Layla Before I can start the undoubtedly long and expensive process of finding a lawyer for my grandparents, I have a shift at a local coffee shop followed by a half-day with the Sorensens. My shift at the coffee shop is only four hours, from the dark pre-dawn of four-thirty in the morning to a grey eight-thirty. Being Saturday, the rush of early-morning commuters is more of a trickle, but there are enough customers to ke ep me busy. Hanging up my apron and washing a few coffee grounds off my fingers at the end of my shift, I nod to the barista taking over my station at the hulking espresso machine. “Have fun rubbing elbows with billionaires!” Rachael calls out, her nose ring glinting under the bright lights above. She turns the knob for the steam wand and starts frothing milk, all the while wiggling her eyebrows at me. Rachael is a tall, broad woman with de ep dimples in her full cheeks. We clicked from our very first shift together. She showed me how to make latte art and made me laugh endlessly while we endured the drudgery of a minimum- wage job. She’s got chin-length brown hair with a silver streak down one side, which she tells me started growing when she was eighteen. She thought it was funky and left it, adding in a few bright strands throughout her hair to set off the silver. With her delicate nose ring and tattoos poking out from under her short sleeves, she is the epitome of cool. She’s also a damn good cook. Almost every day we’ve worked together, Rachael has brought me samples of her cooking to try—I suspect because she knows I’m struggling for money and she likes to feed people. She and my grandmother would get along. Rachael has been trying to start her own catering business for three years, and she gets casual jobs here and there, but, like me, supplements her income with the café job. She’s... a friend. I don’t have many of those, but Rachael is one of them. “You all gossip too much for your own good,” I grumble, even though my lips twitch. “You’re no better,” Rachael answers with a grin. Her dimples make an appearance, and I can’t help but smile back. “I expect a full r eport tomorrow morning. With pictures.” Laughing, I wave at the people behind the register, then grab my bag from the back room and slip into the bathrooms to change into an outfit appropriate for a billionaire’s nanny. Sort of. Black jeans, long-sleeve shirt in a soft cream color, and hair up in a no-nonsense ponytail. For no reason whatsoever, I brush on some mascara and dab a bit of concealer over a stubborn red zit in the middle of my chin. Whoever said acne was only for teenagers going through puberty was a dirty, awful liar. I’ll be thirty years old in eighteen months, and I still have to deal with blemishes all the damn time. Leif’s skin was flawless, my brain informs me. Bet it would taste good to lick, my lady-parts add. He was clean shaven to show off his strong, square jaw, with the gold undertones in his skin making his blue eyes
even more brilliant. There are no angry zits taking up valuable facial real estate when you have a billionaire skincare regimen, apparently. Tapping out the concealer, I straighten my clothes and throw on my jacket. Emma insisted I wear her new shoes this morning—all-black sneakers that don’t have any holes in them and aren’t still soaked from my traipsing through the snow last night—so at least I look presentable from head to toe. Then I head to my second of three jobs for the day, ignoring the tangled nerves in my stomach. I’m not nervous. There’s nothing to be nervous about. I know Isla, the precocious seven-year-old who has Leif’s eyes and hair. We saw each other nearly every day for months last year when I met Harriet and Dani at the park for our daily coffees and playdates. As I bury my chin in my jacket and brace myself against the cold wind on my way to the subway, I know I’m lying to myself. It’s not Isla that makes me nervous. It’s her father. With minutes to spare for my nine-a. m. start at my new nannying gig, I make it to Leif and Isla Sorensen’s home. The townhouse is located in the Upper West Side, a stone’s throw away from the David H. Koch Theatre in the Lincoln Center. I bet Isla loves that. When I knew her, she was always twirling like a ballerina in the park, practicing her positions, and dancing her way across the grass. Standing in front of the townhouse, I bite back my surprise. It looks so... normal. I was expecting some gleaming penthouse, a glittering jewel overlooking Central Park. From the outside, this place looks almost... modest. But then I ring the doorbell. Expecting a maid or a member of staff, I’m surprised to see Isla herself in the open doorway. She’s wearing a frilly peach skirt on top of a leotard with her hair in a sleek ballerina bun on top of her head, and her face splits into a broad smile at the sight of me. “Layla!” she cries. “Daddy told me it would be you. You’re supposed to take me to ballet, but first you have to sign some papers for Daddy. Mrs. Harriet is with her husband. We sent her some flowers at the hospital, and I’m going to go see her and her husband later. Daddy said he’d take me, so I’m making a card when I’m done with ballet.” All this is said while she stands in the doorway. Then she takes a st ep aside to let me in, and my jaw drops. I take back what I said about this place being modest. It’s like one of those enchanted bags that’s larger on the inside than it is on the outside. It looks like Leif actually bought two (maybe three?) townhouses side-by-side and knocked down the wall between them, with the front half of the space completely open-plan. Gleaming hardwood floors are covered in luxurious rugs. To my left, a massive sofa faces a central fir eplace that can be seen from either side, with blue, gas-powered flames dancing in the central core. Vibrant artwork is displayed on two walls, with matching armchairs and tasteful, luxurious finishes. Oh, to have money. What would it be like to live in a place like this every day? What would it be like to have enough room for an actual desk for Emma to study at? Maybe even have two bathrooms? A s eparate shower and bath? Space for the two of us. A small hand slips into mine, completely oblivious to the heartbreak occurring inside me. Isla drags me inside with exaggerated huffs before closing the door behind me, but I hardly notice her.
Because the truth? The truth is that I live in an apartment a tenth of the size of the ground floor alone, I share it with my sister, and I have to work three jobs just to ke ep food on the table for the two of us. Movement makes me turn toward a staircase on the right side of the room. Leif prowls down the st eps, his eyes meeting mine in an instant. He’s wearing charcoal-grey suit pants and a white shirt that’s open at the collar. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal corded forearms, the muscles writhing and bunching as he raises his hand to comb his fingers through his blond hair. I’ve never seen such a refined Viking. He looks like a battle-worn warrior dressed up to fool hapless maidens into thinking he’s not a dangerous predator. Feeling very much like a hapless maiden, I gulp. “Layla,” he says, and the sound of my name on his lips does something criminal to my insides. Clenching my thighs together, I nod. “Mr. Sorensen.” His blue eyes flash, something like amusement glinting in them. Instead of answering, he shifts his gaze to Isla. “Is your bag packed for ballet?” Isla rolls her eyes in a display of undiluted sass. “Yes, Daddy. I’ve been waiting for you forever.” “We’ll be going soon.” He turns. “Layla, follow me.” Clearly, Leif Sorensen is used to being obeyed. He doesn’t pause for an answer before striding across the gorgeous living room to a door on the far wall. Even though I bristle at being told to come like I’m a lapdog trotting after him, I do as he says. Never bite the hand that feeds, and all that. If I’m going to help my grandparents fight to ke ep their home, I need every penny I can get. Sassing Leif Sorensen into firing me would not be conducive to achieving my goals. He walks with purposeful, confident strides toward the back of the room, and I can’t help but notice the way his white shirt clings to his muscular shoulders and the way his pants outline his very gorgeous, very bitable butt. Mentally slapping myself, I snap my eyes up to stare just over his right shoulder. I learned this lesson six years ago. Leif doesn’t care about me. A nanny would be the same as a waitress— beneath his notice. He can save me from being assaulted or from tripping over my own clumsy feet, but I’m not an actual person to him. Sure, he’s attractive, but he might as well be a different species for the good it does me. The two of us are incompatible. It’s never going to happen, and the sooner I acc ept that, the better my life will be. Employer-employee. That’s what we are. That’s all we’ll ever be. Still, when Leif opens the door to the office beyond, standing in the doorway as he motions for me to enter ahead of him, I can’t help sipping in a little bit of his scent as my shoulder brushes his chest. He smells divine. All I want to do is stop where I am, turn into his arms, and bury my face in the crook of his neck. What would it feel like to have those strong arms wrapped around me once more? To feel safe, protected, supported for just another short moment? Shoulders stiff, I force the thought from my mind. What I need to do right now is focus on work. If I can get a good reference from Leif, it might be exactly what I need to get a permanent placement from Linda Delmar. All these rich people know each other, and I just need an in. As a full-time nanny, I can make a decent living and take care of my sister and grandparents. This week is just a st epping-stone to
stability. So all thoughts of how sexy Leif looks with the top button of his shirt undone need to leave my mind. He’s my boss, nothing more. But when the door clicks shut behind me, desire wraps silken, heated fingers around my core—and squeezes.