Those Three Words: A Single Dad, Billionaire Boss Romance(2)

“What about you? Still coaching little league?”

“Yup. I’ll be coaching again. Also do some umping for adult teams and playing in the over-thirty league. My uncle Roy needs some help with his painting business too so that’ll be some nice extra cash.” He spins his beer bottle on the bar in front of him.

Hank really is an attractive guy and he’s clearly a man with drive, but I’ve never felt any sort of attraction to him. I’m not sure why. Maybe because we are coworkers I’ve never let myself even consider it.

“It’s funny how everyone thinks being a teacher is this walk in the park because we get summers off. Nobody realizes we all pretty much have summer jobs to keep the lights on, especially in Chicago.”

I nod in agreement, both of us chuckling.

“I, uh, I got fired today.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself from saying them.

“What?” Hank’s head whips toward me, his expression shocked. “Why?”

“Budget cuts,” I say, picking at the label on my beer bottle.

“Fuck, man, I’m so sorry.” He shakes his head. I can feel pity radiating off him and I instantly regret saying anything.

“It’s fine. I’ll find something else.” I’m trying to convince myself.

“No, it’s not fine. You are an amazing teacher and those kids love you. It’s more than a job, Margot; this is your life.”

I purse my lips and nod my head, his words conveying exactly why it hurts so bad. I hang my head as the tears start to fall. No point in trying to fight them.

“I know that, Hank,” I whisper as he stands up, reaching for my arm to pull me in for a hug.

“Let it out,” he says, his large hands wrapping halfway around my back as my shoulders start to bob up and down.

I don’t have the luxury of caring if I look pathetic right now. Maybe everyone will just think I’ve had too much to drink and can’t keep it together. Anything is better than the humiliation of being fired, even if it’s not my fault.

We stand there for several more moments before I excuse myself to freshen up in the restroom. By the time I’ve returned to my seat, Hank has ordered us another round.

“Thank you.” I gesture toward the drink with my head as I reach into my purse for my wallet. “But I need to go home. It’s been an emotional day.”

His countenance falls a little as he nods. “I understand. This is on me,” he says as I pull my wallet out.

“Thanks, Hank.” I reach out and grab his hand, giving it a quick squeeze.

“Don’t be a stranger, okay? You have my number. If you need someone to vent to or a job reference or anything, call me?” He raises his eyebrows with the question.

“Of course.” I offer a polite nod before heading back home.

I’m almost to my apartment building when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I reach down and pull it out, looking at the screen to see who would be calling me at this time of night.

It’s a name and number I haven’t seen in the better part of four years. In fact, the last time I saw Warren Dorsey’s name on my phone was right after my mother passed away.

I don’t answer it. Instead, I hit the ignore button and shove the phone back in my pocket. The last thing I need right now is whatever the hell my biological deadbeat dad has brewing.





I spend the entire weekend combing through job postings. I apply to every job that is even remotely related to music first, then start in on the local cafés and stores.

I’ve checked my account balance a record forty-two times over a few days, staring at it like it’s going to magically morph into enough money to save me from being evicted.

I also check my email at least a hundred times over the next week, hoping, praying for any kind of reply from my applications. A few are immediately returned with, position has been filled or we regret to inform you… I don’t even bother reading past that point.

Exasperated, I open my last bottle of wine. It’s not even one I bought. It’s a dusty old table blend that was given out by our school administration during the holidays a few years back.

“Desperate times, desperate measures,” I mutter as I pour myself a generous glass and open my laptop.

I scroll through Craigslist on the off chance anyone might need private music lessons. Over half the emails I sent out to parents about lessons over the summer were returned with explanations about traveling or not in the budget. Another blow to my nonexistent savings.

A listing catches my eye and I click the link to open it.



* * *



Needed: Live-in nanny. Full-time 5-6 days per week. All expenses covered. Dental, vision, and medical insurance. Competitive salary. Immediate hire.





* * *



“Whoa, what?” I pull the laptop screen closer to me as I read the salary. “That can’t be right.” I squint, reading it again.

How the hell can someone pay more than twice what I make as a teacher for a nanny and offer living expenses covered and health insurance?

My excitement builds as I read over the qualifications. Okay, now I see why they pay so well. They want someone with a preferred degree in childcare or related field, CPR certified, 5+ years’ experience with children, no pets, can teach music.