The Billionaire's Nanny Next Door

By Krichele Monroe

Hottie Billionaire, single Dad alert! And he needs a Nanny. Yes please...

My college crush just popped into my new bookstore with his little boy.

He's as gorgeous, if not more so now than when we hooked up way back.

I can't stand this guy though. He had made a bad investment for my brother way back and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Si View Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088293447

Book preview

The Billionaire's Nanny Next Door

Krichele Monroe

Si View Publishing

Copyright © 2023 by Krichele Monroe

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

1. Surprise from the Past

2. Electric Memory

3. Redemption

4. Risky Decision

5. Play Day

6. Second Chances

7. Rehashing the Past

8. Stolen Moments

9. Craving More

10. Can’t Get Enough

11. Magic

12. Consumed

13. Opportunist

14. Reckless

15. Not Again

16. Cruel Reminders

17. Wise Words

18. Pick Up the Pieces

19. Hidden Places

20. That Simple

21. Focus

22. Coward

23. Living in a Dream

24. Together

25. Just in Case

26. Whirlwind

27. Epilogue: One Year Later

Also by the Author

Surprise from the Past

The golden rays of the setting sun stream through my front windows, bathing my quaint little bookshop in Palm Cove, California, in a warm glow. The well-loved bookshelves come alive at this hour, and I breathe in the scent of my shop. As I head to the front door to flip the Open sign to Closed, the worn wooden floorboards creak slightly underfoot, a testament to the many years of customers who have come and gone, each leaving their own imprint on the place.

Driftwood Books takes up the first floor of my 1910 craftsman home on Palm Cove’s main street. It’s the space I always dreamed of creating—a cozily cluttered wonderland brimming with bookcases, some leaning precariously. Potted plants are scattered throughout the room, their vibrant green leaves providing a touch of life and color amid the sea of books. The smell of old paper and fresh coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the faint scent of salt from the ocean, which I can gaze at any time through the large front windows.

The house is in need of repairs, with peeling paint on the exterior and a few small leaks in the roof. But its lovingly decorated interior more than makes up for its imperfections—at least I like to think so. I’ve carefully chosen each piece of furniture, each decoration, to create an atmosphere of warmth and welcome that invites readers to lose themselves in the world of stories.

This little corner of the world has become a sanctuary for me and the many book lovers who have wandered through its doors. Despite its flaws, Driftwood Books is a haven for those seeking solace, inspiration, or just a quiet place to escape the world for a while.

After flipping the sign, I reach for the door handle to lock it when suddenly, the door bursts open, and a small boy with sandy-blond hair barrels into the room. His hands are a sticky mess of melted ice cream. Right on his heels is a man who seems vaguely familiar, looking apologetic as he hurries in. Then it hits me—I’m looking at Liam Hayes.

It’s been years since I saw him, but he’s just as beautiful as ever with his glass-blue eyes and sweep of dark hair. He towers over me as he steps closer, and the memories all come flooding back. His arms around me. His scruffy beard against my neck. I stagger backward.

I’m so sorry about the door, he says, glancing at the ice cream smeared on the handle. He got a little too excited.

I wave off his apology, my gaze shifting to watch the young boy dart around the shop with wide-eyed wonder. His excitement is contagious as he skips from one shelf to the next, his small fingers gently grazing the spines of the books as he goes. I can’t help but smile at the sight, the pure joy of discovery lighting up his face. My curiosity about the man who has just entered my life is momentarily overshadowed by the boy’s enthusiasm.

"It’s fine, really. I’ve seen much worse, I reply. I had no idea my brother’s best friend—the man who broke my heart—was back in town. Hello, Liam."

Charlie, says Liam, acknowledging me with a nod, his discomfort evident in the slight crease of his brow and the stiffness of his posture. I don’t bother trying to make him feel more at ease; our past is too complicated for pleasantries. Instead, I allow a subtle tension to linger between us, the weight of our shared history settling in the air like a fine layer of dust on the bookshelves.

Take your time looking around, I call out to the little boy, who beams at me in response. I return to tidying up the store, stealing occasional glances at Liam as he tries to make small talk. I notice that whenever I look back at him, he’s staring at me intently, but he looks away every time—we’re both playing the same eye-contact game.

That’s Oliver, Liam says. After a moment, he adds, I just moved back to Palm Cove from Manhattan. I offer nothing more than a curt nod in response, not wanting to engage in a conversation about his life. Seemingly unbothered by my lack of engagement, Liam turns his attention to his son, following him around the shop with an affectionate gaze. Despite the clear exhaustion evident in his eyes, he playfully engages with his son, asking questions about the books and making up silly stories to entertain him.

It’s impossible not to notice Liam’s attractiveness. The years having only added to his appeal. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, and the tender bond he shares with his son, make it hard not to find him endearing. But I refuse to dwell on it, as memories of the past resurface—memories that remind me of the pain Liam caused my brother, Sam.

Eventually, Oliver picks out a book and brings it to the counter, his eyes shining with excitement. Liam, still trying to keep the conversation light, fumbles through his pockets, searching for his wallet. As his frustration grows, it becomes clear that he has left it behind at the ice cream shop, likely in his haste to keep up with his energetic son.

He looks up at me apologetically, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment. I feel a slight pang of sympathy, but I quickly push it aside, reminding myself of the unfortunate history between us.

Just take it, I insist, smiling sweetly at Oliver and trying to hide my annoyance with Liam, who doesn’t bother to thank me as he leads his son out of the store, the door jingling softly behind them.

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Alone again in the quiet sanctuary of my home, I try to refocus on the novel I’ve been working on, the one that has become my most treasured passion project to date. Since childhood, I’ve harbored dreams of becoming a published author, sharing my stories with the world, and providing readers with an escape into the vibrant, intricate worlds I create. And I do create them—but it’s the finishing part that eludes me.

My best friend, Stephanie Martinez, always says the issue stems from a deep-seated fear of vulnerability—the notion of baring my innermost thoughts and feelings for others to scrutinize and possibly reject. Stephanie watches too many talk shows, but part of me suspects she’s right. I worry that if I delve too far into the depths of my own emotions, exposing the raw essence of my heart, it may not be enough to make my dreams a reality—and that would be worse than never trying.

It’s a continuous battle, and it often makes me wonder if I’m really a writer at all, but I tell myself that each word, each carefully crafted sentence, brings me one step closer to my dream. And some days, that’s enough to keep me going.

But tonight, as I sit at my desk, my thoughts keep drifting back to the unexpected encounter with Liam. The memory of his smile and the sound of his laughter lingers in my mind, distracting me from the story I’m trying to tell.

I sigh, tapping my pen on the desk, frustration mounting as I realize that my concentration has been shattered for the evening. I push back from the desk, deciding that it might be best to take a break and regroup. Luckily, my beloved bookstore always offers plenty to distract me.

With glorious California spring in full bloom outside, I’m inspired to create a themed display of springtime children’s books. I gather an assortment of colorful titles with illustrations of blooming flowers, baby animals, and the magic of new beginnings. There are a few old standbys—Make Way for Ducklings; The Very Hungry Caterpillar—but I make sure to pepper in some whimsical modern titles.

As I lovingly arrange the display, I feel the familiar warmth of pride in this simple task. The joy I feel in sharing these stories is a reminder of why I fell in love with books in the first place. They have the power to transport us to other worlds, spark our imaginations, and remind us of the beauty that lies just outside our doors.

I place the finishing touches on the display, adding a few potted flowers and a delicate, handmade garland of paper butterflies to complete the scene, then step back to admire my work. Despite the challenges I face in my own writing, it’s moments like these that remind me why I write.

As I survey the bookstore, my gaze falls on the spot where Liam and his son stood just hours ago. I allow myself a brief moment to acknowledge the lingering emotions from our encounter, but then I shake off the memories. I’m determined not to let the past hold me back from pursuing my dreams, and today, that means bringing the magic of springtime to the eager little readers who make my job the best one in the world.

Electric Memory

When I’m satisfied with the spring display, I step back to admire the colorful arrangement of books and decorations. It’s a cozy, welcoming sight that I know my customers will appreciate. I pull out my phone and snap a picture for Driftwood’s Instagram page, which, despite being a modest account with a few hundred local followers, has become a cherished part of my bookstore life. Engaging with the small community of Palm Cove and fellow book lovers through my social media presence has allowed me to connect with the people in my community.

I squint at the photo, wondering if I should clean up some of the stacks visible behind the display, but I know I won’t. I love the cozy chaos of my bookstore. I’ve never been one for minimalism, and in the age of Marie Kondo, I find myself stubbornly clinging to my maximalist approach to life. To me, every book, trinket, and decoration that fills the space has its own story, its own reason for being here, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The walls of Driftwood Books are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, each one crammed with volumes of every shape and size. The surfaces of tables and countertops are adorned with an assortment of whimsical knick-knacks, vintage postcards, and colorful bookmarks. My desk, tucked into a corner of the store, is a testament to my love of stationery, with stacks of notepads, pens, stickers, and pencils all jostling for space. And then there are the plants—my ever-growing collection of greenery that brings life and vibrancy to every corner of the store.

Some might argue that my shop is overwhelming, but to me, each item has earned its place. My collection of vintage teacups, for instance, transports me back to the antique markets I’ve explored in far-off cities. The clusters of framed photos on my windowsills serve as a constant reminder of the friends and family who’ve supported me along the way. Even the colorful tangle of fairy lights that dangle from the ceiling beams evokes a sense of magic and wonder, as if the stories contained within these walls have spilled out into the very fabric of the store itself.

In my world, there’s beauty in the chaos, and every object, no matter how small or battered or seemingly insignificant, holds a little piece of my heart. I’ve managed to carve out my own little haven in a world that often seems too eager to strip away the things that make us unique.

I post the picture with a cheerful caption about the arrival of spring and the new books we have in stock, then head upstairs to my living space, feeling a sudden craving for something sweet. I grab a pint of ice cream from the freezer and settle in on my sofa, relishing the cool, creamy treat as I mull over my unexpected encounter with Liam.

My living space mirrors the bookstore below—the same cozy, inviting atmosphere that welcomes customers downstairs continues up here. Bookcases line the walls, displaying my personal collection of books I’ve gathered over the years. The furniture is a mix of vintage finds and comfortable, well-worn pieces that have been passed down through generations of strangers.

I’ve always loved the idea of living above my own bookstore, where I can spend my days surrounded by the things I love. My apartment feels like a secret nook where I can retreat when I need some quiet time or inspiration. I’ve considered opening up my living space to customers who might want a cozy spot to read, as long as they didn’t mind the occasional pile of laundry or the clutter that comes with life, but then I remember how much I love having this private sanctuary. And I’m not the tidiest person—the last thing I need is for my customers to stumble upon my dirty laundry.

My home is a reflection of who I am and what I love, and that sense of authenticity and warmth is something I’m proud to share with the customers who walk through the door of the bookstore below.

I let out a long sigh. The ice cream isn’t cutting it, and all the cute clutter in the world can’t distract me from the six-foot-three shadow looming over my thoughts.

I need to talk to someone who can help me make sense of my jumbled emotions, someone who knows me better than anyone else. I pull out my phone and video-call my best friend, Stephanie, who picks up almost instantly. Her face fills the screen, her familiar smile warm and welcoming, just the kind of comfort I need right now.

Hey, Steph, I greet her, trying to sound casual. You’ll never guess who I just ran into.

Who? she asks, her curiosity piqued.

Liam Hayes. Sam’s old friend, I reply, my voice dripping with disdain as I recall the incident with my brother.

Stephanie and I met in college when my crush on Liam was in full swing. I confided in Stephanie about my