Bossy Billionaire (The Nightingales of Wall Street #2)

CHAPTER ONE

CLARA

“It’s time to focus. Here’s the info for today’s job.”

Brenda’s authoritative tone rang sharply against the metal walls of the catering van.

I was stuffed into the back of the cargo van along with my new coworkers and Brenda, my new drill sergeant—er, boss.

I’d only been working for this catering company three days, but I could already tell she had it out for me.

She turned a severe look on the three of us servers in turn, but her gaze lingered on me.

“This is a really high-profile event so we can’t afford any rookie mistakes,” she added.

Brenda launched into a rapid-fire rundown of today’s lunch event in the gleaming tower behind us. Wall Street. Billionaires. Ribbon cutting. The details began to dissolve almost as soon as she said them because my phone began vibrating in my pocket.

My fingers curled with the need to check who was calling. I stared hard at Brenda as she continued, not even hearing her words as the vibrating phone in my apron pocket sizzled against my attention. I couldn’t look now, because I knew she’d get into a snit about it.

I focused on my breathing, trying to look like I was paying attention, ignoring the buzzing in my pocket until it finally stopped.

Everything’s fine. Probably just a spam call.

Then it started buzzing again.

Calling twice in a row wasn’t a good sign, which made me even more concerned that the call was coming from the one place I didn’t want to hear from: my baby girl’s daycare center.

Brenda consulted her clipboard with the gravity of a surgeon reviewing medical charts. "These people tip well if you're charming and invisible. They are undoubtedly one of the biggest clients in the city. Screw this up, and you won't work in catering again in Manhattan."

Brenda pinned us all with a look that suggested You got it, dumbasses?

“Ready to make that money,” I offered weakly. My coworkers smiled grimly in return.

"Clara, you're on drink service and table clearing. Smile pretty, move fast, and for the love of God, don't drop anything expensive." Brenda's gaze lingered on me. "This client specifically requested our most...presentable staff."

Heat flushed my cheeks. Four years ago, I’d had a decent position with the city planning department, en route to a career I could be proud of.

Now I was a single mom bouncing between any short-term job I could find because it only took a few sick-kid pickups at daycare before the employer decided they couldn’t rely on me.

It felt like it had been so much longer than four years. My downward slide into barely making ends meet was kicked off by Preston’s cheating, our relationship implosion, and a surprise pregnancy.

I’d also experienced a one-night-stand that had rocked my world, but that was firmly in the category of things I didn’t think about anymore.

I couldn’t think about that man with the icy blue eyes—Nash Nightingale—because he was a representation of the life I desperately wanted but could never—would never—have. I’d grasped him, and then lost everything.

Brenda strode toward the building, and we followed her with carts loaded with food. I mentally rehearsed how to be charming and invisible while my thoughts spiraled around what I might find on my cell phone.

My phone buzzed against my hip. Again. Three calls in a row.

It had to be the daycare. I resisted the urge to check it as we approached the gleaming building that stretched toward the clouds like a middle finger to anyone who'd ever struggled to make rent. Glass and steel gleamed in the late-morning April sun as we rolled our carts through the service entrance. My hand was on my cell phone in my apron pocket as we rode the freight elevator to the thirty-eighth floor. While Brenda and Sadie chatted about nothing in particular, I snuck a glance at the phone’s screen.

Four missed calls.

All from Little Sprouts Daycare.

Anxiety slithered through me. When the elevator doors opened, I snapped my head up, already formulating a plan of how I’d sneak away to see what the emergency was. Now that I knew it was the daycare, I couldn’t waste any more time.

“I forgot one of the trays in the van,” I blurted, realizing as I said it that it was actually true. “I’ll go back down and get it.”

Brenda nodded, though she still looked suspicious. “Grab the extra aprons too. I have a feeling one of you is going to spill something. Probably you.”

I pressed the elevator button, letting the doors close on her jaded, angular face. Once I was alone, the breath whooshed out of me. I needed this job desperately, but I was already dreading working long-term with a bitch like Brenda.

Once the freight elevator hit the ground floor, I was already calling Little Sprouts. They picked up on the second ring.

"Hi, it’s Clara Whitehall, Mia’s mother. I noticed some missed calls—is everything okay?”

“Thank you for calling back. I’m so sorry to say that Mia vomited in the playroom this morning. She’s not doing well, the poor thing.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my back against the marbled wall in the foyer. "Is she running a fever?"

"Low grade. She’s okay for now, but according to our policy, she needs to be picked up.”

Of course she did. Because when you're barely treading water, life loves to hand you a fucking anchor.

"Okay," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. “We’ll pick her up as soon as we can."

The line went dead, and I immediately scrolled to Preston's contact. The we I referred to barely existed; sure, Mia had a father, Preston, but you wouldn’t have known it based on how much he showed up in her life.

But I needed him today. I couldn’t bail on my third day of a new job, much less when Brenda already watched me like she was just waiting for me to skulk into the shadows.

My daughter's father picked up on the fourth ring, his voice already heavy with irritation.

"Clara, I'm in the middle of—"

"Mia's sick. I need you to pick her up from daycare."

A pause. "Can't. I've got back-to-back meetings until six."

"Preston, please. I just started this job three days ago. If I leave now—"

"Then don't leave. Figure it out." The line went dead.

Rage unfurled within me. I wanted to hurl my phone at the wall, scream until my throat went raw.

He’d been the most absent, disinterested father from the beginning yet still had managed to finagle partial custody in his bid to avoid paying child support.

Which meant I truly did everything on my own with no financial support to speak of.

I balled my fists, trying to keep myself from spiraling.

A few tears squeaked out of the corner of my eyes as I swallowed my frustration.

And then I fired off a desperate text: Your daughter is sick and needs her father. One time, Preston. Please.

I composed myself, forcing myself to continue with my shift while I figured out a plan.

Or at least a way to badger Preston into finally acting like a father.

I hurried back to the cargo van, scooping up the tray I’d conveniently forgotten, a handful of aprons, and anything else that we might need.

As I made my way back up in the elevator, my mind was working overtime trying to figure out potential backup plans.

I could ask my best friend Zoey to pick up Mia, but that would only work if she wasn’t working today too.

I could threaten Preston. I could call Preston’s mother and beg.

I could see if there were any teleportation scientists in attendance at this function and ask them for a beta trial of their technology.

Or I could beg Brenda for forgiveness, promising her it wouldn’t happen again, even though I knew it certainly would.

I bit my bottom lip as the doors opened, revealing a sleek corporate space. In the distance, I could see a bustling meeting room and a few of my black-shirted ilk. Everything was marble and chrome and the kind of understated luxury that screamed money without having to say a word.

As I strode toward the room, I passed the reception desk. There, etched in elegant letters across the front, were two words that made my breath freeze in my lungs: NIGHTLY DEVELOPMENTS.

The aluminum pan I was carrying slipped from my suddenly nerveless fingers. It clattered to the floor with a sound like thunder, sending echoes bouncing off the pristine walls.

"Jesus Christ, Clara!" Brenda hissed, stepping out of the meeting room. Her gaze darted around the hall, looking for observers. "I told you not to drop anything!"

But I barely heard her. My vision tunneled as memories crashed over me like a tidal wave. Ice-blue eyes. Rough hands. A voice like whiskey and promises. The taste of expensive gin and poor decisions.

Nash Nightingale owned Nightly Developments.

The man who'd given me the most incredible night of my life four years ago…before he kicked me out of the penthouse suite like I was nothing.

The man I'd lied to about everything—my name, my job, my entire existence.

I bent to retrieve the fallen pan, my hands shaking as Brenda continued her lecture about professionalism.

In the meeting room, the rest of the catering crew had almost fully set up the spread for the grand opening celebration.

Banners hung from the ceiling announcing Nightly Developments' new Wall Street office location.

Champagne flutes sparkled on pristine white tablecloths.

All the pieces were clicking together. This was Nash's moment. His triumph.

And I was here to serve drinks and clear plates while trying not to have a complete mental breakdown.

“Party is on in five,” Brenda said, shooing us into position. “Get your smiles ready. I’ll handle replenishment. Clara, what did I say about smiles?”