Nanny for the Don (Silver Fox Daddies #21)

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Audrey

M y heel taps a rhythmic protest on the checkered marble floor.

One hour lost in the wilderness of corporate indifference and I’m dangerously close to being late for work.

Mr. Winchester, the billionaire real estate tycoon, had insisted on personally attending to the plights of us less fortunate Emerald residents.

You’d think a billionaire real estate mogul would have enough lackeys on his payroll to delegate such menial tasks. Instead, here I am, wasting precious moments of my life, mentally crafting a vibrant tapestry of complaints and legal threats.

I've yet to lay eyes on the man, but my mind paints him as a modern-day Ebenezer Scrooge, albeit one who likely invests heavily in hair restoration—because clearly, any excessive fluff up top must be compensating for other...shortcomings.

I stifle a chuckle at my own mental imagery.

His secretary appears to be both stressed out and abrasive toward anyone who dares to interrupt her workflow. Her fingers tapping away at the keyboard as though her very life depends on it.

For the love of sanity, someone hand that woman a tequila shot. By my observation, she’s under a lot of pressure.

As a kindergarten teacher, I’ve learned to pay attention to the details in human body language. From kids to adults, we’re all the same. Nervous tics. Fleeting glances. Flaring nostrils. The changes in one’s breathing pattern. There are many ways in which our own bodies betray us.

I'm transfixed by the hypnotic allure of her long and nimble fingers, the red nail polish glistening under the soft reception lights, wondering when I’ll get a chance to paint my own nails. My students keep me so busy, and we often get our hands dirty with our daily activities that it feels like a waste of time and a waste of pricey nail polish at this point.

I observe an elderly gentleman coming out of Mr. Winchester’s office.

“Thank you, Jason,” the man in a grey suit says. “I’ll be in touch with the next quarter’s reports.”

“Take care of yourself,” drifts the reply, a voice smooth enough to be criminal.

It’s not until the secretary’s relentless typing ceases that I realize it’s my turn. Her gaze catches mine, an odd mix of curiosity and irritation.

“Oh, it’s my turn?” My voice drips with dry humor. I’ve waited long enough; my patience has passed its limit.

“Yes,” she confirms, ushering me forward. “Mr. Winchester will see you now.”

I don’t plan on letting him off the hook.

Everybody’s time is valuable, billionaire net worth or not.

“Thanks,” I shoot back, confidently strutting past her desk. I let her callous attitude slide.

Stepping into Mr. Winchester's office, I'm unexpectedly brought to a standstill, my breath catching as I take in the figure before me.

For the first time in my twenty-three years, a man has rendered me utterly speechless.

Jason Winchester shatters all my expectations.

Even while seated, his presence is commanding—broad shoulders and muscular arms barely contained by a dark blue suit that hints at the raw power underneath.

Those eyes...

His piercing blue eyes strip away my defenses, leaving me exposed and vulnerable.

His hair, rich brown with whispers of gray at the temples, is styled with an artful nonchalance that suggests casual luxury. The thought of running my fingers through his hair, over the rough shadow of stubble on his chiseled jaw, sends a thrill of anticipation down my spine.

Jason Winchester, in his mid-forties, exudes a devastating charisma that dominates the room, his very essence an intoxicating blend of authority and allure.

My eyes travel down to his left hand. No wedding band. Fuck yes!

As he watches me, one eyebrow arched in curiosity, I suddenly realize my gaze has been locked on him for far too long.

This time, it's my own body that betrays me, reacting in ways I hadn't anticipated.

"Miss Smith, I presume?" His voice, as smooth as aged whiskey.

"Yes, that's right," I manage, pulling myself back to the reason for my visit. "Our meeting was scheduled for an hour ago."

Jason’s lips curl into a faint smile, reminiscent of a tiger surveying its prey.

“The takeover of The Emerald complex has demanded a considerable amount of my attention. I appreciate your patience.”

Everything about his voice and body language scream ‘no fucks given’.

I almost laugh. His indifference is palpable.

“Keeping someone waiting, particularly a tenant, is not only disrespectful—it’s poor management,” I reply, allowing Audrey the Assertive to surface, although I have no idea where she’s coming from—his heavy gaze causing the knot in my stomach to tighten.

“Please, have a seat. I’m listening,” he counters coolly, every word measured, his attention seemingly genuine but I sense the performative undertone.

He surveys me, an unspoken challenge in his gaze as the wind howls its wintry fury outside. My trek here, through the frigid weather, seems to matter little to him.

“Here’s the deal. I don’t care who bought the complex, who’s in charge now, or what your reasons are for keeping me waiting. What I do care about is that for the past couple of months, we’ve not had enough heat or hot water,” I tell him, my tone clipped with frustration. “I’m damn tired of taking cold showers. I pay a lot of money for an upscale apartment in the heart of old Chicago. The Emerald is supposed to be a premium complex, yet I’m freezing my ass off on a daily basis. It’s mid-winter in Chicago!”

“I see.”

“I’ve complained repeatedly and have spoken to everyone in the administrative office. I also emailed anyone else I could find who might be able to help, and I am aware other residents in the complex have as well since I’m not the only one dealing with this problem.”

“Go on.” He leans back in his chair, apparently listening to me, though I beg to differ.

“And I’ve been given the runaround and nothing else. When did your company buy the complex? Three weeks ago? Four? I’ve lost track because I’ve been too cold to think of anything else. This situation is unacceptable. All I am being told is, ‘Sorry, Miss Smith, we’ll send somebody to check it out.’ And so they send the building’s maintenance guy who then tells me it’s a supplier issue. When I call the supplier, they tell me it’s a building issue. And so on and so forth. In the meantime, it’s the middle of January, and I’m still freezing my ass off.”

He nods a couple of times. “Anything else?”

His apathetic tone is pushing my buttons.

Here I am, on the verge of losing my shit while he sits here, infuriatingly composed, watching me with his striking blue eyes. I’m already amped up, so I keep going, listing every issue I’ve ever had with the building, sparing no details.

Out of breath, I’m finally satisfied.

“Excuse my rant but I figured as the new owner, maybe you’d care to finally do something about this shit show.”

“I expect nothing less,” he says.

It’s amazing how infuriating a man can be without saying a word. Jason Winchester has barely spoken. Yet beneath my winter coat, I am shivering and simmering at the same time.

Every time our eyes meet, I get a jolt somewhere inside my chest, and I feel the heat spreading downward.

After a pause that seemed to stretch into eternity, he finally speaks. "The previous owner's neglect has not gone unnoticed, which is why I'm taking the time to meet with tenants personally. I fully intend to rectify this... shit show, as you’ve aptly described it. However, these changes won't happen overnight, and I can see you've endured quite enough. Here's what I propose: I'll arrange for you to stay in one of my Lake View penthouses, free of charge, while we address the heating issues in your building."

“Your penthouse?!?” I ask, not sure I heard him correctly. “Are you kidding?”

He doesn’t seem fazed, only amused. “No, I’m not. It’s inhumane to have you staying in a place with no heat and barely any hot water in the middle of a Chicago winter.”

“Well. I can’t possibly stay in a stranger’s home, and Lake View is too far from my work. That’s just not a viable option.”

“Audrey, rather Miss Smith,” he begins, and I notice a slight change in his tone. “Whatever the issue is with The Emerald Residence, it won’t be resolved overnight. Besides, I now have to replace the entire building staff over there since they clearly haven’t been doing their jobs.”

“Hold on,” I say, my blood suddenly running cold. “That’s a lot of people, and at least half of them are good folks. They work hard, and they have families to support. You can’t do that.”

“Well, you can’t have it both ways now, can you?” he asks, smirking. “What’s it going to be, Miss Smith? You came to me with a problem; I have offered the only solution I have available for you at this time. My penthouses are momentarily unoccupied, and I don’t mind letting you stay there while your place gets fixed. But I still have to do something about the building management, either way. No matter how you look at it, someone is going to lose. Would you rather it be you? Again?”

I think of Sammy, who manages the janitorial team; Rosa, who handles the day-to-day logistics; and Manny, who has been nothing but kind and patient with me when his own bosses had him telling me to call this number or that number. They don’t deserve to lose their jobs because the building owners are absolute crap. He’s talking about firing the wrong people, and it’s completely unfair.

I shoot up from my seat. “It’s not fair,” I snap, my anger getting the better of me. “It’s not ethical. And it’s not what I came here for, Mr. Winchester. I expect my heating problem to be fixed within the next forty-eight hours, or I will have no choice but to let my lawyer handle it from there!”

Little does he know I can’t afford a lawyer since every penny I have is tied up in my apartment, and my kindergarten teacher’s salary won’t even cover a single consultation with an attorney.

He says nothing, which makes me feel helpless and vulnerable.

“Thanks for nothing,” I mutter as I stand up and turn to leave.

“Hold on, Miss Smith.”

I turn around just in time to see him get up and offer me a business card. “What’s this for?” I ask.

“I think you’ll need it.”

He walks over and hands it to me. Our fingers touch for the briefest of seconds, and it’s enough to make my vision temporarily hazy as I stare at the card. “We’ll see about that,” I scoff.

He’s confident and somewhat cocky, but I try to leave with my head held high.

However, by the time I reach the elevator, I’m trembling like a leaf in the wind, and not because of the cold. I’ve been rattled to the core by this man, and I have no idea why.

It’s as if my own brain and body have turned against me.

I was supposed to keep my cool at all costs.

How did I go off the rails so quickly?

How did I practically throw a tantrum in front of a seductive man, twice my age—insanely attractive and infuriatingly cocky?