The Nanny Plan. Sarah M. Anderson
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blew up in his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “I’ll pay for the cleaning bill.”
She laughed. And after she’d checked her seat for coffee, she sat down, spread a napkin over her lap, and grinned at him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But your clothes...” Even now, he could see the droplets of coffee on her shirt.
“I’m used to spills and stains. Don’t worry about it.”
He wasn’t sure if he believed her, but then he met her gaze. It was full of humor, yes—but he didn’t get the sense that she was laughing at him. Just the situation. Clumsy billionaire knocks coffee into her lap.
He had to get out of here before he did even worse damage to her clothes or his pride. “Listen, why don’t you come by my office in two weeks? I’ll have my assistant start the paperwork and we can settle the terms then.” He fished out his card, which just said, “Longmire Foundation,” with the address and email. “And please—bring the dry-cleaning bill. It hurts me to think that I might have ruined your shirt.”
A second too late, he realized he was staring at her chest. The jacket had fallen open a little more. It was a very nice chest.
God, what was he doing? Trying to make this worse? He shook some sense—he hoped—back into his head and handed over the card. “Say, Friday at two?”
“I have to work.” She took the card and studied it. “This is in the Filmore area.”
“Yes. I keep an office close to where I live.” She was still looking at the card. “Is that a problem?”
“No, it’s fine. I just thought you’d be down in the Mission or in SOMA. Close to where all the other tech billionaires hang out.”
He waved his hand. “I like to walk to the office when it’s nice out.” She gaped at him, as if she couldn’t believe a billionaire would stoop to walking on his own two feet instead of being carried on a gold-plated litter by trained elephants. “Truth be told, we’re not some sort of secret billionaire club. And I don’t really have much interest in the constant one-upmanship that happens when you get us all together. I like peace and quiet and a nice view. I like to be a little bit not what people expect.”
That got her attention. She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and...encouraging?
If she could still look at him after he dumped his drink all over her, then maybe...
She went back to studying the card. “I won’t be able to get there until five. Is that too late?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll make sure Stanley knows you’re coming.”
“Stanley?”
“My assistant.” Actually, Stanley was more than that—he picked out Nate’s clothes and made sure Nate projected the right amount of geek-cred cool. If only Stanley had been here tonight, no one would have gotten a damp lap.
He’d have Stanley start the due diligence on her charity to make sure her numbers were correct.
She grinned up at him again, as if she wasn’t sure how to process an assistant named Stanley. “I look forward to our meeting.” She stood, crumpling up the napkins and stuffing them into her empty cup. Then she extended her hand. “Mr. Longmire, it has been an honor. Thank you so much for considering my proposal.”
“It’s a worthy cause.” He took her hand in his and tried to shake it, but the feeling of her slender fingers warming his momentarily froze his brain. He wanted to say something suave and sophisticated that let her know he was interested in more than her charity.
He had nothing.
Maybe their next meeting would go more smoothly—in his office, Stanley would be ready to swoop in and save Nate from himself as needed. “And again—sorry about the coffee.”
She waved him off and retrieved her large check from behind the chair. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to be too splattered. “I’ll see you on Friday in two weeks.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” That got him a nice smile, warm and friendly and comforting—like she realized exactly how socially awkward he really was and was rewarding him for doing a decent job.
Nate watched her figure retreat from the coffee shop and disappear into the foggy darkness, the check glowing white. Trish Hunter. Yes, Stanley would have to do some due diligence on her charity. And on the woman herself. Nate wanted to know more about her—a lot more.
He sent for a car to take him home and was picking up the coffee cups—his mother had always taught him to pick up after himself and being a self-made billionaire hadn’t changed that—when his phone rang. Not the chime that went with a message, but the ring of someone actually calling him.
His mother. She was pretty much the only person who called him, anyway. She was too old to learn to text, she said. That was her story and she was sticking to it.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, heading out to the sidewalk.
“Nate? Oh, honey.” She was crying. Nate froze halfway out the door. Instantly, all thoughts of Trish Hunter and large checks and coffee were pushed from his mind.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Nate—oh, God. There’s been an accident.”
“Dad?” Panic clawed at him. His parents were only in their fifties. He didn’t want to lose either one just yet.
“He’s fine. Oh, Nate...we need you to come home. It’s Brad and Elena...”
“Are they okay?” But even as he said it, he knew the answer was no. His mother was crying. Something horrible had happened to his older brother and his sister-in-law. “What about Jane?” When his mom didn’t answer right away, Nate nearly threw up. “Mom—is Jane okay?”
“The baby is fine. We were watching her so they could go out... Come home, Nate. Come home now.”
Dear God in heaven. “I’m on my way, Mom. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hung up and called Stanley. This was one of the benefits of being a billionaire. He didn’t have to deal with emergency flights. He had an assistant—and a private jet.
“Stanley, get the plane ready. I need to go to Kansas City. Right now.”
Trish had spent a good deal of time on this outfit. Wearing the Wonder Woman shirt again would be too obvious, even though it had washed clean. Trish had decided to go a little more formal for this meeting. She had on a coral skirt that came to midcalf. She’d paired it with a white shirt that was as crisp as she could get it in a public Laundromat and a denim jacket from Diesel—another major score from the thrift stores. Her only pair of cowboy boots were on her feet. Once they’d been black, but now they were a faded gray. Which was trendy enough, so she figured she was okay.
She was wearing the one good piece of turquoise she had, a teardrop-shaped pendant that hung on a thin silver chain. She’d twisted her hair up into a professional looking knot and had put in a pair of silver hoops that looked more expensive than they really were.
This was her being a business-professional Lakota woman. This was not her dressing to impress a certain billionaire. Not much, anyway.
She didn’t have a cleaning bill to give him and she had the distinctive feeling that he wasn’t going to be happy about that. What could she do? Tell him she needed $1.25 in quarters for the Laundromat?
The skirt had necessitated the bus, however. She hadn’t wanted it to get tangled up in her bike spokes. So, at 5:08—after almost an hour and a half—she finally arrived at his address in the Filmore district.
The Longmire Foundation was on the fourth floor of an austere-looking