Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Willow

I ’m naked in my billionaire boss’s tub.

Not exactly how I pictured my first day at work ending.

Thirteen hours of ‘let’s see if we can break the new nanny’ will do wild things to a girl.

To be fair, Mr. Conti’s away on travel, and it’s either a much-needed in-home pampering session or I hand in my resignation first thing in the morning.

The laundry list of prior nannies now makes a whole lot more sense. I’d assumed the terrifying housekeeper, Ms. M., was exaggerating about the twins. “I’ll show you to your room, but heed my warning—don’t get too comfortable.”

I get it now.

Oh, I get it.

I sink deeper into the warm water as I replay the events of the day.

I’m usually one hell of a tough cookie, but Mr. Conti’s four-year-old twins, Guilia and Lucia, are forces of nature. Since it’s summer, I have them full-time—sunup to sundown, every bit of mischief and chaos in between.

It’s a special kind of hell.

Years of babysitting gave me a black belt in handling chaos, but these two? Next. Level.

Today, I felt like I was juggling five hats at once: chief entertainment officer, professional child wrangler, first responder, therapist-on-call, and—oh, let’s not forget—on-call disaster control officer for two tiny forces of chaos in sparkly sneakers. Fully committed to my demise.

The pay is amazing, but it’s currently taking me serious mental gymnastics to rationalize not walking away.

I suppose deep down I know there’s a lot more to the girls than meets the eye. Two little diamonds in the rough that need a little tough love and consistency in their routines. Growing up with a single father who happens to be a busy businessman can’t be easy for them. Maybe that’s why I’m willing to take the emotional torment, at least for now.

A soft smile tugs at my lips as I remember the girls’ antics from earlier. Guilia never stops asking questions: “Willow, why can’t unicorns fly? Why can’t I be an only child? Can I return my sister to God? Why does Ms. M have stinky breath?” If curiosity had a face, it’d be Guilia’s wide, eager brown eyes, shining under a mess of curls that seems to defy gravity. Lucia, on the other hand, is very reserved but a sneaky little one—a prankster with a mean poker face. She spent a full ten seconds pretending to choke on her apple just to see if I’d panic, then burst into hysterics the second I started giving her the Heimlich.

It was traumatic.

Big T Traumatic.

Like, "I never want to see another damn apple again" trauma.

Even so, with a little consistency, and maybe a miracle, they might actually turn into mini human beings instead of pint-sized hell-raisers.

Ms. M. was actually surprised by how much progress I’d made with the girls. That says a lot.

It may just take a little more time to win their trust fully.

That is, assuming I don’t get myself fired first for hijacking my boss’s tub.

I sink deeper into the warm water, letting lavender-scented bubbles rise to my chin as I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. I shut my eyes, allowing all my senses to take in the moment.

But then… I hear something.

Footsteps…

Heavy, unmistakable footsteps.

And—they’re getting closer.

My eyes snap open, and a wave of panic hits me like a triple shot of espresso with an extra pump of you’re screwed, bitch!!!

He’s supposed to be gone.

Out of town.

Miles away. Maybe even on another continent, making deals or whatever billionaires do. Why else would I be dumb enough to use his private bathroom?

I strain to listen, mentally praying that Ms. M.is doing a midnight cleaning spree or whatever intimidating housekeepers do.

But no, these footsteps are way too heavy for her thin frame. Each one is loud, steady, and echoing ominously down the hall.

No, no, no.

Think fast, Willow.

What do I do? Hide?

Fake my own death?

My heart’s racing, and my brain’s tossing out bad ideas like it’s in panic mode.

I could just strike a pose like some marble goddess—yeah, because standing here like a naked Greek statue is definitely going to make Mr. Conti think, “Oh, well. Nothing to see here.”

The footsteps stop.

Right outside the door.

Please, universe, let this be a dream.

And then, miraculously, no one storms in to fire me on the spot.

I hear what can only be Mr. Conti walk straight past me and head for the shower.

I release a shaky breath, clinging to the tiny scrap of sanity I have left.

Then I hear the water start.

Phewwww.

He miraculously didn’t see me. I can finally take a moment to figure out how the hell I’ll make it out without getting caught.

I slide my gaze through the smallest crack in the curtain—and nearly forget how to breathe.

Holy shit.

Nico Conti stands fully naked under the spray, water cascading down his sculpted back, tracing every ridge and dip of muscle. His shoulders are broad, his stance powerful.

Although I’ve never met him, I recognize his immaculate face immediately—the same one I’d seen in portraits around the house, the one whispered about in careful tones by the staff.

Nico Conti, the mysterious gray eyed billionaire I technically work for, a man of quiet power and sharp edges.

I’d heard rumblings about him even before I took this job—rumors of a man as scary as he is wealthy, someone who commands respect with little more than a glance. And now here I am, hiding in his tub, caught between panic and… something else entirely.

He’s all broad shoulders, chiseled chest, and abs that look like they’ve been carved out of stone, honed with a precision that suggests discipline, maybe even control that goes beyond the gym.

Fuck. He’s hot.

Every inch of him exudes this quiet strength, an intensity that’s as alluring as it is intimidating.

Water glides down his tanned skin, tracing the defined lines of muscle all the way down to that perfect, firm ass.

Damn.

His skin gleams under the warm spray, each ridge of muscle highlighted in a way that makes it hard to breathe. His hair, with those perfect flecks of distinguished gray, adds a layer of sophistication and charisma that makes him look somehow both ageless and powerful—a mix that should be illegal.

And as he soaps up, I’m rooted in place, my heart racing as I watch his hands glide over every hard contour, moving from his shoulders to his chest, down his abs, and lower…

Each slow, deliberate movement feels like he’s savoring his own quiet strength, lost in a ritual that’s both seductive and intense.

This is the man who makes people whisper, the man with a reputation that could keep most people up at night. And yet, instead of feeling fear, my pulse only quickens, captivated by every subtle movement, every ripple of muscle.

Something about him stirs a magnetic pull that defies any sense of caution.

I know I should stop watching.

He’s not just my boss—he’s someone who could snap his fingers and have his way. But I’m mesmerized, caught between fascination and the unmistakable tug of desire, my own thoughts spinning into fantasies I’d never admit out loud.

Just when I think I might be able to tear myself away, his hand runs down his torso, and—oh God—right over his cock.

His glorious cock.

I clap a hand over my mouth to hold back a gasp.

My pulse quickens, my breath catching in my throat as I watch him, totally mesmerized. His hand moves over his cock. Thick, and hard.

Oh, sweet hell.

My mind goes straight to the gutter, every single thought sinful.

All I can think about is him, the feel of his body, his hands running down my skin, his hips pressing against mine, stretching me in ways I’ve only dared to dream.

I shake my head, trying to push those thoughts away.

Focus, Willow! You’ve got to get out of here.

Run, bitch!

But I’m frozen in place.

This is fine.

Everything’s fine.

Just breathe. Inhale serenity now... or something like that.

Isn’t that what you preach to your yoga students?

Meanwhile, my heart is sprinting like a mile a minute.

I’m torn between running away and watching just a moment longer. Just when I think it couldn’t get any worse, he says something that nearly knocks me out of the tub.

“Take it all, Willow,” he groans, voice dark and rough.

Wait, what?

Come again?

I’m stunned, heart racing so fast I feel dizzy. Take it all? My brain barely processes that he’s thinking of me. I’m the reason he’s touching himself in the shower.

That’s the only reason he’d say my name.

Then I catch a glimpse of the cell phone sitting on the shower bench.

That’s it! He’s watching me on the screen.

Watching my yoga videos on YouTube, watching me in my leggings, all those poses, and…

Holy shit.

Flattered doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The idea of this insanely hot older man getting off to me is enough to make my head spin.

I can’t look away, my gaze glued to the way his muscles ripple with every movement, the way his hand works up and down his cock in an unhurried, steady rhythm. He’s completely lost in his pleasure, and part of me aches to be in the shower with him.

The thought sends a thrill through me.

I look to the right of me and catch sight of the detachable shower head, and before I can second-guess it, I reach for it, my hand trembling as I turn the knob and bring the water down between my legs.

The first pulse of water against my clit makes me gasp, a wave of pleasure crashing over me. I close my eyes, drowning in the fantasy.

In my mind, I’m there with him, pressed against his hard, wet body, my hands exploring every inch, every ripple of muscle.

I imagine that smoldering, intense gaze locking onto mine, the heat between us flaring as his hands slide down my back, pulling me against him. He lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he presses me against the wall, his cock filling me with every rough thrust.

The fantasy is so real I can barely think straight, my body heating up with every pulsing sensation. His voice echoes in my mind, low and commanding. He growls, his breath hot against my ear.

“You like the way I’m fucking you, don’t you?”

“Yes… yes,” I gasp, clinging to him in my mind, my body writhing under the pulse of the water. God, yes. Every imagined thrust sends a shiver down my spine, and I’m teetering on the edge, feeling every pulse, every beat of desire echo through me.

And then, in the real world, I hear it—he moans my name again, rough and desperate—and that’s it. My entire body clenches, pleasure crashing over me in waves as I come, hard, biting my lip to keep from crying out. I imagine him there with me, the heat between us leaving us both breathless and spent.

As the intensity fades, I take a steadying breath, my body still tingling from the aftershocks. I peek through the curtain again, just to be sure. Nico’s braced against the wall, his chest heaving as he takes in deep, steady breaths.

It’s my cue.

Time to get out before I do something even more insane. I grab the towel, wrap it around myself, and slip out of the tub as quietly as possible, my heart racing the entire time. Each step feels like a high-stakes escape, but finally, I’m out of the bathroom, and relief washes over me.

Back in the bedroom, I let out a shaky laugh, my entire body still buzzing from the insanity of it all. But as I turn to leave, something stops me dead in my tracks.

I left the baby monitor in the bathroom.

My eyes widen, dread flooding my veins.

FUCK. SHIT. FUCK .

Ms. M warned me that the girls sometimes wake up and wander around at night. And if they do, they’ll be on their own—completely unsupervised.

A shiver runs through me as the realization sinks in: there’s no choice.

I have to go back.

I have to slip past him, through the steam-filled bathroom where he’s still in the shower, and retrieve that damn monitor.

Adrenaline runs through me as I brace myself for the impossible.