by Regina Kyle
She followed his example, leaning back on her elbows and gazing upward. “You’re here, aren’t you? It’s a start.”
“Only because you practically kidnapped me.”
“How you got here isn’t important. What matters is that you’re spending time with your son.” She gestured down the beach toward Oliver.
Rhys closed his eyes and released a long, heavy sigh. “Beth was so much better at this than me.”
“At what?” Mallory asked, genuinely confused.
“The fun stuff. She was the hip, cool parent. Picnics. Parties. Playdates. I was the serious, stressed-out one who never learned how to relate to my own child.” His eyes opened, shredding her with the hurt she saw in their whiskey-brown depths. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
She offered up a hesitant smile. “I’m a good listener.”
“No.” He grimaced. “I mean yes, you are, but it’s not that. I’m not sure why, but I get the feeling you understand me in a way no one has since…”
“Since Beth?” she finished for him, her voice so soft it barely rose over the sound of the waves breaking on the beach.
He was saved from answering by his son, who came running up to them, his bare feet pounding on the sand, a shard of worn glass held aloft in his clenched fist. “Check out what I found. It’s got writing on it.”
Mallory shared one last look with Rhys, but the moment had passed, for better or worse.
Better, she told herself. Definitely better. Whatever strange, psychic current seemed to arc between them, she wasn’t going to let herself become a walking cliché. The naive nanny falling for her rich, unattainable boss. She was there for one reason and one reason only. To help put the pieces of this fractured family back together.
Her sister had the wrong Julie Andrews movie. Mallory wasn’t Fräulein Maria. She was a modern-day Mary Poppins.
Rhys took the piece of pale green glass from his son and turned it over in his hand.
“What does it say?” Oliver asked.
“It’s hard to tell.” Rhys ran his thumb over the raised letters. “Looks like it might have been part of an old Coca-Cola bottle. See right here? You can barely make out the C-O-C.” He handed it back to his son.
“Cool.” Oliver held the glass up to the light, squinted at it, then dropped it into his bucket with a hollow thunk. “Wanna help me find some more?”
“Sure.” Rhys stood and took his son’s hand.
“You too,” Oliver demanded, waving his bucket at Mallory.
“I think I’ll stay here with a good book.” Mallory twisted to fish her e-reader out of her beach bag. “You and your dad go ahead. You don’t need me tagging along.”
Liar, she scolded herself as they walked away hand in hand, the boy a fairer-haired carbon copy of his father. Yes, she wanted Rhys to reconnect with his son. But they could do that with or without her lurking in the background. Truth was, it wasn’t Rhys and Oliver who needed space from her.
It was she who needed a healthy distance from the tall, dark, and dangerous one of them.
Chapter Seven
Rhys shut down his computer and pushed his chair away from his desk. Enough was enough, even for a workaholic like him. When the words started swimming on the screen, it was time to call it quits.
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, enjoying the stillness of the summer night. Late nights and early mornings were his favorite times of day. When the sun was starting to break over the horizon or ending its slow creep downward. When the heat of the day had yet to make an appearance or already abated. When the house was silent, and he could be alone with his thoughts.
In the past, they’d run straight to Beth. Without any danger of discovery, he was free to indulge in his fair share of self-pity and sadness.
But in the last few weeks, another woman had been invading his brain. A petite, amber-eyed blonde with a smart mouth, a quick mind, and a body that would make a monk walk through a sliding glass door.
Yesterday’s picnic had only made things ten times worse. He wasn’t the only one who had felt the ripple of electricity between them. And then he’d opened up and spilled his guts like a damn piñata, talking about Beth for the first time in ages, and they’d shared an emotional connection that went beyond the physical. The heightened awareness had them on edge for the rest of their outing.
His stomach rumbled, cutting through the quiet and reminding him the only thing he’d eaten since breakfast was a handful of PEZ from today’s Super Mario dispenser. Time to get off his ass and raid the refrigerator. With any luck, a few leftover pieces of Mallory’s fried chicken were tucked away on the top shelf behind the orange juice.
He stood, stretched, and made his way to the kitchen. His steps slowed as he got closer. A faint circle of light spilled out into the hallway.
Seemed he wasn’t the only one craving a late-night snack.
Rhys checked his watch. Almost eleven. He debated waiting until the coast was clear. But hunger won out over solitude.
When he rounded the corner into the kitchen, he stopped short. A shapely, spandex-clad behind stuck out from the refrigerator, swaying softly from side to side as its owner rummaged through the contents, muttering something about Collins and a missing lemon meringue pie.
Don’t stand there and stare at her like an oversexed teenager. Eating is overrated, anyway.
He willed his feet to move.
One step.
She bent lower to reach something on the bottom shelf.
Two steps.
She straightened, balancing a plastic bowl of strawberries against her hip, swung the refrigerator door shut, and turned.
Three.
As if in slow motion, her eyes landed on him and she screamed. The bowl slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor and sending berries everywhere.
“Sorry.” He scrambled to help her pick them up.
She put a hand to her heart and took a ragged breath. “You scared the crap out of me. What are you doing in here so late?”
“The same thing you are.” He gestured to the bowl. “Looking for something to eat.”
She rescued the last of the strawberries from under the table, dropped them into the bowl, and stood, taking it with her to the sink. “That’s what you get for skipping dinner. Again.”
He followed her to his feet, pulled the refrigerator open, and peered inside. “Any of that chicken left?”
“Nope.” She poured the berries into a colander and turned on the tap, letting the water pour over them. “Your son finished it off at lunch.”
“Damn.” He sighed and closed the door. “I’m starving.”
“Sit.” She motioned to the table. “I’ll make you something.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I’m a chef. I can’t stand to see anyone go hungry. Even someone who couldn’t bother to show up for dinner.” She shut the water off and popped a strawberry between her plump pink lips.
All the moisture in his mouth seemed to migrate to his palms. He pulled out a chair and sat, if only to hide his reaction to the way her mouth closed over the strawberry, her tongue stealing out to swipe the juice from her lips when she was done. “Go for it.”
She wiped her hands on her spandex shorts and crossed back to the refrigerator. “How about an omelet? Or a frittata?”
“Either one sounds great.”
She opened the door and studied the contents. “We’ve got ham, mushrooms, onions, Gruyère…”
“You’re the professional.” He tipped his chair back and put his hands behind his head. “Surprise me.”
She moved with the easy grace of a ballerina, retrieving items from the refrigerator and placing them on a cutting board next to the Keurig. She popped in a K-Cup, stuck a mug underneath, and pressed start before pulling a knife out of a wooden block.
The dance that followed was as intricate as any ballet. Chopping. Scrambling. Pouring. Stirring. Rhys wiped his still-sweaty
palms on his khakis, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Who knew cooking could be such a turn-on?
He let the chair fall to the tile floor with a heavy thud. Mallory shot him a questioning look over her shoulder, then brought two steaming mugs to the table.
“Milk or sugar?” she asked.
“Neither, thanks.” He took a sip. Strong and dark, just the way he liked it.
Mallory turned her attention back to the stove, removing the pan from the heat. She divided her creation between two waiting plates and added a piece of thick bread fresh from the toaster to each.
“Bon appétit.” She plunked one of the plates in front of him and sat across the table with the other.
“Thanks.” Rhys picked up his fork and dug in.
“Wow.” She gaped at him as he shoveled in forkful after forkful, her own utensil stalled halfway to her lips. “You weren’t kidding. You really were starving.”
“Mmph,” he mumbled through a mouthful of the most delicious combination of eggs, meat, cheese, and something he couldn’t quite identify that he’d ever tasted. “What’s in this?”
“It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Her fork made its way to her mouth, and his hungry eyes watched as it disappeared between her lips.
He cleared his throat. “That would be a shame. Especially when we’re starting to get along.”
“Are we?” Her tongue darted out to lick her lips clean, and his jaw tightened. The way she ate was as erotic as the way she cooked.
“I thought so.”
“You’re not still mad at me for giving Oliver his mother’s picture?” Her fork hovered over her plate, and she stared at him expectantly.
“I was never mad,” he insisted.
She rolled her eyes.
“Well, not for long.” He bit into his toast with a satisfying crunch. “This is damn good. Beats the hell out of PEZ.”
“PEZ?”
“All I’ve eaten since breakfast. Until this.” He took another bite of toast.
She wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t know they still made that stuff. Nothing but pure sugar.”
He nodded, washing down his toast with a swig of coffee. “My guilty pleasure. A holdover from childhood. It was just me and my mom, and we didn’t have a lot. But every Christmas I’d get one in my stocking.”
“Where is she now?” Mallory asked, cutting into her omelet.
“She died.” Rhys swallowed the lump in his throat along with a mouthful of eggs. Ten years, and it still hurt to remember watching his mother fade away. He’d lost the two most important women in his life, one agonizingly slowly, the other painfully fast. “Cancer.”
Mallory’s face whitened, and her fork clattered to her plate.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Just clumsy.” She waved him off, retrieving her fork. Her eyes met his, filled with concern and compassion and something he couldn’t put a finger on. “I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Thanks.” He got the sense she was holding back, but he didn’t push the issue, opting to change to a less sensitive subject. “What made you want to be a chef?”
She traded her fork for her coffee cup, some of the color returning to her face. “What made you want to be a tech billionaire?”
“Answering a question with a question.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled, relieved that the momentary awkwardness between them seemed to have passed. “Oldest trick in the book. But I’ll bite. I didn’t set out to get rich. I liked inventing things, and I wanted to make people’s lives better.”
“I guess you could say the same for me.” She sipped her coffee, then studied him over the rim of her cup. “Cooking is creating. Marrying flavors and textures to create something unique and memorable. It’s like painting or sculpting, but with food as a medium. And there’s nothing more rewarding than planning and preparing a meal that puts food in someone’s stomach and a smile on their face.”
“When you put it like that, we have a lot in common.” He swiped his napkin across his mouth. “We’re both innovators and idealists.”
“Kindred spirits,” she agreed, a pretty blush spreading over her tanned cheeks.
“So why give that all up to come here and play glorified babysitter?”
She shrugged and took another sip of coffee. “I like kids.”
“That’s obvious from how you are with Oliver.” He tossed his napkin next to his plate. “But there must be more to it than that.”
“I needed a change.” She set down her mug and sighed. “The situation I was in was stifling. I felt like I was being smothered by expectations. Here, I can breathe again. I feel freer.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and studied her. It was almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. He’d never considered the courage it must have taken for her to leave everything she’d known and come to a strange place, with strange people, in a new, unfamiliar job. Then he’d gone and made things even more difficult for her by being the world’s worst boss. Firing her on the first day. Avoiding her like she was a communicable disease. Not to mention fantasizing about her day and night. Michael Scott from The Office had nothing on him.
He stretched out his legs and rubbed the back of his neck. Now was as good a time as any to do something he should have done weeks ago. “I owe you an apology. I accused you of jumping to conclusions, but I’m the one who fired you on sight.”
She cocked her head. “I’m sure you had your reasons.”
“Stupid ones,” he admitted.
“You know what they say.” The corners of her mouth curved into a smile. “The first step toward fixing a problem is recognizing you have one.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Does that mean you accept my apology?”
“As long as you accept mine. I should have asked before taking the picture.”
She crossed her legs, one turquoise-toenailed foot peeking out from under the table, and his pulse kicked up a notch. They were moving into new, unchartered territory, and he didn’t know if he was more thrilled or terrified.
He picked up his fork, speared a bite-sized piece of omelet from his plate, and held it aloft in a mock toast.
“Agreed.”
…
“More coffee?” Rhys stood and crossed to the Keurig.
“No, thanks.” Mallory put a hand over her mug. “One cup’s my limit once the sun sets, or I’d never get to sleep.”
“Sleep’s overrated.” He spun the rack of K-Cups, picked one, and dropped it into the machine.
She focused on her plate under the pretext of finishing her omelet. Anything not to drool over how he filled out his tapered polo shirt and perfectly tailored khakis. Why did he have to be so criminally good-looking? Even overworked and sleep-deprived, he looked like he’d stepped off the pages of GQ or Esquire, his sexy late-night stubble only adding to his appeal. Throw in his recent attitude adjustment—toward her and his son—and he was damned near irresistible. Her ovaries had practically exploded watching him on the beach with Oliver.
“Let me guess.” She scooped the last bit of omelet onto her fork. “You’re going back to work. No sleep for the weary.”
“Not tonight.” He jabbed a finger at the start button and the machine began to whir. “I’ve worked enough for one day.”
“Did I hear that right?” She pushed her chair back and downed the last of her coffee. “The overlord of overtime is calling it a night?”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
He pulled his mug out from the machine and brought it to his lips. Her traitorous eyes tracked every inch of its journey, lingering on his full, firm mouth as it parted to accept the rich, dark roast. She’d never wished she were a cup of coffee before.
She stacked their empty plates and brought them to the sink, desperate for something to keep her eyes—and her mind—off his way-too-kissable lips. “I’ve got to keep up with your
son. Sleep’s not a luxury. It’s a necessity.”
“Is that why you were late to breakfast this morning?” He leaned against the counter beside her, his shoulder almost touching hers. Her breath caught and the hairs on her arms stood at attention. “Needed a little extra shut-eye?”
“Not exactly.” She bent to load the dishwasher, which had the added benefit of avoiding his gaze. She wasn’t about to tell him the truth—that her oncologist had called. And she wasn’t about to look him in the face when she lied, especially after he’d been so honest with her about his mother. Cancer. Her whole body had seemed to drop, like she was in a free-falling elevator, when he said the word. “I had some…personal business to take care of.”
He surprised her by setting his cup down and helping her with the dishes. Most of the entitled millennials she’d grown up with wouldn’t be caught dead doing menial household chores. That was what they had staff for. Once again, Rhys was proving himself to be one giant complicated puzzle. One she wanted more and more every day to solve. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
So did she. It wasn’t the first time she’d needed to have blood work redone. Labs made mistakes. Samples got tainted or dropped or lost. But Dr. Decker had sounded ominous with his talk of increased white blood cells and abnormal platelets. Or maybe it was her overactive imagination reading into things. He was probably being overcautious.
“No.” She crossed the fingers on one hand behind her back and prayed her words would prove to be prophetic. “But I have to go to Key West tomorrow morning.”
Dr. Decker had contacted a lab there and arranged to have the necessary tests done. Collins would take her as far as the dock, and she’d Uber it from there. She didn’t want to risk anyone finding out where she was going. That would only lead to a whole host of questions she wasn’t ready to answer. She liked being plain old never-had-a-life-threatening-disease Mallory Worthington. “Mrs. Flannigan’s agreed to watch Oliver until I get back. As long as that’s okay with you.”
“Of course.” Rhys put the last of the dishes in the dishwasher and reclaimed his coffee cup. “You’re entitled to reasonable personal time. It’s in your contract.”