Christmas Nanny (Naughty X-Mas Nights Holiday Romance #3)

Chapter 1

Maren

The kitchen smells like brown butter and Madagascar vanilla—the expensive kind Henry keeps stocked in the pantry alongside organic everything and imported Italian olive oil.

I'm elbow-deep in cookie dough at the marble-topped island, and Lilliana's standing on her step stool beside me, her little tongue poking out in concentration as she rolls a lump of dough between her small palms.

Afternoon sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the exposed timber beams overhead—original to the barn, Henry told me once, restored and reinforced when he designed the conversion five years ago.

The whole house is like this: rustic elegance meeting modern luxury.

Wide-plank hardwood floors heated from beneath, a chef's kitchen with professional-grade appliances, and enough space that my entire childhood home could fit in the great room alone.

The place was featured in Architectural Digest last year. I found the issue in his office once, trying not to feel intimidated by the spread showing off his custom metalwork staircase and the cantilevered deck that seems to float over the forest.

"Like this, Maren?" Lilliana holds up what might generously be called a ball. It's more of an oblong blob, but her face is so hopeful that my chest squeezes.

"Perfect," I tell her, and I mean it. "You're a natural baker."

She beams at me, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like tear up. Four months. I've been living here for four months, and I'm so gone for this kid it's not even funny. And for her father. God, especially for her father.

As if summoned by my thoughts, Henry appears in the kitchen archway.

He's wearing dark jeans that probably cost more than my monthly salary and a charcoal cashmere henley that clings to his broad shoulders in ways that should be illegal.

There's a pencil tucked behind his ear like always, and even from here I can see the vintage Rolex on his wrist catching the light.

My stomach does a complicated flip.

"Just checking if you two need anything," he says, and his voice has that low, rough quality that makes me want to do extremely inappropriate things to my employer.

"We're good!" I say too brightly, flour dusting my cheek. Why do I always sound like an overeager golden retriever around him?

His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long. My hair's in a messy bun with honey-brown strands escaping everywhere, and I probably have cookie dough under my fingernails. Very professional nanny energy.

"Daddy, we're making cookies!" Lilliana announces. "Maren's teaching me her grandma's recipe!"

I don't miss the way his jaw tightens, or the way his eyes darken just a fraction before he forces them away from my mouth.

"That's great, sweetheart," he says softly. Then to me: "I'll be in my office if you need me."

And just like that, he's gone, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that makes me want to press my face against his neck and just breathe him in.

"He keeps doing that," Lilliana says matter-of-factly, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.

"Doing what?"

"Coming to check on us. He's done it like five times today." She gives me a look that's far too knowing for a seven-year-old. "I think he likes spending time with you."

My face goes hot. "He's just being a good dad. Making sure you're okay."

"Uh-huh." She doesn't sound convinced, and I wonder, and not for the first time, if kids can somehow sense when adults are lying to themselves.

I focus very hard on shaping the dough into balls, trying not to think about the fact that Henry Bauer, the successful architect, single father, the man who designed this incredible home and probably a dozen others featured in magazines, might be finding excuses to see me.

That way lies madness. And unemployment.

I took this job because I needed it. Really needed it.

When Dad's construction company went under last spring, my parents lost everything practically overnight.

The house they've lived in for thirty years is in foreclosure.

Mom's working double shifts at the hospital just to keep the lights on.

My brothers are helping where they can, but they've got their own families, their own bills.

This job? Room and board in a converted garage apartment that's nicer than anywhere I've ever lived, plus a salary that lets me send most of my paycheck home each week.

Last week I transferred eight hundred dollars.

It's not enough, but it's something. Maybe if I can make this job last another six months, save a little more, they'll have enough for the down payment on something smaller. Something they can actually afford.

What I didn't need was to fall for my employer and his daughter. But apparently my heart doesn't give a shit about what's smart or appropriate.

I glance around the kitchen: at the Sub-Zero fridge and the Wolf range, at the custom walnut cabinetry and the hand-blown glass pendant lights.

This isn't my world. I'm the nanny. The help.

The girl who sends money home to keep her parents from losing everything while living in luxury that still feels surreal after four months.

And Henry? He's the kind of man who wears a Rolex to play with his daughter. Who drives a Range Rover because Vermont winters demand it. Who can afford a live-in nanny without blinking, who probably makes more in a month than my parents made in a year.

I need to remember that.

We work in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the scrape of the mixing bowl and Lilliana's occasional hum.

Through the windows, I can see fat snowflakes starting to fall over the pine forest that surrounds the property.

They're lazy, pretty—not concerning yet.

But I heard the weather report this morning while making breakfast. There's a big storm coming.

My phone buzzes on the counter. I wipe flour-dusted hands on a towel and check it. Weather alert: Blizzard warning for northern Vermont. Expected snowfall 18-24 inches. Travel not advised after 6 PM tonight.

"Whoa," I murmur.

"What is it?" Lilliana asks, peering over.

"Big storm coming tonight. Looks like we're going to have a white Christmas."

Her eyes go wide with excitement. "Really? Like, a LOT of snow?"

"Looks like it. Maybe we'll even get snowed in."

She's practically vibrating with joy, already spinning dreams of snowmen and snow angels and sledding down the hill behind the house. Kids are resilient like that. They turn everything into an adventure.

I should probably tell Henry about the storm warning. His parents are supposed to pick Lilliana up tomorrow morning to take her to their place in Burlington for Christmas. They might want to adjust plans.

The thought of having the house to myself for three days should be a relief.

Time to video call my parents without hiding in my apartment.

Time to not obsess over every interaction with my devastatingly attractive employer.

Time to maybe look through job listings, because whatever this aching, wanting thing is, it’s becoming unsustainable.

"Finish rolling these," I tell Lilliana, "and I'll go tell your dad about the snow."

I find him in his office. It’s a converted loft space overlooking the great room, all exposed beams and natural light pouring through skylights.

He's bent over his drafting table with that intense focus he gets when he's working, surrounded by architectural drawings and material samples.

The winter sunlight slants through the enormous windows, catching in his dark hair and illuminating the silver at his temples.

He's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. Mature, confident, successful. Everything I'm not.

I knock softly on the doorframe, and he looks up. His expression shifts when he sees me, like I'm a sight for sore eyes instead of his employee interrupting his work.

"Hey," he says, and even that one word in his deep baritone voice does things to me. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, just wanted to let you know there's a blizzard warning. Storm's supposed to hit tonight. Might want to call your parents if they're planning to drive up early tomorrow."

He frowns, already reaching for his phone. "Thanks for the heads up. I'll call them now."

I should leave. Go back to the kitchen. But my feet seem rooted to the floor as he dials, and I'm treated to the sight of him running a hand through his hair as he waits for it to ring. It's unfair how attractive he is.

"Hey, Mom," he says when she picks up. A pause. "Yeah, about tomorrow. There's a blizzard coming." Another pause, his frown deepening. "Yeah, I understand... no, of course not... Lilliana will be disappointed, but we'll make it work... Okay. Love you too."

He hangs up and looks at me, and there's something in his eyes that makes my skin feel too tight. Something like hunger and resignation and want all tangled together.

"They can't come," he says quietly. "The storm's supposed to be even worse south of here. They don't want to risk the drive, and honestly, I don't want them to either."

"Oh." My brain is short-circuiting because what this means is that Lilliana will be here. For Christmas. Which means I'll be here. Which means Henry will be here. All of us. Together. Snowed in.

Oh no.

"I know you were probably planning to take some time for yourself," he says quickly, and there's something almost vulnerable in his voice. "I can still pay you extra for working through the holiday."

I cut him off before he can finish that thought. "I'm not going anywhere. My family can't afford to travel this year, so we're doing Christmas over video chat. Being here is actually better than sitting alone watching them on a tiny screen."