I knocked on the wrong door and walked into a job. When a live-in position lands in my lap, I don’t ask questions.
Not about the wrong house I’m living in and not about the gorgeous man who handed me a home.
And definitely not about his three kids who are warm to the touch, talk of flying and never take off their leather bracelets.
Somewhere between bedtime stories and the way he looks at me, I’m falling for the children and losing my head over the man who hired me.
