Taming Mr. Cold

Wren My old Honda coughed like it was dying as I turned into the driveway. Correction...a private driveway. In a private estate. “Sweet mother of money,” I muttered, peering through the windshield at the mansion that rose ahead of me like something ripped from a luxury magazine. Pillars, balconies, a perfectly symmetrical fountain… even the air smelled expensive. The hedges were trimmed with terrifying precision, as if even the plants here had personal stylists. “That fountain probably costs more than my entire college tuition,” I whispered, wide-eyed. “Who the hell lives like this? Royalty? Batman?” I parked my poor Honda beside a line of luxury cars that looked like they’d eat mine for breakfast and climbed out, feeling like a walking embarrassment. The mansion’s walls gleamed white against the morning sun, modern and sleek in a way that screamed, don’t touch anything unless you’re wearing gloves. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven. I even pinched my arm. Still alive. Unfortunately. I made my way to the front door, gripping my bag like it was armor. Before I could knock, the door swung open. And my brain short-circuited. Towering in the doorway was a man. The man. Six feet plus of pure intimidation dark hair slicked back but just messy enough to look like he’d run a frustrated hand through it, a sculpted jaw that could cut glass, and green eyes so sharp and unreadable they pinned me in place. A piercing shade of green that looked like they could see straight through me calm, unreadable, and cold enough to freeze a wildfire. And his mouth..God so full, perfectly shaped, unsmiling. Holy hell. There should’ve been a warning sign on the gate... Caution...dangerously hot man inside. Proceed at your own risk. I opened my mouth to say something anything but he beat me to it. “You’re late,” he said flatly. No hello. No introduction. Just those two words, delivered in a deep, rich voice that could melt glaciers or nerves. Focus, Wren. Speak. Don’t drool. Well, in my defense, I hadn’t expected my potential employer to look like he belonged in a GQ magazine. But job first, hormones later. I needed this job more than air. “I got lost,” I said with a nervous laugh that died somewhere between us. He didn’t even blink. Just stared. “I only have twenty minutes. Come in.” The man turned without waiting, his voice cool and clipped. I followed, trying not to notice the way his shirt hugged his shoulders or how his walk oozed quiet power. Even his footsteps were hot. He led me into an office so clean it looked untouched by human hands. Everything was monochrome.....black, gray, and steel. Not a single thing out of place. He folded his arms. “You’re here for the nanny position.” Those words should’ve sounded simple. But coming from him, they were a challenge. “Yes,” I said quickly, forcing a smile. “Wren Hartley.” I extended my hand. He glanced at it. Didn’t shake. Just nodded once. Cool. Okay. Rude and beautiful. A deadly combination. “My son Liam is four,” he said, his tone clipped and businesslike. “He doesn’t speak. Not since his mother left. He has selective mutism. He talks occasionally, but it’s rare. He hates strangers, so it’ll take a while before he warms up to you or he might never. But it’s worth a try. Every nanny I’ve hired has lasted less than a month.” My heart clenched. “Is it... behavioral?” “No.” His expression didn’t change. “He’s calm. He just doesn’t trust easily.” His eyes locked on mine. “Neither do I.” Something in his tone made my spine straighten. “Understood.” There was a long silence. The kind that made you question your entire life. And then I realized the truth. Dear God... what in the hot, billionaire mess have I gotten myself into?