Nanny for the Billionaire Grump

2. Chapter 1

Liv Strauss

The day he walked into Clockwork Tavern, I was arguing with three pounds of ice about whether to restock before the after-work crowd arrived. The ice won.

I dumped the bucket, wiped down the well, and my shoulders filed their usual Tuesday complaint — the one that reminded me twenty-five wasn't ancient but wasn't twenty either. I was reaching for the speed pourers when the door swung open.

He walked in like he owned the building. Not in an obnoxious way, not loud or demanding, just with the quiet certainty of a man who had probably never been told no in his life.

I pointed to the table by the window. "That one's open."

He looked at the stool directly in front of me. The one Denny had been warming for six years before his shift at the print shop. The one with the good view of the TV and the better view of whoever was mixing drinks.

He sat on the stool.

White shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, dark hair trimmed close. A smartwatch caught the low light when he moved, and his eyes swept the room once, cataloguing everything, before landing on me.

I set down a glass of water with slightly more force than necessary. A few drops splashed over the rim. "That stool's reserved."

"For who?"

"For people who don't look at a bartender like she's a scheduling problem."

Something flickered across his face. Not quite a smile, but close. The corner of his mouth twitched, and his eyes stayed on mine a beat longer than comfortable. "I wasn't aware seating required a personality assessment."

"It doesn't. But it does require asking nicely." I grabbed a rag and started wiping down the bar, mostly to give my hands something to do that wasn't strangling a stranger. "Or, you know, basic human acknowledgment that other people exist."

He was quiet for a moment. I could feel him watching me work, and it made the back of my neck prickle in a way I didn't appreciate. When I finally looked up, he was studying me like I was a problem he hadn't anticipated.

"What can I get you?" I asked, because standing there having a staring contest wasn't going to pay my rent.

"What do you recommend?"

"Water's free. You've already got some."

That almost-smile again. "Something stronger."

I considered him. The watch looked expensive in the way that doesn't announce itself. The shirt was simple, but the fit was too good to be off the rack.

Everything about him screamed money, yet he'd walked into Clockwork Tavern — a place that smelled, as it always had, of old wood, lime wedges, and the ghost of a thousand spilled whiskeys that had seeped into the floorboards over the decades.

This was my kingdom, such as it was. Twelve feet of scarred mahogany between me and whatever the world decided to throw at me on any given night.

It was two blocks from the financial district and worlds away from the wine bars where his type usually landed — usually right up until the week they bought the block and renamed it something with a Roman numeral in it.

I'd watched it happen to the deli, the laundromat, the record store.

I poured drinks for the people who'd lost those fights, not the ones who'd won them.

"You look like a whiskey guy," I said. "Neat. Something aged, probably single malt, because you want people to think you have taste but you don't actually want to think about what you're drinking."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "That's specific."

"I've been doing this a while." I pulled down the Glenfiddich 15, poured two fingers, and slid it across the bar. "Forty-two fifty."

He didn't blink at the price. Just pulled out his wallet, extracted a fifty, and set it on the bar without looking at the bill. "Keep it."

"Generous."

"Efficient. I don't like waiting for change."

I pocketed the fifty and grabbed my rag again. "Well, enjoy your drink. When you're done, there's a perfectly good table by the window that's got your name on it."

He lifted the glass, took a sip, and set it down without any of the performance some guys did when they were trying to prove they knew whiskey. "This stool is fine."

"This stool is reserved."

"You said that." He took another sip. "And yet here I am."

I wanted to be annoyed. I was annoyed. But there was something in his voice, dry and unbothered, that made it hard to stay properly irritated. He wasn't being an ass, exactly. He was just being immovable in a way that suggested he'd had a lot of practice at it.

"Fine." I threw the rag over my shoulder. "But when Denny shows up and wants his seat, you're moving."

"Denny?"

"Fifty-eight, works at the print shop, has been sitting in that exact spot every Tuesday and Thursday for six years. He's going to want his stool."

"Then I'll buy him a drink and he can sit next to me."

I stared at him. He stared back, and this time I caught something else in those coffee-colored eyes. Not arrogance, exactly. More like someone who was used to solving problems by removing obstacles, and who genuinely didn't understand why I was making this difficult.

"You don't have a lot of people tell you no, do you?" I asked.

"Not often, no."

"Must be nice."

"It's efficient."

I laughed despite myself, a short bark that surprised us both. His eyebrows went up again, and I caught him looking at my mouth for a fraction of a second before his gaze returned to his drink. I went back to wiping a bar that was already clean, and pretended my neck wasn't warm.

"I'm going to check on my other customers," I said. "Try not to annoy anyone else while I'm gone."

He raised his glass in acknowledgment but didn't say anything.

I spent the next hour doing my job, which mostly meant restocking the garnish trays, running a few tabs, and pretending I wasn't hyperaware of the man in Denny's seat.

He didn't try to talk to me again. Just sat there, sipping his whiskey, occasionally checking his phone with the kind of rapid-fire typing that suggested he was doing something more important than scrolling social media.

Denny came in at his usual time and stopped short when he saw his stool occupied.

"Who's this guy?" he asked me, loud enough to carry.

The man turned on the stool, reached into his wallet again, and said, "Can I buy you a drink?"

Denny squinted at him. "Why?"

"I'm in your seat. Apparently that's a significant offense."

Denny looked at me. I shrugged. He looked back at the man, then at the fifty-dollar bill being held out, then at me again.

"Whiskey sour," he said finally, settling onto the stool next to his usual spot. "And keep the change."

I made Denny's drink and watched those eyes track my every move as I muddled, poured, shook. When the glass hit the bar, a single nod. Like I'd passed some kind of test.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing. You're good at this."

"Yeah, well. It's my job."

"Most people are mediocre at their jobs."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"An observation." He finished his whiskey and set the empty glass on the bar. "Same thing tomorrow?"

I blinked. "You're coming back?"

"Is that a problem?"

Yes, I thought. You're sitting in Denny's seat and looking at me like I'm interesting and I don't need that kind of complication in my life.

"It's a free country," I said instead. "Just don't expect me to save your seat."

He almost smiled again. Then he stood, left another bill on the bar, and walked out without saying goodbye.

I watched him go. The door swung shut behind him, and the Tuesday evening noise of the bar rushed back in, all clinking glasses and muted conversation and the sports commentator droning from the TV in the corner.

"Who was that?" Denny asked, sipping his whiskey sour.

"No idea."

"Huh." He swirled his drink. "Seemed like he knew you."

"He doesn't."

Denny gave me the look he'd been giving me for years whenever I said something he didn't believe. I ignored it, the way I'd been ignoring it for all that time, and went back to work.

He came back on Wednesday. Same time, same stool, same white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I had his drink poured before he sat down.

"Glenfiddich 15," I said, sliding it across the bar. "Neat. Forty-two fifty."

He looked at the glass, then at me. Something shifted in his expression, too quick to read. "You remembered."

"I remember everyone's order. It's literally my job."

"Still." He set a fifty on the bar. "Keep it."

"You keep saying that. I'm going to start thinking you don't know how to count change."

"I know how to count change. I just don't see the point in waiting for it."

I pocketed the fifty. "Must be nice."

"You said that yesterday."

"Did I?" I grabbed my rag and started wiping down the bar, even though it didn't need it. "Guess you're not that memorable after all."

His mouth twitched. "And yet you remembered my drink."

I didn't have a comeback for that, so I didn't try. Just moved down the bar to check on my other customers, which on a Wednesday evening meant three regulars nursing beers and a couple in the corner booth who'd been making out for the last twenty minutes.

When I came back, he was watching me again. Not in a creepy way, exactly. More like someone studying a piece of equipment they were trying to figure out.

"What?" I said.

"Every time the conversation gets somewhere you don't want it to go, you find something to clean or someone to check on." He took a sip of his whiskey. "It's a good strategy. Most people wouldn't notice."

"And you noticed because you're not most people?"

"I noticed because I do the same thing with my phone."

I stared at him. He stared back, and for a second I saw something underneath the composed exterior. Something tired, maybe. Or just honest in a way I hadn't expected.

"That's very self-aware of you," I said finally.

"I've been told I'm efficient at most things. Including self-assessment."

"Efficient." I shook my head. "Is that your favorite word?"

"It's accurate."

"It's clinical."

"Also accurate." He finished his whiskey in one long swallow, set the glass down, and stood. "Same time tomorrow?"

"I'll be here."

He nodded once and walked out.

He came back Thursday. Friday. By the following Tuesday I had his drink poured before he was through the door, and I'd stopped pretending I wasn't watching for it to open.

None of it added up, and I'd started keeping a private list. He was left-handed.

He checked his phone exactly three times a visit, always the same rapid-fire typing, like he was putting out fires the rest of us couldn't see.

He never ordered food, never stayed past one drink, never once flinched at a tab that would've made my other regulars wince.

A man with that watch could drink anywhere in the city.

He kept choosing twelve feet of scarred mahogany two blocks from Wall Street, and me.

It was the third Tuesday when Denny handed me the answer.

"That's Zoltan Boros, you know."

I was slicing limes, which meant I had an excuse not to look up. "Who?"

"The guy in my seat." Denny jerked his thumb toward the stool, where Boros was running a finger around the rim of his empty glass. "Boros. The tech guy."

"Never heard of him."

"Bullshit." Denny leaned in, conspiratorial. "He built that cybersecurity thing. Governments call him before they call each other, that's what they say. Bought the company at thirty, turned it into something crazy. Worth hundreds of millions, probably."

I glanced at him. White shirt, rolled sleeves, smartwatch catching the light. Frowning at his phone like it had personally offended him.

Hundreds of millions. And he was spending his Tuesday evenings drinking forty-dollar whiskey in a dive bar two blocks from Wall Street, watching me slice limes.

So that was the answer. Somehow it only made me like it less — because now he wasn't just a man who didn't take no for an answer. He was the kind who'd never once had to.

"Huh," I said.

"That's it? Huh?" Denny shook his head. "Liv, the guy's a billionaire. An actual billionaire. And he's been staring at you for three weeks."

"He hasn't been staring."

"He absolutely has. Everyone's noticed."

I set down my knife. Boros chose that exact moment to look up, and for a second our eyes locked across the bar.

He didn't smile. Didn't nod. Just held my gaze with that quiet intensity that had been prickling my skin for three weeks — the patience of a man used to acquiring whatever held his attention long enough.

I looked away first.

"It doesn't matter who he is," I said, picking the knife back up. "He's a customer. He tips well. That's all I care about."

Denny snorted. "Sure it is."

I ignored him and went back to my limes, but I could feel his eyes on me for the rest of the night.

When closing came and the last of the regulars had filtered out, he was still there. Still in Denny's seat, nursing a second whiskey I'd poured without him asking.

"We're closing," I said.

"I know."

"That means you have to leave."

"I know." He didn't move. Just watched me stack glasses with that same quiet attention. "You're good at this."

"You said that already. The first night."

"It's still true."

"Why do you come here?" I asked. "A guy like you could drink anywhere."

Something flickered in his eyes. "You know who I am?"

"Denny told me."

"And?"

"And nothing." I shrugged. "You're a customer. You tip well. I don't care about the rest."

He studied me for a long moment, and I made myself not look away.

"That's why," he said finally.

"What?"

"You asked why I come here." He finished his whiskey and set the glass down with care. "That's why."

Before I could find anything to say to that, he stood, left his usual ridiculous tip on the bar, and walked out.

I stayed where I was a long time, staring at the empty stool. I should have found him annoying. I should have wanted him gone, off to drink somewhere that made sense for a man worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

Instead I caught myself counting the hours until Wednesday — a problem I decided not to examine too closely.

I locked up and stepped out into the cool night.

I walked home, the smell of him still caught somewhere in my memory, and told myself it didn't mean anything.