Playing with Fire: A Single Dad and Nanny Romance (Game Time Book 1)

by Alix Nichols

  Table of Contents

  EPILOGUE

  EPILOGUE

  Books by Alix Nichols

  Book Description

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  Author’s Note

  The Perfect Catch

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  About the Author

  Playing with Fire

  Game Time #1

  Alix Nichols

  SAYN PRESS

  Contents

  Books by Alix Nichols

  Book Description

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  Author’s Note

  The Perfect Catch

  Book Description

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  Books by Alix Nichols

  About the Author

  Books by Alix Nichols

  Game Time

  Playing with Fire

  Playing for Keeps

  Playing Dirty (coming Fall 2017)

  The Darcy Brothers

  Find You in Paris

  Raphael’s Fling

  The Perfect Catch

  La Bohème

  Winter’s Gift

  What If It’s Love?

  Falling for Emma

  Under My Skin

  Amanda’s Guide to Love

  Copyright © 2017 Alix Nichols

  All Rights Reserved.

  Get your free bundle!

  Details can be found at the end of the book.

  He was supposed to look after her, not kiss her senseless.

  Au pair Uma is all kinds of wrong for single dad Zach. Raised in a conservative Hindu family, Uma is his son’s nanny, a twenty-three-year-old virgin, and a guileless ingenue to boot. Zach knows all of that.

  Then why can’t he rein in his lust for her?

  If there is one man Uma should not be attracted to, it’s the father of the adorable five-year-old in her charge. Once burned twice shy, Zach is the captain of a pro water polo team and a wealthy entrepreneur who can have any woman he wants. No strings attached.

  Small wonder he goes all out to shun Uma!

  But when, with the help of a bottle of fine wine, Zach confesses all the dirty things he’d like to do to her, Uma astounds him by saying she wants that, too.

  What’s a man to do but oblige?

  Besides, it’s not like it’s the end of the world. They’re both sensible, level-headed adults. They’ll just have a bit of fun and then go back to normal, as if nothing happened.

  As if feelings weren’t already getting in the way.

  ONE

  Zach

  I spot Uma haggling over cherries at the fruit stall.

  Her delicate frame is clad in her usual jeans and T-shirt, and her smooth black hair is pulled into a bun pierced by a pencil to hold it together. Clutching Sam’s little hand, she sports an expression that conveys, “Don’t mess with me—I’m tougher than I look.” She always uses it when she’s determined to have her way.

  Right now, I’d say she’s bent on negotiating a better price for those juicy cherries.

  I smile.

  I’ve told her I’m happy to pay the asking price for quality produce. I can afford it. I’ve also told her haggling isn’t common in French markets. The price announced by vendors is what they expect to fetch for their products, not what they expect to fetch, plus twenty percent.

  But old habits die hard.

  In Uma’s case, she’d overseen grocery shopping for her family in Nepal since she was ten, which means thirteen years of honing her bargaining skills. She isn’t ready to put them on ice just yet.

  By the time I reach the stall, the transaction is over. Uma drops a paper bag of cherries into her shopping cart, and the vendor turns to the next person in line.

  “Papa!” Sam cries out, noticing me.

  I pick him up. “Hey, buddy.”

  My mom says I should stop doing that. Sam’s five and a half now—no longer a baby. He’s been riding his bike without training wheels ever since Uma moved in three weeks ago.

  She cocks her head. “What are you doing here?”

  “My meeting turned out to be shorter than expected. So, I thought I could head home and help you carry the groceries.”

  I refrain from mentioning that Uma isn’t supposed to do my grocery shopping in the first place.

  She’s an au pair in my house, and her responsibilities include taking care of Sam four hours a day. Considering his illness, it’s already more than expected from a regular au pair. Her contract states very clearly that household chores are not part of the package.

  But we’ve had this conversation several times over the past weeks, and Uma always comes up with some ridiculous reason to do more than her contract requires. Her excuse for grocery shopping, for example, is that it’s an educational activity. When I try to stand my ground, she just shrugs and says, “Sue me.”

  I’ve given up.

  The least I can do is make sure I intercept her in time to prevent her from pulling the cart all the way to the top of the steep hill where my house sits.

  Uma folds her hands over her chest. “Sam and I got this, Zach. You really didn’t need to rush back from Paris just so you could drive us up the hill.”

  “Paris is only a half-hour drive from here,” I say. “Besides, I truly had nothing better to do.”

  Uma’s expression softens. “OK, then. But we have one more stop to make before we head home.”

  Sam claps his hands. “Iced macarons!”

  I give Uma a questioning glance.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “They’re almond meal and stevia, and I got the ingredients vetted by Sam’s doc.”

  I exhale a relieved breath, feeling a bit stupid for doubting Uma’s dependability. She’s the opposite of my ex. She’d never put Sam in harm’s way.

  As we stand in line at the baker’s, a flurry of polite bonjours erupts near the entrance, making Uma and me turn our heads. The town’s mayor, Jules Cantini, has e
ntered the shop and is shaking hands with his constituency. As is his habit during his “casual” weekend outings, monsieur le maire is accompanied by one of his aides and by a photographer.

  Coach Lucas should take a page from Monsieur Cantini’s book.

  “Ah, Zachary,” the mayor says, spotting me. “Good to see you!”

  I shake his hand. “Jules.”

  Since I became the official patron of Inry’s new aquatics center and a regular guest coach at the kids’ swimming club, the mayor and I have been on a first-name basis.

  He greets Uma and Sam and waves his photographer over.

  “Monsieur Cantini would like to be photographed with you for the next issue of Inry News,” the aide informs me.

  “Sure.”

  “With your family, of course,” the mayor says, pointing to Sam and Uma.

  Uma nudges Sam toward me and draws aside.

  The mayor raises his eyebrows.

  “I’m not family, I’m the nanny,” she explains.

  “Oh, come on, Uma!” I pick Sam up. “Who cares?”

  She shakes her head.

  The mayor turns to her. “Mademoiselle…”

  “Darji,” she prompts.

  “Darji,” the mayor repeats before turning to the shopkeeper, “and Madame Brossard, please join us for this impromptu photo op.”

  Impromptu, my foot.

  The ladies oblige, and a dozen clicks of the camera later, we can stop smiling.

  The aide, who’s been scribbling in his notebook, snaps his fingers. “Just a moment of your attention, please. I want to make sure everyone’s OK with the caption. It’ll say, ‘Mayor of Inry, Jules Cantini, at Patisserie Brossard with owner Anne Brossard and patrons Uma Darji, little… er…”

  “Samuel,” I prompt.

  The aide nods a thank-you. “Samuel Monin and his father Zachary Monin, star of the French water polo team and founder of one of the fastest-growing startups in Inry.”

  I frown. “Will you please scratch the ‘star’ part?”

  “Why?” The aide arches an eyebrow. “You were last season’s top scorer to the best of my recollection.”

  “That doesn’t make me—” I begin.

  “Come now, Zachary.” The mayor tilts his head to the side and pats my arm as if to say, You should know better than that.

  I sigh and nod to the aide. “OK, sure. If it helps the town.”

  “Wonderful.” The mayor shakes everyone’s hands and heads out the door with his entourage in tow.

  After I buy the iced macarons, we shovel them in our mouths and go home. Once inside, Uma and I unpack the groceries while Sam crashes his remote-controlled helicopter into the ceiling and every single wall of the kitchen.

  “Why don’t you play in the garden?” I ask him. “A few more hits, and your brand-new gadget will break to pieces.”

  “No problem, I’ll fix it,” Sam says with the blissful confidence of a five-year-old.

  I scratch my head, wondering if it’s advisable to be honest in this situation.

  Uma rinses half of the cherries she bought at the market. “Sam wants to be an engineer when he grows up.”

  “Since when?” I turn to Sam. “Last I heard you wanted to be a hole-set like me and a spy.”

  Sam places his remote on the table, letting the helicopter hit the floor with a thud.

  I grimace. “Ouch.”

  “When I grow up, I’ll be”—he begins to count on his fingers—“a hole-set, engineer, spy, and dancer.”

  I crouch next to him. “All at the same time?”

  He nods.

  “Why not a singer, too, while you’re at it?”

  “No.” He shakes his head vigorously. “That would be too much. Even I need to sleep.”

  “I see.” I purse my lips to keep from cracking up. “So, why a dancer?”

  He gives me a duh look. “Because I’m really good at dancing. Uma says I’m the best dancer she’s ever seen.”

  I glance at Uma who’s setting a big bowl of cherries on the table.

  “What?” she says with a shrug. “He is.”

  For the next ten minutes, the three of us eat the cherries. “Savor” would be a better word, considering how good they are, each little fruit chock-full of color and flavor.

  Just like the woman who bought them.

  Shit.

  I peel my gaze off Uma and remind myself of all the reasons I shouldn’t let this kind of thought anywhere near my mind.

  This is Uma’s first ever stay away from her family, from her country, from everything she knows. She’s my teammate Noah’s best friend and almost fiancée. He hasn’t said as much, but from what I gather, there’s always been an unspoken understanding between them. The only reason he’s never declared his feelings or touched her is the respect he has both for her and for the Hindu customs, which demand self-restraint.

  Noah placed her in my house knowing she’d be safe here, and he trusts me fully.

  I’m disgusted with myself for having these thoughts about Uma. Thankfully, they’re just thoughts. It is fully within my power not to act on them. The ethics of seducing an employee aside, hell will freeze over before I betray a friend’s trust like that.

  Who I should be thinking about is Sophie, the American woman I met last week. She’s gorgeous, a pagan goddess doubling as a Victoria’s Secret model. On top of that, she’s smart, available, and—most importantly—slated to return stateside by Christmas. For a man looking to get back in the dating game without rushing into a long-term relationship, Sophie is an ideal choice.

  She really is.

  It beats me why I didn’t hit on her hand when I drove her home from the double date at the Moose with Noah and Uma. Must be because I’m terribly out of practice or no longer sure what’s OK and what’s too much for a first date. Even less so when it’s a double date.

  Next week when work is less intense, I’ll ask her out on a proper one-on-one date.

  And I’ll do more than occasionally nodding and smiling.

  TWO

  Uma

  “Whether you enrolled as a hobbyist or you want to be a professional embroiderer, you’ve come to the right place.”

  The speaker drinks from his glass and surveys the small crowd of new graduates and fresh recruits gathered in the auditorium of Ecole Lesage.

  Monsieur Bloom, a longtime teacher at the school, is so visibly proud of the establishment that his enthusiasm is infectious. I glance at the beaming women around me. When the school reopens in a few weeks after the August break, all of us will spend countless hours sewing beads and sequins onto framed scraps of silk, learning tambour embroidery and Lunéville hook, and all kinds of fancy stitches.

  I know I’ll love every moment of it.

  “You’re really looking forward to your course, huh?” Noah whispers, giving me a nudge. “I’m happy for you.”

  “I’m happy for myself,” I say.

  He smiles. “I talked to Maman on the phone yesterday. She sends her greetings and says she wishes she could be here today.”

  “I wish she were here, too. This is all thanks to her.” A rush of gratitude fills my heart. “I’ll never be able to pay her back for what she’s done for me—for what she’s still doing for me.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. Maman loves you like the daughter she’s always dreamed of. Making you happy makes her happy.”

  “I know. And I love her, too.”

  “Dear students and guests,” Monsieur Bloom says. “Maison Lesage works with Yves Saint-Laurent, Christian Lacroix, Louis Vuitton, Christian Dior, and Chanel. Fashion designers give us a theme and a general idea, but it is our masters who trace the patterns and embroider them. What we do here is not just craft, it’s art.”

  The crowd nods.

  My love affair with embroidery started in my early teens when I saw Sequins at the European Film Festival in Kathmandu. Noah’s mom Marguerite, aka my French “fairy godmother,” dragged Noah and me there every a
fternoon. Her aim was to improve our “general culture” through exposure to the best of contemporary cinematography.

  Noah, who would’ve preferred to watch the Olympics on TV, got seriously bored with the artsy movies the festival showcased. So did I, with most of it, except Sequins. Every single scene of that film in which the master embroiderer and her young apprentice put together fabric, thread, beads, feathers, and sequins to create a piece of exquisite beauty took my breath away.

  For two hours I watched, mesmerized, leaning forward in my seat between Marguerite and Noah. The credits rolled, and people began to stand up and move toward the exit. I sat there, spellbound until Marguerite cleared her throat and Noah tugged on my sleeve.

  That night excitement made it impossible to sleep.

  I kept replaying the movie in my head and picturing myself adding one tiny stitch after another to silk organza stretched taut on a frame. There was no doubt in my head I could do that for hours every day. What better way to use my hands and my imagination than creating a magical play of textures, colors, and shapes from which beautiful flowers and fantastical birds are born?

  The first thing I did when I got up at dawn was draw a pattern on a page torn out of an old math workbook. I had decided what I wanted to do with my life when I grew up.

  Just like the women in the movie, I would embroider for an haute couture house.

  After school, I told Aama and Baba about my newfound calling and begged them to buy me some supplies—the cheapest ones, anything they could afford. They did, bless their kind hearts. They were quite happy with the embroidery part of my dream. They still are.

  Unlike driving a bus or tightrope dancing—my dreams as a kid—embroidery is a perfectly respectable and safe occupation for a young Hindu woman.

  It’s the haute couture part with all its unsavory implications that bothers my parents. Working on indecent gowns that reveal too much skin. Being involved—even remotely—with worldly designers, indecorous models, debauched fashion photographers, and decadent runway shows.