Page 12 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Was he making the right decision sending her away? Beth would want their son to be happy. And Collins was right. Mallory certainly seemed to make Oliver happy. But that didn’t change the fact that it felt wrong living with a woman he was attracted to. And as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t deny the pull she had on him.

The question was, could he fight it for his son’s sake?

He pushed his chair away from his desk and stood. His productivity was shot to shit. Time to blow off some steam. Maybe lift some weights in his home gym or…

A shrill, childlike scream he immediately recognized as his son’s changed his path. Within seconds, he was poolside where Mallory sat on one of the cushioned lounge chairs with Oliver in her lap, examining his foot.

“What happened?” he barked, the words coming out more harshly than he intended. He took a steadying breath and made a conscious effort to soften his tone. “Is he hurt?”

“Bee sting,” she explained, not looking up from the wound. “It’s a little red and swollen. Has he been stung before?”

“No.” Rhys gave his head a slight shake. There was that time in Central Park. The three of them had gone to the zoo. Beth brought a picnic lunch, and they spread out a blanket on the Great Lawn. Their meal had been cut short when Oliver got some sort of bugbite, but Rhys was pretty sure a spider was the culprit. “I don’t think so.”

“Which is it?” Mallory raised her head to look at him, and the disapproval in her eyes made him wish she hadn’t.

“No,” he said with a bit more confidence. “He hasn’t.”

“It hurts,” Oliver wailed, tears streaking down his tanned face. “I hate bees. Bees suck.”

“Don’t say suck.” Mallory smoothed a damp blond curl off his cheek. “And you don’t hate bees. Without bees, we wouldn’t have flowers.”

Oliver stuck out his chin. “I hate flowers, too.”

“No.” She chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of his son’s head. “You don’t.”

Rhys took a step toward them, then stopped. It was almost painful watching them. Like they were in their own world, an insulated bubble where only the two of them existed. He was a mere observer. No, worse. An interloper. His stomach clenched at the realization.

“You’ll be fine, I promise.” Mallory laid Oliver on the chaise next to her and stood, oblivious to Rhys’s inner torment. “Your dad can take care of you while I go inside and find something to make the pain go away.”

Any sliver of relief Rhys felt at her suggestion was immediately snuffed out by his son’s response.

“No.” Oliver bolted upright and grabbed her forearm, his little-boy fingers barely reaching around her slim wrist. The desperation in his voice reminded Rhys of his own when the NYPD had shown up at his office that Norman Rockwell–perfect fall day three years ago, changing his life and his son’s forever. “Don’t leave me. Make him go.”

With his free hand, Oliver stabbed a stubby finger at Rhys.

“You don’t mean that.” Mallory at least had the decency to blush.

“It’s okay.” If having your heart ripped out by your four-year-old progeny was okay. But his son’s well-being was more important than his injured ego. “What do you need?”

Mallory hesitated as if she was going to argue with him, then glanced from Oliver’s tearstained face to the white-knuckled hand still clutching her wrist and apparently thought the better of it. “He might have a mild allergy. Do you have any baking soda to neutralize the venom? Apple cider vinegar works, too.”

“In the kitchen.” He hoped. He might have to ransack the place to find them. The only thing he ever touched in there was the Keurig. Mrs. Flannigan had it memorized down to the last tablespoon, but he’d given her and her husband the night off, so they could hitch a ride on the launch with Collins and catch a movie in Key West. “I’ll be right back.”

He spun on his heel and in two loping strides was at the sliding glass doors separating the pool area from the house when a plaintive wail stopped him.

“Daddy.”

He turned and met the wide, watery eyes of his son. Mallory sat next to Oliver on the chaise, stroking his back the same way Beth used to do when he was cranky or tired or injured, like a knife to Rhys’s already-shredded heart.

“Hurry. Please. It hurts real bad.”

Rhys resisted the urge to gather him up in his arms. Mallory had the sympathy thing covered. What Oliver needed from him was strength. “I know it does. You’re very brave.”

Oliver puffed out his chest and let out something that sounded like a cross between a hiccup and a sob. “That’s right. I am. Like you.”

Now it was Rhys’s chest that swelled. His relationship with Oliver had been strained since Beth’s death. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his son. More like he loved him too much, so damn much he’d unconsciously—or consciously—shut down, afraid of losing someone else close to him. Like keeping his son at arm’s length emotionally would lessen the pain.

Idiot.