Nine Week Nanny (One-Night Billionaires #3)

1. Sloane

ONE

Sloane

I push through the glass doors of Citrine. The scent of eucalyptus and sweet orange hits me like a hug.

This place hums with that particular brand of Palm Beach energy. Citrine is all the rage right now, from influencers to tinctures to their amazing spa offerings. I can't believe I'm standing in the flagship, where it all began.

I tug at my tank top, already regretting the side-knot. My leggings scream not from here, all stretched-thin and faded. But whatever. I'm manifesting my fresh start.

The juice menu hangs above the counter in minimalist sans serif, and I bite back a laugh. Twenty-two dollars for something called "Golden Hour Goddess." I could eat for three days on that.

"What can I get you?" The girl behind the counter has the kind of dewy skin that makes me wonder if she bathes in kombucha.

"Um, the Green Reset, please." Only eighteen dollars. I'm practically saving money.

I lean against the counter, pulling out my phone. I'm anxious for the welcome email from HR. I should have gotten something last week. When I called the recruiter, he assured me it was coming.

Nothing. Just promotional emails and a text from my new landlord about pool maintenance.

Movement catches my peripheral vision. A man emerges from the spa side.

His tall frame fills the doorway with his broad shoulders that strain against a white t-shirt.

He's got a towel slung around his neck, rubbing at it like the massage didn't touch whatever tension he's carrying.

Dark hair with soft curls that are slightly mussed falls on his forehead, and a jaw sharp enough to cut glass clenches slightly.

Our eyes lock, and my stomach flips.

I fumble for a straw from the bin on the counter and nearly drop it.

His mouth quirks. It's barely there, but definitely a smirk, so I know he saw me, too. He keeps walking, and I track his movement despite myself. The way he moves is all controlled power, like he owns every room he enters.

"Green Reset!"

I snap back to reality, grabbing my overpriced juice. The straw wrapper crinkles in my sweaty palm, and I chuck it toward the trash can.

Holy shit. Do all the men in Palm Beach look like that?

I take a long sip of my juice as I walk out of Citrine. The cool liquid slides down my throat and tickles it slightly with the tang. At least it tastes like eighteen dollars.

Palm trees line the street, swaying in the gentle breeze coming off the ocean. Everything here gleams. The storefronts, the cars, even the sidewalk seem polished.

I adjust my side-knotted tank, suddenly conscious of the tiny hole near the hem.

A woman walks past me in white linen pants that probably cost more than my rent. Her skin is pulled tight across her cheekbones, with that telltale smoothness between the eyebrows.

I’m becoming evermore convinced that everyone here has Botox as I tug at my own frown line. If I’m going to live here for the long haul, do I need Botox?

I turn down a quieter street toward my new condo, my mind drifting back to the man at Citrine. Those dark eyes that locked with mine. Something about him sticks, and I catch myself smiling at the narrative I’ll spin later about our pretend life together in my new city.

My phone buzzes. For a split second, hope surges that it’s someone from the clinic. I fish it from my pocket, nearly dropping my cup. It’s a spam call, so I click to end it without answering.

I decide to text Maris, my closest friend from grad school, instead. We met in the therapy program at Clemson in South Carolina. I was in pediatric behavioral, and she was in speech pathology. We survived three years of hell on a steady diet of bad coffee and worse dating stories.

Eye candy everywhere. Just saw the hottest guy at the juice bar—already casting him in my fantasies.

Her reply comes fast. She always has her phone within reach.

Day three in Palm Beach and you’re already thirst-texting me? How’s the actual job Sloaney-Bologna?

Doesn’t start until next week. But I’m manifesting a fresh start. New city, new gig, maybe even a new boyfriend. I’m ready for my romance drought to come to an end.

Oh, la la.

I snort, dodging a palm frond that leans too far over the sidewalk. Yeah. Or maybe him.

I pass manicured hedges and fountains, my sandals slapping softly against the pavement. The entrance to my development comes into view, modest by Palm Beach standards but still nicer than anywhere I’ve lived. The pool glitters in the distance.

My phone buzzes again.

You have a point. You’ve been in a drought since Chad the Chewer.

I groan at the memory of my last disastrous date.

Don’t remind me of him. I’ve sworn off all Chads.

I slow my pace, picturing those dark eyes locking on mine. The warmth in my chest has nothing to do with the heavy Florida air. Chad the Chewer never did that.

Go for it, girl! Why not. You’ve spent practically your whole life celibate.

It’s been seven months, not seven years. Besides, I need to focus on this job.

Speaking of which, every minute with no word is upping my anxiety.

Still no email from HR. I’m supposed to start on Monday. Is this normal? Should I be worried?

I swipe my fob at the gate, the low beep echoing in the warm evening air. The knot of anxiety that’s been sitting under my ribs since I moved here tightens.

Take a breath. Starting a new therapist in a clinic is always chaotic. They probably have their hands full with patient intake. Call tomorrow if you’re worried, but I’m sure everything’s fine.

But what if it’s not? My lease is signed. I’ve already unpacked most of my stuff.

I follow the path toward my building, the trickle of a nearby fountain mingling with the faint hum of cicadas.

Sloane Elizabeth Brennan. The universe brought you to Palm Beach for a reason. You worry about everything. Just relish your cush job and go sit by the pool or something.

I smile despite myself. Classic Maris. She’s always been steady, pragmatic, the one who talks me down when I start to spiral. It’s exactly why she’s good for me.

Good point. Just getting to my new place that is full of overwhelming boxes. Let me go so I can focus my anxiety on that for the moment. LYLAS

I glance at my phone one more time before shoving it in my bag. I need to stop obsessing. She’s probably right. This is my fresh start. Everything's going to be amazing.

I hit my floor in the elevator and step into my apartment. The blast of cold AC hits me like a welcome slap in the face. It's both soothing and scary as hell. I'm here alone, in this new city, new state, and I'm about to start a new job without any safety net.

I drop my bag on the couch and scan the sea of cardboard boxes scattered across the room. There's so much to do, so much to unpack, organize, and rearrange.

In a way, I’m grateful for the distraction. Nesting will give me something to focus on.

I pull my hair into a messy bun, grab a box labeled "KITCHEN,” and slice through the tape. The first thing I pull out is my favorite coffee mug, the one with the chip on the handle.

I pause, running my finger along the worn edge. This mug got me through my last year at Clemson. The late nights, the stacks of case studies, the endless exams come rushing back.

I pull out the rest of the cups, each one a little piece of my past, and line them up on the open shelves. With each box I unpack, this foreign, stark apartment is starting to feel a little more like home.

The lease packet sits on the counter. Its shiny black folder catches the light, taunting me with its expensive glossy finish.

I flip it open. $2,800 a month. My stomach clenches. It’s triple what I paid in Seneca, the small town I lived in while in grad school.

I shove it closed and reach for a stack of chipped plates, sliding them into the cabinet. They look wildly out of place against the glossy white shelves, like they wandered in from a thrift store, which, of course, they did.

Three years of student loans, babysitting money, and dollar-menu dinners had me convinced I’d be eating ramen forever.

Now there’s a salary big enough to make that number on the lease almost reasonable.

Ninety thousand a year with benefits. I can't believe I'm starting my first clinic job with actual paid vacation.

I breathe in, trying to picture myself as the kind of woman who belongs here.

My phone chimes from inside my bag. I wipe my hands on my leggings and dig it out.

It's a new email from Coastal Children's Behavioral Health.

My heart skips. Finally. This must be my welcome packet.

I tap to open it, already mentally planning which outfit I'll wear on Monday.

Dear Ms. Brennan,

Due to unexpected budget constraints, we must postpone your start date for the Pediatric Behavioral Therapist position at Coastal Children’s Behavioral Health. As you know, your offer was extended and accepted; however, a major donor’s withdrawal requires us to adjust near-term staffing.

We expect clarity on timing within 60–90 days and will contact you immediately to confirm a new start date. We appreciate your patience during this period and encourage you to stay in touch with HR should your availability change.

We apologize for the inconvenience this may cause. In the meantime, we encourage you to stay in touch, and we will prioritize your start date as soon as we are able to move forward.

Thank you again for your understanding, and we look forward to reconnecting soon.

Sincerely,

Bev Peters

Director of Human Resources

The phone slips from my hand and clatters onto the counter.

"No." The word comes out as a whisper. "No, no, no."

My legs go weak. I grab the edge of the counter to steady myself. The room spins as my green reset threatens to make a reappearance.

I can't breathe. My chest feels like it's being crushed.

This can't be happening.

I snatch up the phone and read the email again. And again. The words don't change.

My gaze darts to the lease portfolio. I grab it, flipping frantically through the pages until I find what I'm looking for.

Early termination fee: Three months' rent ($8,400) plus forfeiture of security deposit ($2,800).

$11,200. That's more than all my savings combined.

I'm trapped. In a city where I know no one, with no income, and a lease I can't afford to break.

My throat tightens. I slide down against the cabinets until I'm sitting on the floor, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes.

What am I going to do?

Tears spill down my cheeks. I hug my knees to my chest, feeling the panic rise like a tsunami. My breath comes in quick, shallow gasps.

Three years of grad school, moving my entire life, and taking the leap that everyone said was the dream job.

And now nothing?!

"Breathe, Sloane," I whisper to myself, struggling to force air into my lungs. "Just breathe."

I stare at the screen as if I just keep reading it, maybe the words will change. But they don’t. They stay the same.

I can’t believe this. They expect me to sit here and wait for the job to open back up? Sixty to ninety days. That's almost nine grand in rent alone.

How is this even legal?

I made all these decisions, this move, this lease, based on that job that shitty Bev offered to me, and gave me a start date. Holy shit. How is this happening? I knew something was up!

I throw the phone across the room.

My hands are shaking. What the hell am I going to do now?

I don’t have the money to wait for things to fix themselves magically. But I can’t afford to pay eleven grand to break this lease either.

I stand up so fast I almost knock over the blender sitting on the floor, stuffed with packing paper.

Some unknown buzzing coming from somewhere in this foreign apartment is suddenly too loud.

The walls are closing in. The weight of this whole goddamn mess presses on me. I’ve done everything I was supposed to, and for what? So I can sit here, stuck in a city I don’t know, with no income, no friends, and no path forward for how to fix this.

My breath catches, and my chest tightens.

What the fuck am I going to do?