A Standalone Nanny × Single Dad, Brother’s Best Friend Billionaire Romance
First rule of avoiding your brother’s hot billionaire best friend: Don’t accidentally AirDrop him a meme calling him “Mr. Panty-Wetting Marco.” My five-year streak of dodging Marco Fiore?
Spectacularly ruined in one disastrous night.
The billionaire chef, widower, and my brother’s best friend has been the subject of my strategic avoidance since that unforgettable Vegas trip where I felt something I’ve spent half a decade trying to forget.
Tonight, I finally cracked. One bar invitation. How bad could it be?
Within the first ten minutes, I manage to: AirDrop said meme to half the bar (including his head of security); voice-text “I might have to climb him like a tree” just as he sits down next to me; announce in broken Italian that I’m “very wet.” When my brother leaves us alone, Marco makes a proposition: “Come over.
Just for one night.” So I do. And one night of mind-blowing sex later, he’s gone. For good. Or so I think. Because a few days later my brother calls with the world’s most awkward job offer.
Marco’s nanny just quit, and he specifically asked for me. The contract is crystal clear: no closed doors, no crossed lines, no fraternization. My bank account says yes. My pride says absolutely not.
I take the job. Every day I remind myself this is temporary. Professional. A paycheck.
So why does watching him be a father make my chest ache in ways I didn’t know were possible?
And why can’t I stop thinking about that one night I spent with him every time I’m close enough to smell his cologne?
