“That’s cute and all but that’s not a real job. What I do is science and medicine, not aerial yoga and smoothies for bored housewives.”
Jack is beside himself with glee over the drama that’s unexpectedly entered our workout session today.
“Don’t mind him, New Nanny,” I deliberately run a hand over my naked pecs for her, “he’s Finnish. That’s just how they are.”
She doesn’t take the bait and ogle my chest, that’s interesting. But she does tilt her head and retort, “What’s your excuse then?”
“Oh this is amazing,” Jack beams. “New Nanny is sassy! You and I are going to be friends!”
“You will not befriend the new nanny!” I roar.
“I am not your nanny,” the nanny steps toward me as I raise my eyebrows in amusement. “I am a Publicity Manager and a damned good one at that. And, by all accounts, you’ve made a mockery of Formula 1 and need all the help you can get!”
Jack is right, this one does have sass. The others don’t even try to talk back or give me a challenge. This might be fun, for the day or two it lasts. “I need your help, really? Do tell, Nanny, what do you know about F1, hmm?”
I’ll bet anything she’s done some two-bit work in NASCAR or fancies herself a car enthusiast, like the last one. Though, by the look of her, she’s never gotten dirty or near an engine a single day in her life. She looks like she just stepped out of a Harrod’s ad meant for budding new professionals trying to make a good impression.
See, I do know something about marketing.
“I don’t need to know anything about Formula 1 to know you’re a joke.” She puts one hand on her hip and cocks it to the side.
“Oh, that’s cold,” Matty interjects.
“A joke?” I cackle. Joke? I’m a bloody world champion! There may have been a string of bad seasons lately, but a joke? Hardly! This little American princess needs to run back home to daddy before she breaks a fingernail and starts crying. “I’m a world champion, love, I have records to my name that would make a grandmum cream her panties.”
“Yes, I’ve seen your records all right,” New Nanny doesn’t back down, flips her long chestnut hair over one shoulder, and continues this ridiculous debate she knows nothing about. “Like your arrest record for drag racing down the Strip in Las Vegas.”
“God, that was fun,” Matty nods knowingly.
I’m about to educate her that there was no arrest, technically. Money goes a long way into making problems go away. But New Nanny launches into the next thing on the mental list she’s obviously created to try and prove her point.
“Or the newspaper records of your implication in the extramarital affair resulting in the divorce of the Duke and Duchess of Osland.”
“Those were amazing days,” Jack gushes, “Not true, but amazing! Swedish royalty, can you imagine?”
New Nanny is all fired up now and her chest, from her neck down to where her blouse buttons finally start closing just above her tits, is getting flushed from yelling. I’m trying not to look directly at it. Not because it’s not worth looking at — it appears to be very worthwhile — but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction.
“Records of all your fines and citations from the FIA. Is it true they created a new system of fines for excessive swearing over team radio because of you, Mr. Gibbes?”
Matty snorts next to me and I clench my jaw to keep from laughing with him because I’ll give the point to New Nanny, that one was kind of funny. Like I give a shit about fines. Oh no, a one hundred pound fine. I’m under contract for fifty million a year.
Plus the extra sponsorship money, though admittedly that’s largely dried up. But I don’t need it, and I don’t need this.
I decide to change tactics.
I take a step toward the nanny so we’re face to face and I can smell whatever is wafting off her hair, jasmine maybe? To her credit, Nanny’s feet stay planted and she doesn’t back off, despite the fact that I’ve been sweating for hours and probably smell like something a lot worse than flowers.
“Tell me more about this putting a leash on me thing,” I look down and smolder at her. “That’s not usually my thing, but I do like an aggressive woman from time to time.”
She looks up at me and squints before she growls back, “You’re a pig, Mr. Gibbes.”
“Call me Lennox, love” I whisper back to her and move half a step closer.
Her head barely reaches my chin and she has to strain her head all the way up to look me in the eyes from this angle. If I were a real pig I’d run a finger down the side of her cheek, trace it along her neck, and into her cleavage which I can see perfectly from my vantage point.
But I’m not, and Mum would smack me upside the head for that kind of shit.
“Ok, Lennox” she starts, cute little hazel eyes all on fire with anger from trying to keep up, “You need to know this isn’t going to work, either.”