Eight: Harlow

EIGHT

HARLOW

I slid from side to side on the black leather seats in Mr. Dawson’s Mercedes AMG.The moonroof hung open to give me a view of Manhattan’s tallest building, and the minibar below my feet offered top-tier champagne.

I’d never felt poorer in my life.

The closest I’d ever gotten to this car before was via a valet line when me and some fellow chefs snapped pictures with our phones.

As the driver coasted closer to Park Avenue, I ran a hand against the wood grain finishes. Under the climate control lay a stack of engraved handkerchiefs.

I picked up one and rubbed it against my cheek.

“This has to be at least five hundred thread count,” I said aloud. “Do you think Mr. Dawson would care if I kept one?”

The driver rolled his eyes and let up the partition.

When we arrived at the condo, he rolled my luggage to the elevator.

“Thanks for the ride, sir.” I took a five-dollar bill from my purse. “I’m supposed to tip you, right?”

“No, Miss,” he said. “But for future reference, that is not a tip.”

I pulled out three more dollars.

He looked at my offering like it was an insult.

Fine then . I stuffed them back into my pocket and stepped onto the elevator.

Tonight, an attendant was waiting inside. He gave me a slight nod and hit the penthouse button for me.

When the doors glided open, he rolled my luggage to the front door.

“Have a goodnight, Miss.”

Anxious, I pressed the doorbell and waited for Mr. Dawson.

No one came.

I pressed it again.

The door swung open, revealing a woman in all grey.

“ Yes ?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Dawson,” I said.

“At this hour?” She looked me up and down. “For what ?”

“He hired me to be his new nanny.”

“Oh.” She snorted. “Come right in, Miss. I’m Mr. Dawson’s executive house manager. I’m assuming you start in the morning, so I’ll show you to your room.”

I followed her through a long hallway and past a spiral staircase, into a grey and white room three times the size of my entire apartment.

I looked from the panoramic windows to the king-sized bed to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.

“This entire room is mine?” I was in disbelief.

“It’s yours for as long as you last here.” She nodded. “You have a private shower and a clawfoot tub in the adjoining bathroom suite, but you’ll never get a chance to use the latter, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“Is Mr. Dawson a good employer?” I asked. “Like, is he nice?”

“You will use the freight elevator whenever it’s raining and leave wet shoes in the hallway.” She ignored my question. “That’s so the housekeeping team doesn’t have to do a double-clean on the floors.”

“You’ll have access to a personal town car driver—usually Mr. Michael at all times, and if you ever need to call Mr. Dawson, don’t. Call his chief of staff, Mr. Jerry instead.”

“How long have you been working here?” I tried to engage her in another topic. “Months? Years?”

“The children have a list of contacts atop your desk that you’ll need to save to your cell phone,” She ignored me again. She spoke like she’d said these words a million times before, like she didn’t care whether I understood.

“There is a directory of staff numbers as well if you need any of us.”

“Did you hear any of my questions?” I asked. “I’m just trying to get to know a fellow coworker.”

“You don’t need to know me.” Her voice was terse. “Since you’re stupid enough to take this position, I don’t need to know you either. Clear?”

I swallowed.

“Do your job and do it well,” she said. “The only personal thing you need to know is that the children’s mother passed away while she was on the verge of marrying someone else, and that Mr. Dawson doesn’t date. He just fucks, although he hasn’t done any of that since bringing his children home.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“That’s your Bible while you’re employed here.” She pointed to a thick black binder marked “ Mr. Dawson’s Guide for the Nanny.”

“There’s a debit card in there for anything you may need to spend while the children are in your care, and a list of doctors and dental appointments with dates. Try to last at least three weeks, so you can get some overtime, and make me feel like I haven’t wasted my breath.”

She walked away and slammed the door shut.

Shaking off her rudeness, I picked up the binder and plopped onto the softest bed I’d ever felt.

Oh my god… “I could get used to this,” I muttered, flipping through the pages. There was a tab for everything—down to how Mr. Dawson wanted the towels folded in the babies’ bathroom.

I passed out in the middle of reading his rules for car rides.

“And the winner of the Bon Apetit Pastry Chef of the Year is…Harlow Hawthorne!”

Applause filled the air as a video of my custom tiramisu cupcake appeared on all the big screens.

I smoothed my pink Chanel dress and approached the stage. The diamond whisky trophy glittered brighter with my every step, and then ? —

“ Miss Hawthorne ?” A deep voice said, ruining my moment. “Miss Hawthorne?”

“Not now.” I groaned. “This is my time to shine.”

I grabbed the award from the host, but I inhaled his scent instead of speaking into the mic for my speech.

It was sensual and woodsy, with a hint of amber, the type I’d want lingering on my skin after a day of hot and sweaty sex.

Intoxicated by it, I inhaled it again and again, vowing to take one last drag before addressing the crowd.

“Miss Hawthorne?” That deep voice intruded my moment again.

“Can’t you see I’m getting an award?” I opened my eyes and realized I wasn’t in a ballroom.

There was no standing ovation or trophy anywhere in sight.

I was sprawled on my brand-new bed, and Mr. Dawson was standing over me in a different custom three-piece suit. His cologne was so damn good it’d infiltrated my dreams.

“Are you ready to get to work, or should I let you continue sleeping?”

I knew better than to give him an honest answer.

Sitting up, I noticed it was still dark outside.

“It’s five o’clock in the morning.” He read my mind. “William typically wakes up for a warm bottle around six, and Charlotte will want to be held for a few minutes before she drinks one. You’ll also need to make sure Olivia is ready for school transport by six fifteen.”

Olivia? “I didn’t know you had a third child.”

“I didn’t either.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll add an additional forty percent to your weekly payment for as long as she’s with me. Any questions or concerns?”

He left my room before I could answer.

His staff clearly takes after him.

I quickly showered and dressed for my first big day.

Carrying my binder into the kitchen, I flipped to the bottle-making section and followed the instructions to the letter.

As I measured the vitamin drops, a girl who looked about eight years old walked past the breakfast bar.

Donning a plaid green skirt and black blazer, she looked as unhappy as I did about being awake at this hour.

“Good morning, Olivia.” I smiled, and she looked over at me. “That’s your name, right?”

“Yes, and don’t tell me yours.” She picked up a satchel. “You suck ass, and you won’t last.”

Okay, then. “Your dad says I need to get you out of here by six fifteen.”

“He’s my uncle .”

“My apologies. Would you like to go a little earlier today?”

She stared at me.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I headed to the door.“Let’s go.”

“You need to get the twins ready first,” she said, looking alarmed. “You weren’t about to leave them here alone, were you?”

“Of course not!” I couldn’t believe I was about to do that.

“I would never.” I picked up the bottles. “Can you tell me where their room is? I forgot already.”

“I’ll be downstairs in the car,” she said. “Mr. Michael is a stickler for leaving on time.”

She walked away, and I rushed down the hall, opening door after door, searching for the nursery, wondering why I hadn’t asked the rude manager about this earlier.

“Why are there so many rooms?” I nearly screamed. “Where the hell is it?”

A faint cry sounded from the other side of the condo, and I raced toward it.

My jaw dropped at the colossal size of the nursery. With its pretty sky walls and hot air balloon theme, it made my new room look like a pantry closet.

I walked over to the crib and scooped up the crying baby boy.

“It’s okay, William,” I said. “We’re about to go for a nice long ride to take Olivia to school.”

He wailed louder.

“One second, one second.” His diaper was heavy, so I carried him to a changing table.

When I untucked the folds, dark green poop awaited me.

I held back a gag and wiped him clean, giving him a brand-new one.

I looked around for the trash bin, but there wasn’t one. Only a basket marked “To be washed by hand daily.”

I refused to believe a man worth over a billion dollars would reuse diaper cloths.

After he drank his bottle, his little sister cried out.

It was already 6:10, so I scooped her into my arms with William and took the elevator downstairs.

The waiting town car driver stared at me in shock.

“Good morning!” I said. “Hopefully we made it right on time.”

“Where are the twins’ daytime clothes, Miss?” He glared at me. “Surely you don’t expect them to go out in their pajamas.”

“They’re babies.”

“They’re babies that have a professional photo session with Baby Vogue today.” He rolled his eyes. “They can’t just…Just get inside the car, Miss.”

I obliged and set them in their matching car seats.

Olivia pressed her face against the window, mumbling to herself.

As the driver pulled onto the street, he handed me a cell phone.

“I apologize for my tone, Miss,” he said. “I didn’t realize you didn’t receive the twins’ cell phone last night.”

“Their father will FaceTime them in between meetings, and you’ll use it to keep up with their busy schedules. You’ll also need to log everything you do into the ‘DawsonTeam’ app so that the rest of Mr. Dawson’s staff can stay on top of things.”

“Thank you.” I smiled, grateful that at least one of my coworkers wasn’t a jerk. “How many staff members does Mr. Dawson have?”

“For his home life it’s fifty-two,” Olivia said. “For his professional life, it’s eighty-seven, but that doesn’t include the hundreds that work for the Brooklyn Jets.” She finally looked at me. “You’re not included in any of those numbers, though.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can already tell thatyou won’t last longer than a week.”

As if the driver agreed with her assessment, he turned up the radio, and we rode the rest of the way to her academy without any conversation.