The Billionaire's Super Nanny (A BWWM Romance) Read online

  The Billionaire's Super Nanny

  Published By Tiana Cole, 2016

  © 2016 Tiana Cole

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Also from Tiana Cole:

  Also from BWWM UNITED

  About The Author

  Chapter 1

  Zeya

  “Good afternoon Caller, you’re on the air with Zeya Sparks.”

  I pulled out my notepad, jotting down key information while the woman rambled on and on about her dilemma. I figured it out in less than a minute, but I’m part talk show host, part therapist. I listened patiently, waiting for that telltale sigh that said the woman was done laying it all out and was ready to hear what I had to say.

  It wasn’t going to be easy for her.

  “And how old did you say the child was?” I asked.

  “Four.”

  I would have been shocked if this wasn’t normal. But out-of-control four-year-olds seemed to be a common thing now.

  “First, you have to start by remembering that you are the parent and you are in control.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “When she talks back to you, or when she throws a tantrum when she doesn’t get her way, don’t try to placate her. Stand firm and stand your ground. If she needs to spend some time in her room so she can calm down that—”

  “But she screams.”

  Why do people interrupt me all the time?

  “It doesn’t matter if she screams, yells, kicks or cries,” I said. “She’s doing that to get to you and if you respond, you’ve already lost.”

  “What if the neighbors hear her?”

  “When you’re parenting your child, you really need to stop worrying about what everyone else thinks. You’re there to parent, not to worry about what the neighbors think. They’re not the ones that have to deal with the ramifications day in and day out when you let your little one run the show.”

  “But she yells.”

  “And?”

  Why does this seem so simple to me, yet no one else seems to make the connection? Who cares if they yell, really?

  “She says awful things.”

  “What does she say?”

  “‘Mommy, I hate you! Why won’t you give me my candy? You’re so mean!’”

  I was floored. Hate was such a strong word. Where in the world a four-year-old learned that kind of language was beyond me. But that wasn’t the issue. Well, not the biggest one anyway. The issue at hand was one I’d seen over and over again. This woman wanted her daughter to grow up to be her best friend; a mini-extension of her and all her hopes and dreams. She was so busy living vicariously through her child and trying to be everything her own mother wasn’t that she was missing what was right before her eyes. Of course everyone wants to be their child’s best friend. Someday. What she didn’t understand was you have to be a parent first, and a friend later.

  “Those are things your neighbors should understand, especially when they hear her yelling about candy, of all things. Children yell and kick and scream when they don’t get their way. That’s life, and the thing that they need you to do is to teach them that those tactics just don’t work. Remain calm and—”

  “But I don’t want people judging me. I see how they look at me when she throws herself on the floor and won’t move. They think I’m a horrible mother. If I give her what she wants, then she behaves. I can’t stand the judging. It makes me feel bad.”

  I rolled my eyes, glad this was a radio show and not television. And why was this woman constantly interrupting me? This was an advice show, not a rant fest. And she was whining. Full-on whining like a little child about being judged by strangers.

  It was time to get tough.

  “It doesn’t matter if people judge you,” I told her. “They’re going to judge you whether you’re doing well or whether you’re failing, and everything in between. You can’t live your life based on what other people think of you. You have to—

  “But they talk and—”

  “Stop interrupting. You can’t expect your daughter to have manners if you can’t show the same. You called for advice. If you don’t want to listen, you’re free to hang up now.”

  I waited. There was silence on the line, but the light that indicated the phone connection stayed on.

  She was silently considering her options.

  It only took a few seconds more for her to decide on her next move.

  “I’m sorry. I’m listening.”

  “Thank you. You can’t live your life worrying about what people around you think. Everyone is judging everyone else. I’m judging you for interrupting me, people on the street judge you if you tell your child to behave, and they judge you just as much if you give in. They are going to judge you for anything and everything you do. So why not do what you know is right and make your life peaceful?”

  I let that sink in. I prided myself on being tough and straightforward, but fair. This woman, who was too ashamed to give her name on-air, wasn’t a bad mom. She’d just fallen into a trap like so many people do. It didn’t mean that she was doomed to struggle as a parent; it just meant she needed to regroup and try again. It sounded simple, but sometimes it was just that easy.

  “Okay. So what do I do?”

  I finally had her. Now was when I shone.

  “Start small, but be consistent.”

  I walked her through a series of easy exercises that would reinforce good behavior and help cut down on the tantrums. She repeated everything back to me and asked thoughtful questions when she had them.

  It was like talking to a completely different woman, and it was a sure sign that she was ready for a change.

  “That’s a lot to take in,” I told her, “and I would work on those things for a while before you try anything else.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  She sounded energized and ready for a change.

  “There’s one more thing, but this is easy.”

  “Yes?”

  “She needs to have something that she controls, something she can do that you don’t make all the decisions on.”

  Silence. That’s usually what happened. I just finished telling this woman she needed to put her foot down, and then she has to pick something to let go of and let her child run with unfettered. For some, it was counterintuitive.

  “It doesn’t have to be big,” I assured. “The best thing to hand over to your child is dressing herself. She’s getting older and wants to assert
her independence. This is a normal and natural thing; in fact, it means that you’ve given her the security she needs to feel safe showing her independence.”

  “But what if she dresses in mismatched clothes?”

  “Unless you’re going somewhere important, does that really matter?”

  “No. I guess not.”

  “If you have somewhere to go that’s important, you can give her a choice of four outfits and let her pick. Otherwise, let her express herself.”

  “What if she wants to wear shorts in the snow?”

  “Let her walk outside for a moment and make sure you have time to change or bring her some pants. She has to learn and it won’t hurt her to walk out the door and run back in to change.”

  She mulled that over for a bit, then asked, “How does letting her dress herself make her listen better?”

  “If you never give, what’s her incentive to listen?”

  I usually got them with that.

  “She doesn’t care about treats the way she cares about being a big girl,” I continued. “If you want your little girl to listen and have a good attitude, be firm, be steadfast and be fair. You wouldn’t want someone dictating your every move, and you shouldn’t do that to your child, either. It’s all about balance.”

  We chatted for a couple more minutes and then I let her go, relieved when the clock showed there was no more time for another caller. I love my job, but it was emotionally draining. Parents didn’t call me until they were at the end of their rope. They were often at their lowest point and just looking for a ray of hope.

  It’s hard to be tough on people like that, but it’s usually exactly what they need to move forward.

  I signed off for the day, grabbing a stack of mail that my producer brought in as I gathered my things.

  “Good show, Zeya.”

  “Thanks Ted,” I said. “Gotta run.”

  I waved and left, leaving Ted the same way I always did. The man liked to chit-chat, but after a four-hour show, I was chit-chatted out. I just wanted to get home and live my life.

  I got off the bus and took the short walk to my apartment in the Village. I grabbed my bag and raced up to the front entrance. I pulled open the heavy security door and made sure it shut behind me. I was in a hurry, but I wasn’t about to be careless and risk leaving it open. One of the major selling points of the place had been how secure the building was.

  Besides, it wasn’t like hurrying would get the mail into my hand that much faster. It was already sitting in my mailbox after being delivered promptly at noon like it was each and every day.

  I was expecting good news today.

  I unlocked the box and pulled the stack of envelopes out. I went through the stack, shuffling past bills and even one I suspected was my royalty check. As much as I anticipated the check, it wasn’t the one I was looking for. Then I saw it. A simple envelope with plain black lettering was nestled in the pack. Locking the box, I clutched the stack of letters to my chest and raced up the stairs to my apartment.

  My hands were shaking when I sat down at the kitchen table, sliding my finger under the edge of the flap and slowly tearing it open. This was it. This was the one, I could feel it.

  Crisp white paper unfolded in my hands and my eyes eagerly scanned the words on the page.

  And then my heart sank.

  Rejected?

  How could they have rejected me again? I took all the classes, went through the health screening. I was ready for this, and I had done everything the social worker had asked me to do. Yet here I was, tears already falling, my dream of adopting a child out of the foster care system crushed by one simple word: Rejected.

  I read the letter, curious what they would use to justify their choice this time. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. A single woman with no family in New York wasn’t exactly a prime candidate for a foster to adoption situation.

  Hands still trembling, heart completely broken, I dialed my best friend and let my head fall to the table.

  Arika answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Gorgeous. What’s cookin’?”

  “They rejected me again.”

  “What the hell, why?”

  “Because I’m single and I’m female.”

  “You were single when you applied the first time, why do they care now?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that.

  “What was their excuse now?”

  “I have a job and no support system to help watch the child or children.”

  “Did you explain that you only work three or four hours a day and that’s during school hours?”

  “I did. It doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “You know what I think?”

  “Don’t start, Arika. It’s not that.”

  “I bet if you were a single white female, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

  “You and I both know that’s not it.”

  “Maybe you don’t want to believe that’s the case, but come on, Zeya. It’s because you’re black, and that’s the only reason. Otherwise, they’d be busting down your door, trying to get you to take more than two.”

  I didn’t want to admit it, but I knew Arika was right. What other explanation was there for the runaround I was getting? I didn’t want to believe that in 2016 those things mattered. But the truth was, they really did.

  “Do you need me to come over?”

  “No. I think I’m going to take a nap and work on my book.”

  We talked about the book I was writing, and about Arika’s day at the consulting firm where she worked. Within a few minutes, my tears had dried up and I was laughing along with her. She worked with the most unlikely group of characters and always had a funny story to share.

  “Arika, thank you for talking me through this. I have a lot of stuff to get done around the house. I’ll see you this weekend?”

  “I can’t this weekend. I have a project due. Raincheck?”

  “Of course. Talk to you soon.”

  I hung up the phone, staring at the pile of mail that I’d left unopened. It was nothing special, just the typical influx of bills and cold sale flyers.

  There was a royalty check from my publisher for my first book. I snapped a picture of it with my smart phone and used the instant pay feature on my bank’s app to deposit it in my account without setting foot in the bank.

  I tossed the check into a drawer in my desk to keep for thirty days before I shredded it, then turned on the computer.

  It fired up instantly, and I pulled up the latest version of my manuscript.

  Then I sat there and stared at the screen.

  All I could think about was the letter from the Department of Family Services. The word played over and over in my head. Rejected. Like it was that easy for them. But it wasn’t easy for me, and I was ready for a change in my life. I was done teaching other people how to be good parents and coming home to an empty house.

  I had a lot of love to give, and no husband to share that with. Since I couldn’t make a baby on my own, adopting was the next best thing, and it made my heart feel good. If it wasn’t for adoption, I wouldn’t be where I was today.

  I turned the screen off and walked out of the room. My deadline loomed, but my heart wasn’t in it today. I needed to rest and to let go of the pain. I was angry and hurt, and I was in no mood to spend the next few hours writing a peppy, upbeat how-to book on parenting. It didn’t seem fair that people took being a parent for granted all day long, yet here I was, dying a little inside with each letter telling me that I wasn’t good enough.

  All I wanted was a child of my own. I didn’t think that was much to ask for.

  Chapter 2

  Zeya

  The phone ringing in my ear ripped me out of sleep. I sat up, trying to get my bearings in the dark living room where I’d fallen asleep. I looked at the caller ID and let out a low groan. It was my agent. And I didn’t feel like talking to him right now.

  “Hey, Reggie.”

  “Zeya, how ar
e you?”

  “I’m good, busy. What can I do for you, Reggie?”

  “Straight to the point, as always. That’s what our readers like about you, Zeya.”

  “I aim to please.”

  I really didn’t. I just wanted to get him off the phone and out of my ear so I could go back to moping.

  “That’s good, because I have a proposition for you.”

  The tone of his voice told me I wasn’t going to like it, but it was looking more and more like I was going to have to go through a private company to adopt. And that was big money. It was going to derail my plan of paying it forward and adopting from a situation similar to my own growing up, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. If the state wasn’t willing to take a chance on a girl from a rough neighborhood who made it out and became a success, there wasn’t much more I could do.

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” I admitted.

  “You’ll love this. It’s big money, and it shouldn’t be a long-term job.”

  “I have a job.”

  “This will help your career. I promise.”

  I was skeptical, but Reggie had always been good to me. His motivation was sometimes suspect, but for the most part, he meant well. After all, if I made money, so did Reggie.

  “Fine. What is it?”

  “There’s a man in the city, a big business man. He has two kids that are completely out of hand, and his wife is leaving him.”

  “Whoa, no. No way,” I said. “I’m not an actual nanny. You know that.”

  “I know, but this is going to be worth your while.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Look. The man is desperate. He’s a busy man, and he comes home to children who are wild and completely out of control. The oldest one starts school in the fall, and she’s not emotionally ready. He’s about to be doing this all on his own, and he needs someone to help him get things under control so he can move on after the divorce. Zeya, you can be that someone. And make money while you’re doing it.”

  “Where is she going? Isn’t the mom going to help him? Why me?”

  “Apparently, his driver was listening to you one day, and something you said to a caller hit home for this father. As for the mom, I don’t have the answers about his actual situation. Really, all I know is that his wife is walking away and leaving him with the kids after the divorce.”