CHAPTER 1
Cole
Snow flurries swirl against the tinted glass of the black town car as my driver pulls up outside the Landmark London. The heavy clouds crowding the November sky match my mood, and I can't help but sigh with exasperation. Ducking out of the back seat, I brace myself for the icy path ahead, intent on reaching the hotel doors without breaking my neck.
Goddamn snow.
As if this week hasn’t been rough enough, I now have to contend with an unprecedented snowfall.
With a tight smile at the solemn doorman—who's wearing a festive red scarf that clashes with his usual demeanour—I march forward and underneath the canopy adorned with gold garland that covers the red-carpeted pavement. A second doorman nods as I slip past him and into the foyer of the hotel.
The familiar space is decorated with an enormous Christmas tree that nearly reaches the vaulted ceiling, its branches heavy with silver and gold ornaments. White lights twinkle throughoutthe space, and despite my mood, my shoulders drop as some of the tension ebbs from my body. Today could have been...less shit, but it's about to get at leastmarginallybetter.
My work as Chief Financial Officer at DeMarco Holdings, the global multi-media entertainment giant, often means long hours. However, the fact that I'm one of the very few employees actuallylikedby our CEO, Henry DeMarco, means work is more pleasant for me than for many of my colleagues.
Since having children of his own, he understands how important it is for me to be home to see my four-year-old daughter, Hollie, before she goes to bed for the night. Since Charity walked out of our lives when Hols was two months old, I've rarely missed our nightly bath-and-bed routine—especially not during the holidays, when she's discovered the magic of Christmas.
Sure, there's been some turnover in the various nannies I've hired in the last three years since work got more hectic, but it's most assuredly a 'them' issue and hasnothingto do with me.
Keep telling yourself that, Adams.
While I know that a live-in nanny would better suit my needs, I've hesitated to allow anyone else into our space permanently. I had no option but to let our most recent hire go over two weeks ago because she'd been continually late to start her workday.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the familiar tension headache building behind my eyes.
It’s a gripe I've had with the last handful—and although I know that's because I refuse to allow them to live in, the onus is on them to ensure they're on time for work. Their excuses of heavy traffic, rail strikes, delayed tube stops, and, most recently, holiday crowds only contributed to pissing me off even further.
Following my latest termination, the recruitment agency, Harrington Helpers, issued me with an ultimatum: Hire a live-in nanny or find a new agency.
I'd quickly shopped around and panicked when I'd come up empty-handed. Harrington was the best of the best, delivering top-class nannies to the elite of London, and I'd clearly shit the fucking bed.
My jaw clenches at the memory of that phone call.
So, I did the only thing I could: I begrudgingly placed an ad for a live-in nanny.
I wince openly as I make my way toward the reception desk to check in, recalling the sheer clusterfuckery of the three interviews I'd ambled through today.
The first candidate was older than my grandmother and twice as riddled with arthritis, which was undoubtedly painful for her to live with but entirely excruciating for me to witness. An ant would surely move with more gusto.
Fuck.
The second candidate had preciselyzeroqualms about checking out my ass when she didn't think I was looking. And I'm wholly certain that she wasn't wearing a bra either—her hideous Christmas sweater left little to the imagination. I mean, I love a good pair of tits as much as the next straight guy, but I need a professional who can keep it...well,professional.
Fuckity fuck.
And the third...well, she'd been late. And I'd more than established with Harrington Helpers how much I despise tardiness. The door had been firmly closed in her face—even when she'd blamed it on Christmas shoppers.
Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
If I didn't know better, I'd be fully sure the agency was taking the absolute piss out of me.
Miranda Grant, head of Harrington Helpers, assured me that I would be at the top of the list if a suitable candidate were to become available for the role, but that, at present, they had nothing to offer me.
My mood was dark, and having left Hollie with my doting mother—who'd practically wrestled my daughter away from me, insisting on a “proper grandmother-granddaughter Christmas bonding experience” that apparently required two full nights of baking cookies, decorating gingerbread houses, and visiting Santa—I'd decided to stay at the Landmark rather than go home to an empty house.
Mum had been gleeful when I'd told her, claiming I needed to “live a little” and that she'd have Hollie until Friday morning. With the house feeling cavernous without my little girl's laughter, and my usual Wednesday drinks with the boys happening here anyway, it seemed like the perfect opportunity.
After checking in and dropping my overnight bag in my room, I head straight for the Mirror Bar, our usual rendezvous spot.
