11. Addy
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Addy
There should be a rule against waking up in luxury.
Not because it’s unpleasant, quite the opposite. Because once you’ve slept in sheets that feel like they were handcrafted by angels with expensive skincare routines, it becomes very difficult to go back to regular life and not feel personally insulted by polyester.
I lie there, blinking up at the pale morning light spilling through the enormous window in my room, and try to remember where I am.
Then it hits me all at once.
Chicago, penthouse, new job, tiny aviation child, insane golden retriever, and Ethan Strong. Billionaire pilot, silver fox, occasional source of emotional instability, sleeping somewhere down the hall like my life isn’t currently balanced on the thinnest possible edge of professionalism.
Cool. Good morning to me.
I drag a hand down my face and groan quietly into the pillow. Because that's the thing no one tells you about making a dramatic fresh start in a new city: you still wake up as yourself.
Same brain, same feelings, same deeply inconvenient awareness of your own boss’s mouth.
Nope.
Stopping that thought before breakfast.
I sit up, force myself into the shower, and get dressed in jeans and a cream knit top that says competent nanny with a pleasant disposition.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, it’s just after seven.
And because the universe occasionally likes me, Oliver is already there, sitting at the island in pajamas and socks, staring into a bowl of dry cereal like he’s in a very serious negotiation with it.
“Good morning,” I say.
He looks up. “Morning.”
Captain thumps his tail from where he’s sprawled by the windows, then decides I deserve a full greeting and heaves himself up to come over.
“Hi, yes, good morning to you too,” I murmur as he shoves his head into my hip.
“Dad left early,” Oliver says, like he’s reporting a weather event.
“Oh.” I glance around instinctively, as if Ethan might still materialize from the coffee machine. “Okay.”
“He had calls.”
“Right.”
That shouldn’t make my stomach dip slightly.
And yet…
I move around the kitchen, opening cupboards with more confidence than yesterday. “Did he leave instructions or just a vague legacy of control?”
Oliver considers this. “He told me to eat breakfast.”
“I respect the specificity.”
He nods gravely.
Breakfast goes smoothly enough, which feels like a small miracle considering yesterday I was negotiating lunch.
I find myself wondering, briefly, how the previous nanny handled this part of the day.
Claire.
She must have had systems. A rhythm. Maybe a drawer for quick snacks, a backup plan for mornings when Oliver decided cereal was offensive. Structured enough that Ethan never had to think about whether his son had eaten or what brand of yogurt constituted a crisis.
Because that’s the thing I’m starting to notice.
Ethan isn’t checking.
He isn’t hovering in the background asking what Oliver’s eaten, or whether I’ve figured out lunch, or how I’m planning to manage the next few hours. There’s no follow-up text, no quiet audit of how I’m handling things.
Just trust, handed over like it’s already earned.
Which is either incredibly generous or slightly unhinged.
It also means I've no real reference point for how things were done before.
No list on the fridge or carefully labeled containers. No sense that I’m stepping into someone else’s system.
Just a very expensive kitchen and the quiet expectation that I’ll build something that works.
Eventually the morning shifts into the kind of routine I know how to build around: getting Oliver dressed, locating a missing sock that turns out to be under Captain, reading exactly one plane fact before teeth brushing, and making a mental list of things this house absolutely needs if I’m going to keep a child fed, entertained, and alive without relying entirely on grilled cheese and divine intervention.
By midday, I’ve also realized more.
This household has no usable budget system for daily child things.
No little cash drawer, card left out for errands, no note from Ethan saying buy whatever Oliver needs, and don’t let him emotionally blackmail you into six different cereals.
Nothing.
Which means at some point, I’m going to have to have that conversation.
And if there's anything I enjoy less than talking about money with rich men, it’s probably being set on fire.
Not because I’m bad with money.
I’m not.
I’m actually very good with money, which is what happens when you spend years budgeting every single thing down to whether oat milk is a luxury or a lifestyle. But there’s something about discussing spending with someone like Ethan that makes me feel hyperaware of every dollar I do or don’t have.
Like he could probably spend more on lunch than I’ve spent on groceries some weeks and not even notice.
Still, I put it off all day…
Partly because Oliver keeps me busy. Partly because Captain keeps trying to steal a dish towel.
And partly because every time I think about bringing it up, I picture Ethan pulling that cool, stoic look of his and saying something like, submit expenses weekly in the tone of a man who has never once checked his own bank balance before buying wine.
By the time late afternoon rolls around, I’m restless.
Of the apartment, the quiet, and the fact that living with your boss means there’s no clear line between work and everything else. His shoes are by the door. His son is laughing in the next room. His dog is asleep on my foot. His whole life's threaded through the space I’m now moving inside.
And I’m trying very hard not to think about how quickly it’s all starting to feel less temporary.
Ethan gets home just after six.
I hear the door before I see him, and for one stupid second, my whole body notices, which is humiliating.
Captain hears him too and tears toward the entryway like an ungoverned missile. Oliver follows at a sprint.
I stay in the kitchen for exactly three seconds, trying to act normal, before the sounds of greeting make warmth twist in my chest.
Then Ethan appears in the doorway.
Jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled back just enough to be deeply unhelpful to my emotional regulation.
He stops when he sees me.
And there it is again, that little shift in the atmosphere when it’s just the two of us noticing each other at the same time.
“Hi,” I say, because I’ve become a woman who forgets how language works around one specific man.
“Good evening,” he says.
Why does even that sound like a threat?
Oliver barrels into the kitchen behind him. “Dad, Addy took my dinosaur.”
“I didn't,” I say automatically. “That was all Captain.”
Captain sits down and looks pleased with himself.
Ethan glances between us, then at the very obvious dinosaur tail sticking out of Captain’s mouth. “I see.”
Oliver folds his arms. “He’s being difficult.”
Captain wags harder.
“I’m shocked,” I say.
Ethan’s mouth shifts at the corner into what could be considered a smile.
I clear my throat. “I was actually going to talk to you.”
His attention settles on me more fully. “About what?”
“Budgets.”
There.
Said it.
Like ripping off a financial Band-Aid.
His expression changes instantly. “Go on.”
Oliver, sensing adult logistics and therefore boredom, drifts back toward the living room with Captain. Which leaves me standing in a kitchen with Ethan Strong, discussing money like a person who definitely has her life together.
“So,” I say, “I know the basics of the schedule now, and I’ve got a better sense of what Oliver likes, or at least what he tolerates under protest. But if I’m doing groceries, activities, random kid stuff, café lunches if we’re out, that kind of thing… I just wanted to ask what your preference is.”
He watches me for half a second. “My preference?”
“For how you want me to handle spending,” I say. “Limits, receipts, a set weekly amount, whether I’m allowed to buy cereal that looks like it was made in a cartoon laboratory…”
He reaches into his inside jacket pocket without a word.
I blink.
Then watch as he pulls out a black card and sets it on the island between us like this is the least dramatic thing in the world.
My brain short-circuits.
I stare at it.
“That’s…” I say slowly. “A credit card.”
“Yes.”
I look at him again. “You’re just giving me a credit card.”
“It’s for household and Oliver-related expenses.”
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Right, but you’re just… giving it to me.”
He seems genuinely confused by my shock. “You need to be able to buy what’s necessary.”
“Yes, but most people don’t hand over what looks like a small black rectangle of unlimited power on day two.”
“It isn’t unlimited.”
“Comforting.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Use it for what the household needs. Food, supplies, activities, clothing if required… anything related to Oliver’s routine. Keep receipts if it helps you organize, but I’m not going to audit whether you bought the expensive applesauce.”
I stare at him.
Because what the hell?
Who does that?
Who trusts someone they barely know, someone they definitely know in other ways, unfortunately, with their home and their child and now their money, all like it’s perfectly normal?
“You don’t even know me,” I say quietly.
“Yes,” he says. “I do.”
The room goes very quiet.
Because he doesn’t just mean the interview.
He means the plane.
The fight, the tension, the terrible, reckless thing we did that I've spent the last forty-eight hours aggressively trying to file under catastrophic lapse in judgment.
And now it’s standing between us in the kitchen, wearing a loosened tie and handing me a credit card.
My throat goes dry.
“That isn't what I meant,” I say, because if I don’t say something, the silence is going to combust.
“I know.” His voice is calm, but there’s more under it now. “But I know enough.”
I should push back, should say that knowing what I look like against an airplane sink and knowing whether I’m trustworthy aren't the same thing.
Instead, I hear myself say, “That’s still… a lot.”
He nods once. “It’s practical.”
“That's such a rich man answer.”
His eyes flash. “Is it?”