The Nanny Plan. Sarah M. Anderson
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were the ones who never tried.
Finally, there was only one person in line on her side and Longmire was listening intently to a question from the other aisle. Trish looked back and didn’t see anyone else coming forward. This was it. She edged her check out from behind her seat and then stood in line, less than two feet away from the check. She could grab it and hoist it up in seconds. This would work. It had to.
The person in front of her asked some frivolous question about how Longmire felt about his status as a sex symbol. Even as Trish rolled her eyes, Longmire shot beet red. The question had unsettled him. Perfect.
“We have time for one more question,” Jennifer announced after the nervous laughter had settled. “Yes? Step forward and say your name, please.”
Trish bent over and grabbed her check. It was comically huge—a four-feet long by two-feet tall piece of cardboard. “Mr. Longmire,” she said, holding the check in front of her like a shield. “My name is Trish Hunter and I’m the founder of One Child, One World, a charity that gets school supplies in the hands of underprivileged children on American Indian reservations.”
Longmire leaned forward, his dark eyes fastened on hers. The world seemed to—well, it didn’t fall away, not like it did in stories. But the hum of the audience and the bright lights seemed to fade into the background as Longmire focused all of his attention on her and said, “An admirable cause. Go on, Ms. Hunter. What is your question?”
Trish swallowed nervously. “I recently had the privilege of being named one of Glamour’s Top Ten College Women in honor of the work I’m doing.” She paused to heft her check over her head. “The recognition came with a ten-thousand dollar reward, which I have pledged to One Child, One World in its entirety. You’ve spoken eloquently about how technology can change lives. Will you match this award and donate ten thousand dollars to help children get school supplies?”
The silence that crashed over the auditorium was deafening. All Trish could hear was the pounding of blood in her ears. She’d done it. She’d done exactly what she’d set out to do—cause a scene and hopefully trap one of the richest men in the world into parting with just a little of his hard-earned money.
“Thank you, Ms. Hunter,” the emcee said sharply. “But Mr. Longmire has a process by which people can apply for—”
“Wait,” Longmire cut her off. “It’s true, the Longmire Foundation does have an application process. However,” he said, his gaze never leaving Trish’s face. Heat flushed her body. “One must admire a direct approach. Ms. Hunter, perhaps we can discuss your charity’s needs after this event is over?”
Trish almost didn’t hear the Oohs that came from the rest of the crowd over the rush of blood in her ears. That wasn’t a no. It wasn’t a yes, either—it was a very good side step around giving a hard answer one way or the other. But it wasn’t a no and that was all that mattered. She could still press her case and maybe, just maybe, get enough funding to buy every single kid on her reservation a backpack full of school supplies before school started in five months.
Plus, she’d get to see if Nate was as good-looking up close as he was at a distance. Not that it mattered. Of course it didn’t. “I would be honored,” she said into the microphone and even she didn’t miss the way her voice shook, just a little.
“Bring your check,” he said with a grin that came real close to being wicked. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one that large before.”
Laughter rolled through the auditorium as Longmire grinned at her. Behind his glasses, one eyebrow lifted in challenge and then he pointedly looked offstage. The message was clear. Would she meet him backstage?
The emcee was thanking Longmire for his time and everyone was applauding and the rest of the evening was clearly over. Trish managed to snag her small purse—a Coach knockoff—and fight against the rising tide of college kids who had not been invited backstage for a private meeting with the Boy Billionaire. With her small purse and her large check, Trish managed to get up the steps at the side of the stage and duck behind the curtains.
The emcee stood there, glaring at her. “That was some stunt you pulled,” she said in a vicious whisper.
“Thanks!” Trish responded brightly. No doubt, Jennifer had had grand plans for her own post-interview “meeting” with Longmire and Trish had usurped that quite nicely.
“Ah, Ms. Hunter. Hello.” Suddenly, Nate Longmire was standing before her. Trish was a good five-nine—taller in her boots—but she still had to lean her head up to meet his gaze. “Excellent,” he went on, looking down at her as if he was thrilled to see her. “You have the large check. Jennifer, would you take our picture?”
His phone chimed. He looked at it, scowled briefly, and then called up his SnAppShot app. He handed his phone to the emcee, who forced a polite smile. “Hand it up here,” Longmire said, taking half of the check in his hand. Then he put his arm around Trish’s shoulders and whispered, “Smile.”
Trish wasn’t sure she pulled off that smile. His arm around her was warm and heavy and she swore to God that she felt his touch in places he wasn’t touching.
She would not be attracted to him. She couldn’t afford to be attracted to him. All she could do was forge ahead with her plan. Phase One—trap the Boy Billionaire—was complete. Now she had to move onto Phase Two—getting a donation out of him.
Forging ahead had absolutely nothing to do with the way his physical touch was sending shimmering waves of awareness through her body. Nothing.
Jennifer took two shots and then handed back the phone. Longmire’s arm left her and Trish couldn’t help it—she shivered at the loss of his warmth.
“Mr. Longmire,” Jennifer began in a silky tone. “If you recall, I’d invited you out for a dinner after the program. We should get going.”
There was a pause that could only be called awkward. Longmire didn’t even move for three blinks of the eye—as if this statement had taken him quite by surprise and, despite his ferocious business skills and dizzying intellect, he had no possible answer for Jennifer.
Jennifer touched his arm. “Ready?” she said, batting her eyes.
Trish rolled hers—just as Longmire looked at her.
Oops. Busted.
But instead of glaring at her, Longmire looked as if Trish was the answer to all his questions. That look should not do things to her. So, she forcibly decided, it didn’t.
“Gosh—I do remember that, but I think I need to address Ms. Hunter’s question first.” He stepped away from Jennifer much like a crab avoiding a hungry seagull. Jennifer’s hand hung in empty space for a moment before she lowered it back to her side. “Call my office,” Longmire said, turning on his heel. “We’ll try to set something up. Ms. Hunter? Are you coming?”
Trish clutched her check to her chest and hurried after Longmire, trying to match his long strides.
That definitely wasn’t a no.
Now she just needed to get to a yes.
* * *
Nate settled into the Apollo Coffee shop. He liked coffee shops. They were usually busy enough that he didn’t garner too much attention but quiet enough that he could think. He liked to think. It was a profitable, satisfying experience for him, thinking.
Right now he was thinking about the young woman who’d trucked a comically large check into the hired car and carried it into the coffee shop as if it were the most normal thing ever.
Trish Hunter. She was drinking a small black coffee—easily the cheapest thing on the extensive menu. She’d insisted on buying her own coffee, too. Had absolutely refused to let him plunk down the two dollars and change for hers.
That was something...different. He was intrigued, he had to admit.
The