The Billionaire's Nanny: A BWWM Romantic Comedy Read Online Free

have to make do, too.”
    Lies, all lies. She owns the building, and has for decades. Her shop does good business and she doesn’t pay rent. Pension, my butt. But I just wait. I won’t smile and let her off the hook.
    “You know all the other apartments on this block are two hundred dollars more than this one,” she continues, not mentioning that they’ve also been rehabbed and don’t have a leak in the ceiling and have central air instead of box fans. “I’ve held off as long as I can because I’d hate to lose you, sweetie. But, you know, times are what they are.” She paused and added, as if imparting wisdom, “It is what it is.”
    “How much?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
    “One fifty. I really need to raise it two hundred, but I just can’t bring myself to be a greedy capitalist, you know.”
    “Right. Well. Thanks for letting me know. Now I have to get to work.” I lock the door behind me and walk past her and down the stairs, trying to get outside before the tears start.
    One hundred and fifty dollars. The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so depressing. The school where I teach is a charter school, set up by well meaning but business-foolish do-gooders who wanted to help the children of the sizable migrant worker population. Most of these kids have Spanish-only homes and they struggle in traditional public schools. The Excellence Academy was set up to teach bi-lingually and to meet the needs of this population that doesn’t always stay the whole school year. It’s a great idea, and the staff is fantastic, if I do say so myself, but mismanagement is making it hard to keep the school open. I was part of a small group that convinced the whole staff to take a pay cut for the coming year to help give the charter board a chance to find grant money, federal hand-outs, whatever to keep the school afloat. Of course that pay cut was one hundred and fifty dollars a month.
    How in the heck am I going to find that extra money?
    My walk to the bar is in a haze. I already eat for practically nothing, picking up meals of whatever the cafe and bar don’t charge for, rice and beans on days I don’t work. I don’t drive my beat-up old Ford Focus because it needs gas and repairs. I never buy new clothes, not even at Goodwill. My phone is my only real expense, I don’t even have internet service in my apartment, I go to a coffee shop to do my school work.
    But oh, apparently Carol needs to fund a retreat to Santa Fe to get her aura re-purpled or some shit. Dammit.
    I take a deep breath, get back my composure. Wipe my eyes. I’ll figure it out. I always do. I’ll just have to keep on tending bar during the school year. I’ll have to cut back on after school help for the kids, of course, but, as Carol so helpfully put it, it is what it is.
    When I get behind the bar, I see that there’s a bachelorette party, already in progress.
    “They got here, already hammered, about an hour ago. Good luck,” says Mitch as he gets ready to clock out.
    “I’ll be sure to split their excellent tip with you,” I say not even trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Bachelorette parties are the worst. And I am not in the mood.
    I tie on my apron, wondering if the off season will even bring enough money to make up the shortfall in my rent. I need a lot more rich guys to come in and hand me their babies if my tip money is going to keep me afloat.
    I’m kept pretty busy, at least, making appletinis and cosmos, assuring the ladies that we still do not have any white wine.
    “I just thought that was the name. To be funny,” one tells me as she hangs across the bar.
    “Nope, it’s for real. No Wine. ‘No Wine-ers.’ Can I get you another cosmo?”
    “Can I have it in a to-go cup? The limo is here!”
    “Nope. No booze leaves the bar. Who gets the tab?” Seriously, they get drunk and will just leave forgetting that somebody has to pay up.
    " Christie! You have to pay!"
    After the party staggers out–ten whole