He laughs. “You already will. See, there are these friends of mine and Tom’s… they need a live-in nanny, but they need someone to work afternoons primarily, and nights. So you wouldn’t have to change your school schedule at all. Tom won’t let me do it because he says there is no way he’s letting me leave him and live with two gorgeous men.”
“They’re gorgeous?” I raise an eyebrow. “Where do I sign up?”
Ethan smirks before he sips his coffee and checks his watch to see how much of our lunch break is left. “Isaiah and Sawyer are also absolute sweethearts. I think you’d love working for them, and I’ll give you a glowing reference.”
I can’t contain my enthusiasm any longer. I do a little dance in my seat then get up and place a loud kiss on Ethan’s cheek. A woman looks up from her ereader, from where she sits at the very end of the small coffee shop, and glares at us.
“Sorry. I’m so grateful I had to smooch you. Thank you so much. If you were straight, you realize I’d have to stalk you and make you mine, right?”
He laughs loudly at this. “Sweetie, if I were straight you’d already have been mine long ago. I’ll give Isaiah and Sawyer a call tomorrow. They’ve got three children between them that I know you’ll adore. I’ll call you by the weekend to give you an update.”
I jump up and hug and kiss my best friend again, much to the ereading woman’s chagrin.
Ethan calls on Saturday. Excitement is evident in his voice the moment after I answer my antiquated cell phone.
“I got you an interview with the guys!”
I wish I could pull him through the phone and hug him again. “Wonderful. Thank you tons again. I owe you a lasagna for this.”
“Will you use three cheeses and put extra on top?”
“You know it!”
I almost skip to my car as my hopes lift. Ethan gives me the time, date, and directions. The house is in an uber-rich part of Castle’s Garden, and I swallow over my sense of intimidation. I’m to be at Isaiah and Sawyer’s estate by 7pm on Monday. Thankfully the hour doesn’t conflict with any of my classes, and I’ll even be able to grab a shower and get all professionalled up before I go.
He tells me more about the couple, “They were in a polyamorous relationship, but their wife passed away two years ago. Brain aneurysm. She just dropped at work one day and that was it. So tragic.”
“That’s so sad.” I remember my dad and think about my brother and empathize with my potential employers.
“Isaiah is a tech entrepreneur. Comes from a family with a history in law. His dad was a lawyer and his mother a judge. Sawyer was a tutor and nanny for Isaiah and Rachel years ago then, well, the couple fell in love with him and there you go.”
Too bad they didn’t get their fairytale ending, I think. “So is Sawyer still teaching the kids also?”
“He takes the day shift. And he does some other work for Isaiah … but I’ll let the two of them explain all that to you.”
Ethan tells me Isaiah is none other than Isaiah Jackson, a prominent but reclusive billionaire, and that’s when I recognize the name. Isaiah Jackson is well known in our small town of Castle’s Garden, but not much is known about his personal life. He made his billions through technology, inventing a geo-tracking system that’s designed to get your anywhere accurately. Knowing this, I’m intimidated about my upcoming interview, but determined to do well.
Following Ethan’s directions, I show up at Isaiah and Sawyer’s mansion fifteen minutes early Monday evening. The place is done up in art deco design and looks a bit like a blocky apartment building to me, but one level has a curved face that adds some softness to the modern, clean lines.
I’m buzzed through the gate and drive up a long, paved driveway lined with well manicured hedges. After I park my car, I walk up a slight slope toward a front door made of glass and metal. I hit the doorbell and wait, wishing the nervous flutter in my stomach would calm down.
Footsteps sound from inside and my heart picks up its pace. My face floods with heat, knowing I’m about to be interviewed by the richest man in Castle’s Garden. I expect their butler, or whatever rich people call the help these days, will probably see me in and take me to meet Sawyer and Isaiah.
I practice my greeting three times before a tall man with a trim waist and broad shoulders comes into view. His low brow furrows as he spots me and opens the door. He’s dressed in an open throated white shirt and jeans. I didn’t realize the rich let their help go so casual, but I’ve never known anyone who made over $100,000 so what do I know?
“Hello,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m here for the interview with Mr. Jackson.”
His eyebrow shoots up and he gives me a bold up and down perusal before crossing his arms over his massive, well muscled chest. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
I gulp, open my mouth to reply, shut it again. The man oozes power and intimidation. I wish I could melt into the pavement beneath my feet. Add to this he resembles that actor who played Khal Drogo in Game of Thrones, Jason Momoa, and you can see why I’m at a loss for words.
“Come inside.” He walks away, leaving the door open and me still gaping before I follow.
The man leads me to a lavish office done up in wood and leather. A stark contrast to the modern architecture of the house and furnishing I noticed in the foyer. He glides behind the looming walnut desk, rifles through some papers, then pins me with aquamarine eyes.
“Sit down, please.” He gestures to a button leather chair in front of the desk.
“You’re Mr. Jackson?” I squeak as I lower myself into the plush chair. The reclusive billionaire hardly ever poses for pictures, and the ones I have seen have been blurry profile shots at best.
His eyebrow shoots up again. Those lush lips form a pout and those startling eyes focus on me once more. “Who did you think I was? The hired help?” He pauses long enough to sit and scan a few more papers laid out before him. “I may be loaded, but I can answer my own door.”
“Oh, of course!” I stammer, hating myself for being a nervous ninny and getting this interview off to a bad start. “I didn’t mean … I just thought…”
“I like to do things for myself, Ms.--” He scratches the stubble on his chin. “What did you say your name was?”
“Maya. Maya O’ Bannon.”
“Well, Maya.” He folds his large brown hands together and leans over the desk. His scowl transforms into a sexy smirk. “What is your preference when it comes to whips?”