This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, SEPTEMBER 2023

  Copyright © 2023 Relay Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Leslie North is a pen name created by Relay Publishing for co-authored Romance projects. Relay Publishing works with incredible teams of writers and editors to collaboratively create the very best stories for our readers.

  Cover design by Book Brander.

  www.relaypub.com

  BLURB

  My new nanny posting with Irish billionaire Declan Byrne and his adorable niece, Catie, feels so right—at first.

  But everything—and I mean everything—is wrong about Declan.

  We first met on a flight where he basically told me that it’d be “grand” if I could stop talking.

  I can’t help it. I’m a nervous flyer.

  He’s a total grump.

  He obviously doesn’t like me.

  Too distractingly gorgeous to be around for any length of time.

  And he’s made it clear that as soon as he can find another nanny, I’m gone.

  This Minnesota girl is made of tough stuff though, so I know I can make it through one Irish summer with one sexy Irish curmudgeon.

  At least I thought I could, until he became that much harder to resist.

  Because the more I work with Declan, the more I realize there’s something growing between us…an attraction that’s impossible to resist.

  Declan hides a kind heart behind his stormy, gruff demeanor.

  And that accent.

  That suave Irish brogue makes my insides melt.

  The cardinal rule of being a nanny is to not get involved with the family.

  To maintain a professional distance.

  Sleeping with Declan would definitely cross that line.

  Some rules are meant to be kept.

  Others are meant to be shattered.

  MAILING LIST

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  CONTENTS

  1. Declan

  2. Olivia

  3. Declan

  4. Olivia

  5. Declan

  6. Olivia

  7. Declan

  8. Olivia

  9. Declan

  10. Olivia

  11. Declan

  12. Olivia

  13. Declan

  14. Olivia

  15. Declan

  16. Olivia

  17. Declan

  18. Olivia

  19. Declan

  20. Olivia

  21. Declan

  22. Olivia

  23. Declan

  24. Declan

  25. Olivia

  26. Declan

  27. Olivia

  28. Olivia

  29. Declan

  30. Olivia

  31. Declan

  32. Olivia

  33. Declan

  34. Declan

  35. Olivia

  36. Declan

  37. Olivia

  38. Declan

  39. Olivia

  Epilogue

  End of The Bossy One

  Free book offer

  Thank you!

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  About Leslie

  Also by Leslie

  1

  DECLAN

  An Irishman walks into an airport.

  And wishes it was a bar.

  Not the best of setups, especially when I was the Irishman, but what can I say? I was overtired, stuck in a hellish airport…and I’d had fucking enough.

  I wasn’t usually like this, mind you—I might not be a saint, but I did know how to be a polite enough member of society. Of course, whether the Chicago airport was a part of society or the seventh circle of hell…well, the jury was still out on that one.

  First, they’d kept my incoming flight on the tarmac for so long there was a chance I was going to miss my connecting flight. But I’d still thought I had just enough time to grab some damn food from an airport kiosk.

  That was when the cashier confiscated my credit card and accused me of identity theft because, and I quote, “You can’t possibly be Declan Byrne. As if he’d ever fly coach.”

  Because, obviously, Declan Byrne was so rich he must have wings made of money.

  If only.

  Now I was hungry and running late. Everywhere I turned, there was some meandering idiot with a suitcase blocking my way, acting like they’d never been in a damn airport before. The last twenty-four hours had been a nightmare, and all I wanted to do was get on the damn plane that would finally take me to the sister who needed me.

  I was panting when I got to the gate and shoved my ticket at the airline staffer.

  He squinted when he saw my name. “Ha. Declan Byrne. Just like the Irish guy who invented that pathetic social media platform. Everyone acts like Snug is so great, but in my opinion it’s just for losers who hate humor. Did you know my account got flagged just for making a few harmless jokes about that bitch who won the Nobel Prize?”

  I gritted my teeth.

  For a split second, I considered buying the stupid airline and getting his contract flagged, same as his “harmless” comments had been. Lucky for him, I had bigger fish to fry.

  He smiled conspiratorially. “Wonder what old Declan’s doing these days, eh?”

  Seriously?

  “I’ll tell you what he’s doing,” I replied. “He’s waiting for you to scan his fucking ticket.”

  That did it.

  His eyes widened, and he scanned the ticket so fast you could’ve mistaken him for a member of a Formula 1 pit crew. I ignored his mumbled apologies, rushed down the ramp, and onto the plane. I hadn’t flown economy in years, but this had been the fastest way to get to Faribault-Northfield, Minnesota. My business partner was already using our company’s private plane, and there had been some kind of paperwork hang up when I tried to charter a private one.

  Contrary to popular belief, a gigantic pile of money isn’t the same as having a genie in a bottle. Then again, I think even a genie would have trouble finding Faribault-Northfield on a map. My sister wasn’t kidding when she said she wanted peace and quiet in the US.

  If only she had found it.

  When I got into my seat—if you could even call the scuffed-up chair a seat—I collapsed in relief.

  “Passengers, please take your seats,” a flight attendant said. “We’ll be closing the cabin door soon to prepare for takeoff.”

  At least there was no one sitting next to me. Maybe I could finally relax enough to get some damn sleep. With some luck, by the time I opened my eyes again, I’d already be at—

  "Sorry, sorry! I got here as fast as I—oh, sorry!”

  I heard a commotion up toward the front of the plane, and then a pretty redhead appeared, apologizing profusely as she hauled an over-packed duffel bag up the aisle. “I’m so sorry! Ooops, didn’t mean to… Shoot, was that your head, sir?”

  I massaged my forehead, feeling a headache coming on. I just wanted to get to my sister Sinead and her daughter Catie. But no, I was on a damn plane, waiting for Miss Over-Packed Duffel Bag to find the right angle to squeeze her bulging bag in the overhead compartment across the aisle from me.

  “It’s fine,” she said valiantly, smiling at no one in particular. “I’ve almost got it.”

  She hopped in place, trying to shove her bag into the compartment with her shoulder. It was useless. If this was a cage match, that bag of hers would’ve been the clear favorite.

  “Jesus,” I swore under my breath. I stood up, trying to grab the bag from her hands. “I’ve got it.”

  Apparently, I’d picked the one woman who was allergic to accepting help.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it,” she said, her voice coming from somewhere on the other side of the giant duffel bag. All I could see were her fingers, buried so deep in the canvas you’d think she was hauling a concrete slab.

  “Clearly you don’t,” I grunted. “And you’re holding up the rest of the plane.” I wrested the duffel from her—and the concrete slab she’d hidden inside it—and shoved it into the overhead compartment.

  “I said I was fine.” She looked up at me, disheveled locks of fiery red hair falling across her face. “I get that you’re trying to be helpful, and flying is probably stressful for you. But—”

  I slammed the overhead compartment closed and sat back down in my row.

  “Seriously?” she continued. “I appreciate the help, but—”

  “You’re welcome,” I cut her short, praying to God this put an end to whatever conversation this woman wanted to have. Unless she was carrying a dead body inside that duffel bag—you never know with people—there was nothing more interesting right now than falling asleep.

  “If everyone could please take their seat,” the flight attendant said again, sounding a little desperate.

 
But the woman didn’t move along and take her seat. Instead, she started fishing for something in her purse. Her wide hazel eyes took up her whole face, which was delicate and sprinkled with freckles. Her bright red hair spiraled in messy curls around her flushed cheeks.

  If I wasn’t in such a rush, and she wasn’t such a walking disaster…

  No. She wasn’t my type. Too clumsy, too talkative, too…much.

  She fished her phone out of her purse and frowned at the screen. Then she looked up at me with narrow eyes.

  “What?” I demanded.

  If she recognized me and decided now was the time to lodge a customer complaint…

  Instead, she held up her phone, showing her ticket info. “I think you might be in my seat.”

  Fuck me, I thought, as I reluctantly surrendered the aisle seat.

  Of course I had a seatmate…and of course it’d be this woman.

  I grunted and moved over to the window seat, which had significantly less leg room. With my knees pressed tight against the front seat, I felt like a coiled spring someone had tried to squeeze into a sardine can. Just what I needed.

  Her shoulder bumped mine as she took her place. She smelled like lavender.

  “Wow. Good thing I’m short.” She looked at me, her right eyebrow lifting into an arch. A thin, amused smile dawned on her lips. “These seats must be really uncomfortable for tall people like you.”

  I didn’t say anything. Please God, let her not be one of those women who says every single thought that comes into her mind.

  “Not that I’m short-short. Actually, I’m average. The average American woman got shorter this year.”

  Apparently, God didn’t like me very much.

  She took a deep breath. With a quick gesture, she finger-combed her disheveled hair. “Look, if we’re stuck together, we might as well get along. Let’s start over. I’m Olivia.” She held out her hand to me and smiled, rueful.

  As if I’d ever need to know this woman’s name.

  I didn’t say anything, but my glower must have been eloquent, because her wide, genuine smile faltered a bit. Just enough to make me feel like an arse. Reluctantly, I took her hand. “Declan.”

  “Declan. Lovely name. I don’t think I’ve ever met a Declan.” Her smile returned to full bloom. “Don’t you think traveling’s better when you get to know the people around you?”

  I snorted. I needed to make a new friend on this trip like I needed a hole in the head.

  “No,” I said shortly, and took my hand back.

  This was going to be a long flight.

  A half hour later she was still talking. I couldn’t tell if it was her personality, or her own perky way of punishing me for my earlier rudeness.

  Maybe both.

  Her voice had a soft, pleasant warmth to it, but dear God, did there have to be so much of it? So far she’d opined on which airlines had the best miles plans, the institutional discrimination against left-handed people, why outside concerts were more fun, the relative shortage of pop songs about women named Olivia, and the year her favorite shade of purple was invented.

  “Oh, excuse me, can I have a glass of white wine?” Olivia asked the passing flight attendant. “It’s been a rough day.”

  “We’re not doing full beverage service on this flight,” the flight attendant said. “It’s only an hour and forty minutes. Also, it’s eleven in the morning.” There was more than a hint of judgment in the flight attendant’s voice.

  “Oh.” Olivia deflated. “Sure. That makes sense.”

  The flight attendant walked away. Olivia stayed silent.

  “Finally,” I muttered, slouching deeper into my seat.

  “Oh, now he talks,” Olivia huffed.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

  “Nothing. None of my business.” She mimed zipping her lips.

  Right.

  I waited, counting in my head. 1, 2, 3, 4…

  “It’s just that I’ve met your type before,” Olivia burst out. “You’re the type of guy who’s only interested in talking if you get to judge and mock people. Because God forbid you get over yourself and just be friendly.”

  “I am friendly.”

  If this sounds like I was caving, that’s because I was. Then and there, I would’ve confessed to murder if that made her shut up for more than five consecutive minutes.

  “You’ve barely said a word to me,” she retorted. “And you only answer in grunts. That’s not what I’d call friendly.”

  “I—”

  “Am I annoying you? Because if I am, I won’t say a word more.” God himself was laughing. “I just thought this flight would go by faster with some conversation, that’s all. Besides, and I’m not proud to admit it, I’m a nervous flyer. Being God knows how many miles up in the air, it makes me nervous. And after the day I just had…I needed the distraction. But, fine, message received. Loud and clear. I won’t say a word more.”

  I held my breath.

  “Not even if you ask me to,” she continued. “Okay, maybe if you ask me nicely. But otherwise—”

  “Seriously?” I looked up at the ceiling and rolled my eyes. “I get the nervous flyer thing, but you really need to take a deep breath here. I mean…bloody hell.”

  “That was uncalled for.” She sounded genuinely hurt. Then her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know who you are but—”

  “I’m just a guy with a growing headache,” I volleyed back, my annoyance getting the best of me. “And your endless talking isn’t helping matters.”

  “You know what… No, no, I’m not sinking to your level.” She crossed her arms and looked away from me. She was probably going for calm superiority, but she just looked annoyed.

  Since sleep clearly wasn’t happening on this flight, I checked my phone. Luckily, the plane had Wi-Fi.

  But I found myself at a loss of whom to message. I didn’t particularly want to reach out to any of my real friends. What would I even say? Funny story. My sister just told me she’s an alcoholic and asked me to look after her kid while she’s in rehab.

  I wasn’t ready for that.

  Instead, I logged onto Snug, the social media app my friend Anil and I had launched five years ago, and pulled up my chat with @1000words. She ran a popular blog on Snug reviewing children’s picture books. Everything she’d recommended, my niece Catie had loved. One of my replies on a review had triggered a conversation and then, eventually, a friendship. I had no idea who @1000words was in real life, and she definitely didn’t know who I was. Unlike most of the other billionaires I knew, I hadn’t been born with money. My anonymous Snug account was one of the few places where I got to let my guard down and be that regular guy again for a few minutes.

  Maybe that’s what made @1000words easier to talk to right now.

  Any new picture book recommendations? I’m about to spend sixteen hours traveling with an easily bored six-year-old, and I’m not above bribery.

  She didn’t respond.

  Of course she didn’t.

  The way my luck was going, she’d probably decide to go on a digital cleanse or something else equally idiotic.

  “I don’t normally drink in the morning,” Olivia said defensively to me.

  Did she seriously think that I was still thinking about her? Like I had nothing better to do than ponder the drinking habits of the most annoying seatmate in the world?

  I could use a drink, I thought, then remembered Sinead and winced.

  “If you must know—”

  “Please don’t,” I muttered.