Read The Billionaire's Nanny: A BWWM Romantic Comedy for Free Online Page A

both a toilet and a bidet, in case you don’t like toilet paper, I guess. There is a clawfoot tub big enough for two and a huge, tile shower with glass doors. It has one of those enormous shower heads that hang from the ceiling, so you can imagine you’re getting clean in a strong rain, but it also has smaller heads in the walls, to hit from all sides. Like the rest of the room, it’s immaculate, no water spots, no soap scum.
    I turn on the water and step in. I’m spoiled for showers forever, now. The water pressure is perfect. How can I go back to one, sad, low-flow shower head? I’m going to have to turn up dirty every day, just so I can come back to this…this temple to cleanliness. Seriously, this is like getting fine steak and having to go back to eating Slim Jims.
    When my fingertips start to prune up, I reluctantly step out, drying off with the soft, fluffy towel. There’s heavy terrycloth bathrobe hanging on the door, so I pull it on before stepping back into the bedroom. My dirty clothes are gone, replaced by a pair of yoga pants and a tshirt. No bra or panties, which I guess is good. I mean, it’d be weird to put on underwear of unknown origin. On the other hand, that means I don’t put on underwear at all. I am not used to going braless in public. Lack of grace wasn’t all that kept me from becoming a ballet dancer–these curves would have kept me on the sidelines even if I could do an arabesque without falling over.
    The tshirt is fairly loose, except across the chest. And the yoga pants are straining across my rear. Whoever owned these was of a narrower build that I…
    I freeze. Are these Maeve’s mother’s clothes? Does Corbin know that’s what I’ll be wearing? Will it be weird for him to see another woman in his wife’s clothes? They’re pretty generic–black pants and a red top–hopefully he won’t even notice. I text him that I’m out of the shower and ready to work.
    When Corbin comes into the room, I can’t help but notice that his eyes are drawn to the fabric pulled tightly across my breasts. I know that my nipples are poking out, leaving little to the imagination. Looks like he might be imagining a little, anyway. His gaze flicks back to my face–quickly, it wasn’t like a creepy, lingering ogle, but I still feel my cheeks get hot– and he smiles. “I’ll take you to the nursery. Maeve is still napping.”
    As I follow him up the hallway, I wonder what this all is, really. Wife has been dead eight months. And clearly he’s sad–her sudden death explains that anguish in his eyes–but he’s also absolutely flirting, checking me out. I don’t care what Gran says, I know it when I see it. And you don’t just invite a stranger over to watch your kid without some extra motive, do you?
    I mean, I don’t mind, not at all. Trotting along behind his long stride, I can admire how broad his shoulders are, how nicely his waist tapers, the way those linen pants just hang off his hips. Nice butt for a white boy, too. Has a little meat on it. I’ve just thought of how that rounded muscle would feel under my hand when he stops and turns to me, his hand on a doorknob.
    “She’s been out about an hour, so let’s go quietly. If she wakes now, she won’t nap again today and an hour isn’t enough to get her through until bedtime.” His voice is low and he opens the door very slowly, as if afraid the knob will make noise. I can’t imagine anything in this house squeaks. Even the mice probably have cultured accents.
    We step into a room that looks like an FAO Schwartz showroom. There’s a train set, a huge Victorian dollhouse, musical instruments, a giant teddy bear…all of it looks well beyond the needs of a baby, like it was set up by someone that knows even less about babies than I do. Corbin strides through it on silent feet, slowly opening another door in the far wall. He leans back so that I can peer in and see the crib, Maeve sleeping peacefully. He quietly shuts the door again