Don't Wake the Dragon

He’s a billionaire CEO with a temper. She’s a nanny with a label maker. The kids are literally on fire. What could go wrong? Penny Harlow just got fired from her daycare job for encouraging "creative chaos." Now she’s broke, desperate, and standing in the lobby of the Obsidian Tower, interviewing for a job she is definitely not qualified for. The client? Ignis. He’s six-foot-four of brooding, suit-wearing, billionairesque intimidation. He looks like he hasn’t slept since the Bronze Age, and he has a strict "No Chaos" policy. Oh, and he’s a dragon. A literal, fire-breathing, hoard-guarding dragon who is currently hiding in Manhattan as a CEO. His problem? His three children—Ash, Ember, and Cole—are chaotic fire elementals who have incinerated the last twelve nannies. They need structure. They need discipline. They need someone who doesn't scream when the curtains catch fire. Penny doesn’t have magic. She doesn’t have dragon scales. But she does have a freshly charged label maker, a Mary Poppins-level bag of tricks, and a stubborn refusal to be intimidated by a man who breathes smoke when he’s annoyed. She’s going to organize this penthouse or die trying. But as Penny tames the chaos and starts to see the lonely, exhausted father beneath the scales, she realizes the fire hazards aren't the only danger. The biggest risk isn’t getting burned… it’s falling for the dragon. Perfect for readers who love: grumpy x sunshine · single dad + nanny · dragon shifters hiding in plain sight · chaotic found family · low angst, guaranteed HEA. Book 1 of the Nanny for Nightmares series — three monster dads, three fearless nannies, three happily-ever-afters. Each book stands alone. No cliffhangers, ever. Don’t Wake the Dragon is the first book in the Nanny for Nightmares series. It is a cozy, low-angst urban fantasy romance featuring a grumpy single dad, a sunshine nanny, three chaotic children, and a Happily Ever After that will warm your heart (without burning it down). TROPES: Grumpy x Sunshine, Dragon Shifter Romance, Overwhelmed Single Dad, Cozy Domestic Fantasy, Found Family Workplace Rom-Com

The Little Lambs Daycare smelled like industrial-strength disinfectant and crushed dreams. Penny stood in the hallway outside Mrs. Pinch's office, admiring her handiwork. The mural stretched across fifteen feet of formerly beige wall—a riot of handprints in every color imaginable, swirling into what could generously be called an abstract garden. Or possibly a hurricane. The four-year-olds had been enthusiastic, if not technically skilled. "It's a community art project," Penny had explained to the parents that morning, gesturing proudly at the chaos of paint. "The children expressed their inner landscapes." Most of the parents had smiled. One had taken a picture. Mrs. Pinch had turned the color of beet juice and pointed toward her office. That had been twenty minutes ago. Penny was still waiting, rocking back on her heels, when the door finally opened. Mrs. Pinch stood in the doorway like a particularly stern heron: tall, thin, and perpetually disappointed. Her gray hair was pulled into a bun so tight it could have been classified as a weapon. She didn't speak. She simply held out a single piece of paper. Penny took it. The word TERMINATION was printed across the top in aggressive capital letters. "Oh," Penny said. "'Oh' is correct, Miss Harlow." Mrs. Pinch's voice could have etched glass. "This facility prides itself on structure, routine, and order. We do not encourage our children to... to..." She gestured at the mural with a trembling hand, as if unable to find words damning enough. "...express themselves?" Penny offered helpfully. A vein pulsed in Mrs. Pinch's temple. "We do not allow our employees to vandalize property with unauthorized chaos." Penny looked back at the mural. Little Emma's handprint was purple. Marcus had used both hands and most of his forearms. There was a suspicious footprint near the bottom that might have been Jayden's, though Penny couldn't prove it. It was beautiful. "The kids loved it," Penny said. "Emma's been talking about becoming an artist. And Marcus actually participated in group time for once instead of hiding under the—" "Miss Harlow." Mrs. Pinch's jaw could have cracked walnuts. "Your final paycheck will be mailed. Please collect your belongings and vacate the premises." "Right now?" "Immediately." Penny's cubby in the break room contained: one cardboard box of crayons she'd bought herself (the good kind, sixty-four colors), a spare sweater with paint stains on both elbows, a coffee mug shaped like a frog, and a photograph of her grandmother. She packed it all into a canvas tote bag in under three minutes. On her way out, she paused by the mural one last time. The colors glowed in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window—a wild, joyful mess that had probably violated at least six different facility codes. Marcus had signed his name in green paint at the bottom, the letters backward and proud. Penny touched the wall gently, careful not to smudge anything. "Worth it," she whispered. By the time Penny reached her apartment, reality had begun to set in. She was broke. Not "struggling artist" broke or "eating ramen by choice" broke. She was "three days until rent is due and negative forty-two dollars in her checking account" broke. Her phone buzzed with an overdraft notification as she climbed the stairs to her third-floor walk-up, as if the universe wanted to make sure she was paying attention. She unlocked her door—the lock stuck, as always—and surveyed her kingdom. The studio apartment was small enough that she could touch both walls if she stood in the middle and stretched. Her bed was a futon that hadn't been a couch in two years. Her kitchen was a hot plate and a mini-fridge that hummed like it was trying to achieve sentience. The only decoration was a string of fairy lights she'd hung over the window and a collection of terrible thrift-store paintings she'd bought because they made her laugh. Penny dropped her tote bag on the futon and flopped down beside it. Her phone buzzed again. A text from her best friend, Mira. how did it go? Penny typed back: got fired. mural was worth it tho Three dots appeared immediately. Then: PENNY. again??? in my defense the kids loved it that's what you said about the interpretive dance incident THE KIDS LOVED THAT TOO The dots appeared and disappeared several times. Finally: ok. job hunting tomorrow. tonite we drink cheap wine and talk shit about mrs pinch Penny smiled despite herself. deal She tossed her phone aside and stared at the ceiling. A water stain in the corner looked vaguely like a dragon. Or possibly Ohio. She'd been fired from three daycares in two years—not for being bad at her job, but for being too creative, too chaotic, too much. Mrs. Pinch's voice echoed in her head: unauthorized chaos. "Chaos is underrated," Penny told the ceiling. The ceiling, unsurprisingly, did not respond. The business card appeared the next morning. Penny had fallen asleep on the futon still wearing her paint-stained jeans. She woke to sunlight streaming through the window and something papery stuck to her cheek. She peeled it off, blinking. Heavy cardstock. Cream-colored. Elegant script that looked hand-written. HECATE'S AGENCYSpecialized Placements for Unusual CircumstancesBy Appointment Only An address was printed at the bottom, along with a phone number. No website. No email. Penny sat up, frowning. She had no memory of getting this card. It wasn't hers. It definitely hadn't been in her apartment last night. She turned it over. On the back, in the same elegant script: You're running out of time, dear. Come see me. A chill ran down Penny's spine—the pleasant kind, like the first page of a ghost story. "Okay," she said aloud. "That's deeply weird." She should have thrown it away. Any reasonable person would have thrown it away. Mysterious cards appearing overnight were classic horror movie red flags, right up there with "let's split up" and "I'll be right back." But Penny had never been particularly reasonable, and she was very, very broke. She grabbed her phone and dialed. The phone rang once. A woman's voice answered, smooth and knowing: "Hecate's Agency. I've been expecting you, Penelope." Penny's mouth went dry. "How did you—" "Can you be here in an hour?" "I... I don't even know where—" "Yes, you do." The woman's voice warmed with amusement. "Check your pocket." Penny's hand moved automatically to her jeans pocket. Her fingers closed around something that definitely hadn't been there before: a silver coin, warm to the touch, with an address embossed on one side. "What the hell," Penny whispered. "Language, dear. And do wear something nice. First impressions matter." The line went dead. Hecate's Agency occupied a narrow building wedged between a coffee shop and a vintage bookstore, on a street Penny could have sworn didn't exist yesterday. The door was painted deep purple, with a brass knocker shaped like a crescent moon. Penny stood on the sidewalk, staring. Every instinct she possessed—which, admittedly, weren't many—was screaming that this was a terrible idea. The windows were dark. The door looked like it led to a place people didn't come back from. A raven perched on the building's ledge watched her with unsettling intelligence. Her phone buzzed. Rent reminder. "Right," Penny said. "Definitely not ominous." She climbed the three stone steps and knocked. The door swung open before her knuckles left the wood. Inside, the agency looked nothing like the narrow building suggested. The space stretched impossibly wide, filled with shelves of curiosities: books with spines in languages Penny didn't recognize, jars of things that glowed faintly, a taxidermied owl wearing a small top hat. Dust motes hung suspended in the air, frozen mid-fall, catching the light from a chandelier made of what looked like crystallized moonlight. The air smelled like old paper and ozone, the moment before a storm breaks. "Hello?" Penny stepped inside. The door closed behind her—not slamming, just... settling. Definitively. "Come in, come in!" A woman emerged from between two shelves, moving with the kind of grace that suggested she'd never stubbed a toe in her life. She was ageless in the way of good bone structure and better secrets, with silver-streaked black hair piled in an elaborate updo. She wore a burgundy suit that would have looked at home in either 1920 or 2120, and her eyes were the color of honey backlit by fire. Madame Hecate, presumably. She looked Penny up and down with the air of someone appraising a particularly interesting estate sale find. "Well. You're exactly what the contract specified." "I'm sorry, what contract?" Penny's voice came out higher than intended. "Tea?" Madame Hecate glided toward a desk that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago. A tea service appeared—actually appeared, manifesting between one blink and the next. She poured two cups of something that steamed silver. "I really think there's been some mistake—" "No mistake." Madame Hecate settled into a chair and gestured for Penny to sit. It wasn't a request. "You're a nanny, aren't you?" "I... was. Technically. Until yesterday." "Yes, the mural incident." Hecate's smile suggested she knew exactly how many colors had been involved. "Mrs. Pinch is a dreadful woman. No imagination whatsoever." "You know Mrs. Pinch?" "I know everyone, dear. It's terribly exhausting." She pushed one of the teacups toward Penny. "Drink. It'll help with the nerves." Penny shouldn't have drunk it. She knew she shouldn't have drunk it. But her hands were cold, and the tea smelled like chamomile and thunderstorms, and Madame Hecate was watching her with those honey-fire eyes. She drank. Warmth spread through her chest, settling somewhere below her ribs. The floating dust motes suddenly made perfect sense. "Oh," Penny said. "Oh, that's—" "Magic." Hecate's smile widened. "Yes. Took you longer than most to notice, honestly. Now then." She produced a leather folder from thin air and opened it. "I have a client in desperate need of a nanny. Three children, rather... spirited. The last four nannies quit. Well, three quit. One had to be hospitalized." "Hospitalized?" "Minor burns. She's perfectly fine now." Hecate waved this away like it was a minor detail, on par with a scraped knee. "The position comes with full room and board, health insurance—excellent coverage, includes dental and vision—and a salary of fifteen thousand dollars a month." Penny choked on her tea. "Fifteen thousand?" "Plus hazard pay." "Hazard pay?" "The children are somewhat... combustible." Madame Hecate tilted her head, studying Penny's expression. "Does that frighten you?" It should have. It absolutely should have. But Penny thought about Marcus and Emma and little Jayden with the footprint in the mural. She thought about her negative bank account and the water-stain dragon on her ceiling. She thought about the way Mrs. Pinch had said "chaos" like it was a disease. "No," Penny said. "It doesn't." Madame Hecate's smile could have lit the room. "Excellent. Sign here." A contract appeared on the desk, pages of dense text on heavy parchment. A fountain pen rolled across the surface, stopping precisely in front of Penny's hand. "Shouldn't I... read this first?" "You could." Hecate sipped her tea, unbothered. "But you're three days from eviction, Penelope Harlow. And I don't make offers twice." Penny picked up the pen. It was warm in her hand, almost alive. The ink inside glowed faintly gold. She should have read it. Should have asked questions. Should have demanded references and background checks and a detailed explanation of what "combustible children" meant. But there was rent to pay and a mural to defend and something in Madame Hecate's smile that said: Finally. Someone interesting. Penny signed. The ink dried instantly, sinking into the parchment and leaving behind a scent like sulfur and cinnamon. The contract rolled itself up with a satisfied whisper of paper, then vanished. "Wonderful!" Madame Hecate stood, suddenly all business. "You start tomorrow. Six a.m. sharp. Don't be late—he's very particular about punctuality." "He?" "Your employer." She produced a small card from her sleeve and pressed it into Penny's hand. "The address. And, Penelope? A word of advice." Penny looked up. Madame Hecate's expression had gone terribly, beautifully serious. "Don't let him intimidate you. He'll try. They always do, the old ones. But you're not easily frightened, are you?" "No," Penny said, surprising herself with her certainty. "Good." Hecate's smile returned. "You're going to need that." Penny didn't remember leaving the agency. One moment she was standing in that impossible room full of frozen dust and silver-steaming tea, and the next she was on the sidewalk, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. The building was still there—purple door, brass moon knocker, judgmental raven. But when she turned to look back, it seemed smaller somehow. More ordinary. Like a glamour had fallen away. She looked down at the card in her hand. The Obsidian Tower, PenthouseTomorrow, 6:00 a.m. The address was in the financial district, where buildings scraped the sky and Penny had never been able to afford so much as coffee. She turned the card over. On the back, in handwriting that matched the contract she'd just signed, were three words: Good luck, darling. The ink was gold. Still warm. Penny touched it with one finger and felt the heat sink into her skin like a promise. Or possibly a warning. She should have been terrified. Instead, she smiled, tucked the card into her pocket next to the mysterious silver coin, and headed home to figure out what one wore to meet combustible children and their very particular employer. The rent could wait one more day. She had a dragon to meet.