Page 1 of The First Taste

The Single Dad

A Forbidden Billionaire-Nanny Romance

One

Looking out the window of our chauffeured SUV, I drum my fingers against the fine leather of the back seat. It’s currently gray and drizzling here in New York City, the abysmal rain not any different than what I’m used to in Scotland.

“Sir?” A young man with dark, slicked back hair leans forward from the SUV’s cramped back row.

I grunt, disinterested. Right now, I’m jet-lagged and home sick, acutely aware that I’m missing my six year old’s bedtime. So I’m not extremely interested in whatever the young man in his rumpled gray suit has to say.

He tries again. “Sir, I have the market analysis comps?—”

Waving my hand, I silence him. “Not right now.”

The middle aged woman next to him coughs.

Christ. I look out my window, rolling it down to let in some fresh air. That’s just what I need right now, some peon’s god damn secondhand flu bug.

“Roll your fucking windows down! I need air!” I bark.

Everyone jumps to do as I say, everyone but my brother James. He rolls his eyes and looks at his phone, his face an expressionless mask. He’s all big bones under that expensive Brioni suit.

The SUV is packed full of people. Three men in suits are crammed into the back row. My brother James and I share the middle, with barely enough room between us for our big frames. In the front seat, the driver and a blonde young woman sit, both busy and not paying us any mind.

“We should’ve taken separate cars,” I say. “Natasha, can you make sure we have a second SUV after we leave NewsCorp?”

The blonde smiles at me. Natasha is used to my moods. She’s been my personal assistant for two and a half years and as such, she has seen far, far worse behavior from me.

“Of course, Lord Grayrose. I’ll sort that out right now.”

I crane my head to look at the buildings, watching for the bright, airy design of the NewsCorp offices here in New York City. I own a large multimedia empire that spans the globe, but only New York City has these brand spanking new offices.

Beside me, my brother James peers out his own window. “Jesus. This weather is following us around like a curse, Keir. I thought that America would be nothing but blue skies when we were visiting.”

“Aye,” I agree. “I thought the same. But apparently we’ve just had good luck the last few times we visited.”

James straightens his tie as he looks at me, his lip curling in the suggestion of a sneer. “Listen to you, you heathen. If mum and dad heard your little Scottish accent slipping back in after all those years at the best English schools, they would be in fits.”

I keep my face expressionless. James is always looking to provoke a reaction from everyone, at all times. So it’s better if I just ignore his actual criticism, which seems to be that I am too Scottish.

Never mind the fact that as the sons of the Duke of Grayrose, we are the highest ranking Scots apart from our father and the Duke of Montlake.

I favor James with a long look. “Fuck off. You sound like a whiny teenage boy, but you’re thirty years old.”

He responds by looking away, sucking at his teeth and raising his middle finger in the air.

“Need I remind you that we are here in New York City to garner support for your campaign?”

“Oh, Keiran.” He slides me a sly, secretive smile. “I know that, big brother. It’s not as if you or our parents would ever for a second let me forget.”

I snort. “Right. No one is making you run for prime minister.”

James gives his head a shake as if he disagrees, but he doesn’t argue.

There is pressure building in my temples. I rub the bridge of my nose for a second but there is no relief.

The car turns a corner and suddenly, I see the press. They are caged in, held back behind a pair of neon orange barricades. The press here might be annoying, but at least they are meek.