“It’s your idea. Your curriculum. Your work.” He’s still holding my gaze. “I’m just providing space and funding.”
Something in my chest cracks. This man is literally handing me a business on a silver platter and asking for nothing in return. No strings attached.
When your billionaire boss is secretly a decent human being and now you’re extra screwed because you already wanted to climb him and this just made it worse.
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally tell him.
“Say you’ll do it right.” His voice drops lower. “No cutting corners. No posting for metrics. This is about the kids. Not some algorithm.”
And there it is. He gets it. He actually gets it.
My eyes are stinging. I will not cry in this man’s office. I will not.
“Deal,” I manage.
His phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. He glances at the screen. “Elena’s drafting the addendum. Rahul’s setting up the accounting code. André and Matteo are blocking the space.”
“Right now? You’re doing all this right now?”
“No reason to wait.” He looks at me, eyes assessing. “Unless you need more time?”
“No. I’m ready.” I am sonotready but we’re doing this apparently.
Another buzz. He reads the message and his mouth twists into his usual almost-smile. “André suggests inviting the school counselor and a PTA vice-chair to observe. Low key. You know, the whole values alignment thing.”
PTA. Parent Teacher Association. School politics.
My chest tightens. “Not for the first night.”
“Works for me.” He sets the phone down. “First pilot is just us. We iron out the kinks before anyone official shows up.”
The relief is immediate. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Elena’s contract is going to be thorough. The usual rules. No kids in any videos, no FHQ interiors, etc.” He pulls up something on his laptop. Gestures for me to come around the desk.
I move closer.
Tooclose.
I can smell him. Bitter orange and espresso and that cedar scent that’s been living in my brain since our night together.
The laptop screen shows a number.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Yours compensation,” he replies. “It will be separate from your nanny duties. Paid per session.”
The number is generous. Like,reallygenerous. More than I would’ve asked for.
“This is too much,” I say.
“It’s market rate for curriculum development and instruction.”
“Marco.” I turn to look at him and realize that was a mistake because now we’re face to face, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
Abort abort abort.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Just for a second. Then back up.
