𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐘 (+𝟏𝟖)

CH. 11: NANNY FOR HIRE

M A L L O R Y

Trees blur past the window as the car drives through the thicket. I stare absentmindedly at the scenery, my nerves scattered from here to Timbuktu while sitting in the backseat of a black Range Rover driven by a six foot eight, scary tattooed man named Fabio.

He's a hulking beast who scared me shitless when he first showed up at my apartment, towering nearly to the top of the doorframe, and asked me to come with him. I complied, as I knew he worked for Hunter.

Hunter sent him to pick me up because I told him that I didn't own a car during our call. I left out the embarrassing detail that my car had been repossessed for missed payments. I offered to get an Uber, but he sent his driver so I wouldn't have to pay.

The drive to the mansion takes about forty minutes, as Hunter lived on the waterfront outside the city. Despite Fabio's scary and intimidating appearance, he turned out to be good company. He was sweet and a gentleman, offering to stop at any restaurant I wanted on his boss's orders to ensure I was fed. I politely declined, and we talked the whole way.

It was a welcome distraction from my mind drifting to last night's events when Celina and I found the hands of my attempted rapist at my front door. It confirmed a horrific truth I've denied for weeks.

The Long Island Reaper is my stalker.

The cops arrived and searched the entire area before recommending that I stay with a family member. Celina insisted I stay with her and her grandmother; I was too shaken to decline. We were so scared that we took the guns with us and slept in the same bed.

I called Hunter at the asscrack of dawn, accepting his offer, and he scheduled everything. Being stalked was one thing, but being sent a box of severed hands pushed me well past my fucking limit.

My pervert landlord was even brutally assaulted and nearly killed last night. Whether his attack was purely coincidental or related to my stalker didn't matter; it wasn't safe to live there anymore, and working for Hunter was my ticket out that craphole.

Staying in a mansion rent-free with food and internet provided was a sweet-ass deal. I could do my college work while getting paid and save up enough money to get a better apartment—one without roaches and a creepy landlord. So, I couldn't afford to fuck this up.

My phone buzzes, and I see a text from Celina.

CELINA: Don't forget to use those tits and bat those long eyelashes of yours. That might convince him to give you the job. Good luck, bestie. Kisses.

Shaking my head, I snort at her frivolously unserious advice before texting her back to thank her.

I didn't wear anything too suggestive—just a grey slim-fitted, off-the-shoulder sweater dress paired with a cute silver necklace and thigh-high boots. It was modest, mature, but still cute. I wanted to look appropriate without looking like a basic vanilla bitch.

While I've exploited the pretty privilege cheat code to get what I wanted from men in the past, Hunter felt like the exception. He was the one man who didn't seem to look at me with lust or like a piece of meat—if he did, he never gave anything away. His emotions always seemed to be guarded behind an icy facade.

What if he doesn't find me attractive?

I don't know why the thought crosses my mind or why it bothers me. Besides Celina, I never really cared about anyone's opinion of me, much less a man's. But I found myself craving his approval.

And not just for the job.

I can't deny my attraction to him, not after internet stalking him this morning to see if a wife or girlfriend was in the picture. Most I found was that he was thirty-six, owned an architectural empire, boasted a net worth of $8.6 billion, and held annual charity events, donating millions to children's hospitals.