest.

He looks up. “Yes, that’s quite enough. The agency should have sent me a more qualified applicant.”

“You didn’t really let me explain,” I say much to my own surprise.

“Why should I let you explain? You don’t meet my needs.”

“But I do…meet your needs.” I swallow softly. “Sir.”

A slow, smartass smile unfurls on his face. “Hawthorn. Zayden Hawthorn,” he says, pressing a fingertip to his cheek. He’s amused and seems open to hearing more of this display of defiance. “Go on, Miss Rainville.”

His name sounds familiar though I don’t know where I’ve heard it, and now that I think about it, his face looks familiar, too. I think about what I’m going to say now that I have his full attention. “Yes. I, uh…have a deep desire to learn, Mr. Hawthorn. You’ll find that it’s my strongest trait.”

This particular combination of words amuses him even more, and I want—to—die. “Is that so? Tell me why.”

“Well, first of all, I’m from a small town nobody’s ever heard of. And already I’ve worked my way through college, and now I’m working my way through New York City. I can only go up from here.”

His nostrils flare. “Or you could go down.”

I swallow hard and feel my nipples stiffen as I try to figure out if he’s playing with me. “I don’t understand what you mean. Sir.”

“I mean, this city has a way of chewing people up and spitting them out. What did you think I meant?”

You could go down.

The phrase has layers of meaning, and immediately I imagine myself wrapping my lips around his cock, sucking, as he forces himself deeper into my mouth, then shooting everything, hot and sticky down my throat…

He snaps his fingers and I startle, realizing I was drifting off into that fantasy, and I lick my lips nervously, then steel myself to meet his gaze. “I won’t be chewed up and spit out,” I reply with conviction. “I’m going to make it here. I promise you that.”

“Good for you. But again, nothing to do with caring for an infant.” He slaps closed the file and shifts, as if readying himself to stand.

I can’t let him dismiss me the way he dismissed the others. I have to keep fighting, no matter what, until he kicks me out of here. “It’s got everything to do with caring for an infant,” I say, eliciting a raised eyebrow from him. Holy shit, he’s hot. Sexy as fuck and knows it. I glance away for fear of losing my train of thought again just looking at him. Already, my hands sweat, my heart pounds, and an unfamiliar tightness tugs at my belly.

“I’m curious to see how you’re going to support your claim, Miss Rainville.”

Support my claim. He means what does any of this have to do with being a good nanny.

I clear my throat. “All right. How many new mothers know about caring for an infant before they have to? None. They’ve read all the books, like me, read all the articles, like me, and maybe they’ve experienced holding other people’s babies, but that doesn’t mean they’re unprepared for the job. What makes them prepared is that they love children and they aren’t afraid to learn and work hard to be a great mother.”

He says nothing, just watches me closely. “Continue.”

“All it takes is me wanting to meet this baby for the first time more than anything else in the world, and the rest will fall into place,” I add, selling harder. “You’re right, I’m not some old woman with years of taking care of kids under my belt, burnt out and fed up and sure I know it all. Rather, I’m young, motivated, and hungry. I’m well-educated about early childhood development, I am extremely focused and willing to work harder than just about anyone you’ve ever met. I want to do this, I want to be great at it. I want to serve your needs sir.”

His nostrils flare and his eyes bore into me, seeming to turn black with intensity, and suddenly I know I’ve said the right words. I feel they’re true. How many people have skills but no desire? Experience but no drive? I came to New York City to learn, to grow as a person, and I’m not going to let this man shut me down before I’ve even had the chance to sell myself.

He sits back in his leather wingback chair and takes a deep breath, steeple of fingertips at his mouth and nose. “All right,” he says, and my tummy tugs again.

When he crosses his legs the other way, I catch a glimpse of his legs—thick—his crotch—thicker—and I feel the warmth of my cheeks rising, pissed at myself for having checked him out at a moment as important as this. He notices, and that tiny knowing smirk materializes again. Ugh, now he’ll think I’m totally taken by him.

Eyes on the prize, Bailey, not the man.

Suddenly, he presses a button on a speaker next to him. “Carmen, cancel the rest of today’s interviews. Inform the agency that…” He looks up at me, that steely gaze burning a hole right into my soul. “I’ve found who I’m looking for.”

Holy. Crap.

I’m incredibly impressed with myself. Somehow, I got this cold, soulless guy to listen. How did I manage it? Biting my inner lip, I try not to give off an air of gloating and await further instructions. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, standing and moving past me. In that whoosh of air, I get a whiff of his scent and air displacement. He smells like cleanliness, the woods, and something I can’t even name. All I know is that I’ve never been more attracted to any man in my entire life, not that I’ve been with any. I hope to God I never see him again after this, lest I risk losing focus. “Come with me,” he says.

I follow him out the door, down the hall, to another room where a group of people sit around a conference table. I’m guessing this is where the family is, and Mr. Hawthorn was just a go-between, maybe an attorney, some sort of middle man in this interview process.

Good, because I’m not sure I could deal with seeing a man this hot every single day—

“I want this one,” Mr. Hawthorn says, looking at me, checking for my reaction to his every word. “Miss Rainville, this is social services and that’s my attorney, George Harlin.”

His attorney? Wait, he is the father?

He’s the dad I’ll be working for every day?

I give a small wave to everyone despite my confusion, but I still don’t understand why I’m here. Where’s the rest of the family in need of a nanny? Is the woman sitting in the corner his wife? My eyes are drawn to the baby in her arms, so soft and tiny and out of place in this cold, gray building. That precious angel should be in a beautiful nursery filled with wondrous sights and sounds, not in the concrete jungle.

“Miss Rainville will be Olivia’s nanny while we sort out this mess,” Zayden tells the woman, and she nods.

“Good, then we can make the transition now, Mr. Hawthorne,” she replies, and now it’s clear she is not the mother at all. Just another member of the team working for him.

The team of people begin shuffling papers for Mr. Hawthorn to sign, pushing a few documents in front of me to sign as well. “If you’re accepting the position,” the attorney says, looking eager to get this over with, “we’ll need you to sign here…and here…and here.”

Once I’ve signed all forms, I barely have time to rejoice before the woman in the corner brings the baby closer to me, and in the whirlwind of confusion, I see clearly that Olivia is Zayden Hawthorn’s child. I see it immediately in her gorgeous blue eyes. She’s the spitting image of her gorgeous father.

The child is only about six months old, yet something has happened to put her in the middle of some legal situation. My heart goes out to her, and I don’t even know her yet.

“Where’s her mother?” I ask, but nobody answers me.

The woman from social services places the baby in my arms, as Mr. Hawthorn says, “Miss Rainville, you’ll begin at seven tomorrow morning, arriving at my home. You’ll take care of Olivia twenty-four hours a day, full-time, and I’ll provide you with everything you both need. After all,” he says, holding my gaze for a long moment. “You are excited about diving right in to learn. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” I say nervously.

Quickly, the baby gets placed in my arms. She’s beautiful with pale skin, wide eyes and perfect pouty lips, a gift from the universe, a darling spark of light and love amidst this crazy skyscraper town with fast-moving people. And suddenly, inopportunely, in front of everyone watching, Baby Olivia becomes the loudest crier I have ever heard in my entire life.

Thanks, kid. Way to throw me under the bus.