The Brisken Billionaire Brothers

Single dad. Two words that force me out of bed every morning. Because two little girls depend on me. Because my family’s company depends on me. As CEO, I have to show up, lead, be present. As Dad, there’s no room for error, not when it comes to raising my girls. I’m no longer the same man, just a shell of a person I once was, going through the motions every day. Not seeing, barely breathing. Until Becky Summers, the new nanny.

Dear Mr. Brisken: How do I hate you? Let me count the ways. I hate your smug, sexy millionaire face. I hate your cocky, skirt-chasing, playboy ways. I hate working as your secretary - but, I love the pay. It almost makes dealing with you worth it. I hate how my friends call you a BILF, when really BILK (Boss I'd Like to Kill) is more appropriate. I hate that I need you to be my date for my best friend's wedding because my ex-boyfriend, the King of Heartbreakers, and his new busty blonde girlfriend will be in attendance.

I’m almost positive you were cussing me out, and if I understood a lick of Spanish, I’d have (shut you up with a kiss) told you exactly what I thought about your meddling, even if you are her teacher. In fact, I’d like to schedule a (date over dinner and wine) parent-teacher conference to discuss our differing views on raising the youth of today (so we are on the same page when we have children, preferably together).