Illegal Contact (The Barons 1)

“Shit.” I stared at my bloody hand. “Sorry.”

“Jesus, Gavin.” Joe walked around the counter and forced me to take the towel. “You and your goddamn temper cause so much shit.”

“Thanks, Joe. I’m aware.” Pressing the towel to my hand caused it to hurt more. There were probably tiny shards of glass stuck in the cut, but I didn’t want to deal with it in front of him.

“Gavin,” Joe said patiently. “Please listen to me. You’re not a normal guy who got in trouble and now has to work from home. You’re Gavin Brawley, and you cope with stress about as well as I cope with my alimony payments. It’s day one and you’ve already maimed yourself. Do you even have a first-aid kit?”

I gritted my teeth. He had a point. If he hadn’t been here, I wouldn’t even be able to go to the pharmacy. I’d have to find someone to drive all the way out to Dune Road to deliver me a Band-Aid.

“I’m barely here.”

“Exactly! This place is gorgeous but barely livable for the long term. Look—tell you what.” Patronizing patience oozed out of Joe’s pores. “We’ll do a new round of interviews together. Okay?”

I gritted my teeth again and thought of all the awful things that could happen with a random person wandering my home, and weighed it against my inability to leave the property for any reason without court approval.

“Fine,” I ground out. “But final choice is up to me.”

Joe smiled. It was so condescending that I had trouble not wringing his scrawny neck. I focused on the pain instead.

I was a multimillionaire and a famous athlete, and yet people still treated me like a dirt-poor street kid from Newark. Some things never changed.

***

Noah

It was the sleekest and shiniest elevator I’d ever been in. Like a silver pod that would shoot me up into outer space if I pressed the right button. Or deliver me to the office of a celebrity manager who would take one look at me and wonder why the hell I’d bothered to show up for this interview.

Sweat trickled down the back of my neck despite the crisp temperature in the building. I wondered if my collar was damp, and tried not to focus on my distorted reflection in the gleaming doors. Everything about my appearance was wrong. Not sharp or sophisticated like the people around me. And definitely not poised and ready to hype myself as someone who could handle another human’s life. It was enough that my résumé didn’t fit the job requirements.

I had zero idea what twist of fate had occurred for me to get a callback for this job. A job I didn’t want but had applied for at the insistence of my friend Jasmine, and the growing late-payment notifications in my email. Not to mention the fact that I’d just moved back in with my father to help him financially after he’d been laid off.

Unlike the work drama that had led to me walking out on what should have been my first paid position in the field I’d gone to school for, my father had been let go for no reason other than the restructuring of the sportswear company he’d worked at for twenty years. I was starting to have nightmares about running from envelopes stamped with big red letters spelling out payment due from student loan lenders, credit card companies, and now my father’s expenses, since he had no savings.

My nerves tripled once the elevator dinged, and quadrupled once a nice lady in a black suit was leading me to Joe Carmichael. I’d researched Joe enough to know the man managed everyone from film stars to professional athletes, and that he was probably the richest person I’d ever see in real life. Interviewing with him sounded like a literal nightmare.

What kind of people usually applied for jobs like this, anyway? Was anyone actually into the idea of being a celebrity’s nanny, or were all personal assistants like me? Grasping at straws for any position I was technically qualified to do if it meant keeping Sallie Mae off my back.

Clutching my portfolio, I stepped into Joe’s office. It was so fancy, with the floor-to-ceiling windows, lush carpet, and leather everything, that I spent more time ogling it and the view of Manhattan’s skyline than focusing on the other people in the room. That abruptly changed when my gaze fell on the long, brawny figure sprawled on the couch.

I wasn’t exactly petite, but the man slouching across the room had to be a few inches taller than my own six feet. Broad shoulders stretched out the material of a gray T-shirt before leading to a muscular chest and trim waist. The man’s dark-wash jeans barely seemed to contain powerful legs and thighs. And his face was startlingly attractive. Golden hair and golden eyes—a combination so lethal that I stared, dumbfounded, even though the sun rays of that gaze weren’t directed at me. The guy didn’t even register my existence. He was staring at his phone and lazing like a big blond cat. He was also vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t immediately remember why.