Free The Billionaire's Nanny: A BWWM Romantic Comedy by Mia Caldwell Page A

realized I was being an idiot. I’d met enough people from seriously messed up families–my then-girlfriend Elise, for example–to know I had it much better than most. So I decided to make him proud of me if I possibly could. I actually did my work and went to class and got good grades. Of course, that’s the bare minimum a kid should do, so I joined the college newspaper–just like my dad had done.
    Still, I felt like they had trouble seeing that I had changed. I’d been the Fuckup for so long that I’d kind of worn a groove into my place in the family. So, as Senior year started to wind down, I decided to marry Elise Hamilton and take my place in the family business–what could be more grown-up than that? My folks had gotten married right after they graduated from Harvard and Radcliffe, my dad going right to work managing the family textile mill in Maine.
    Of course those mills had moved to India, but the offices were in Boston, and my parents agreed to let me learn the ropes there. So I started right after graduation, taking off a month for our honeymoon after the ridiculous wedding Elise’s parents threw for us. I told my mother, once, about a month before the wedding, that Elise and I were fighting constantly. She said, “It’s probably just the stress of the wedding, but if you think it’s more than that, it’s never too late to call it off.”
    But of course I didn’t listen. I was afraid I’d look like the Fuckup.
    My phone buzzes.
    V: Food’s here! I’m in the kitchen.
    I respond that I’m on my way and head to the basement. The Domaine is built in the old European style, with the kitchen and laundry in the basement, as if one wouldn’t want the actual work of the house to be seen by anyone. When I arrive, Vanessa and Connie are at the rough butcher block table, a spread of take-out around them.
    “I think I got too much!” says Vanessa, “but it all looked so good. I should never order when I’m hungry.”
    "I can’t imagine why you order when you aren’t hungry," I say, sitting down across from her.
    “Fair point. So, how much do you know about Latin American food?”
    “Enough to know not to go to Taco Bell. But that’s about it. I know the standard Mexican restaurant dishes, and whatever Marta cooks, does that count?”
    “Marta is from Mexico, so those probably overlap a little. You’re from Honduras, right Connie?”
    “My parents are. I moved to the US when I was a baby, though.” I feel a little bad for not ever asking them where their families were from. Or maybe I shouldn’t ask? Anyway, I had no idea.
    "So you’ll know baleadas , here." She points to what looks like a soft taco made with a thick tortilla. “These are refried beans and Honduran creme which is soooo good.”
    It’s funny to see her go into teacher mode. Her voice is even slightly different as she points out each container and what it holds. "These are pupusas , Salvadoran, tamales –these are Mexican style, I like that best…"
    I cut her off as she points to corn on the cob. “I know that one!” I say, like an eager schoolboy.
    She laughs, “Okay smart guy, what is it?”
    “Corn.”
    "Yes, but street food style, with lime, chili, and queso fresco. One of my students last year was in a restaurant family. They make street foods from around Central and South America and drive a food truck around. Taste the baleadas , Connie, tell me what you think."
    “Mmm, it’s good!” She nods as she chews. “Like Mama made!” I wonder, for a moment, where Maeve is, and realize it has already gotten dark. Maeve must be asleep. Guess I got wrapped up in work.
    “Dig in!” says Vanessa, heaping food onto her own plate. I know it’s a cliche by this point, but I like to see a woman enjoy her food. It’s such a refreshing change from the country club “I couldn’t possibly!”s.
    The food is terrific, but even better than the meal is when Vanessa says, “You can go on to bed, Connie, we’ll clean up.”