Page 17 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

“Yes.” At least, he dimly recalled reading something to that effect in one of the huge stacks of parenting books he and Beth had pored over in the joyous but nerve-racking months leading up to Oliver’s birth. The memory made his eyes sting and his throat constrict.

He scrubbed a hand across his face to hide the tidal wave of conflicting emotions that always consumed him when thoughts of his wife surfaced. “But Oliver has to have dinner before six in order to be bathed and in bed by eight. My schedule makes it difficult for me wrap things up that early on a regular basis.”

“Fine.” She waved a hand dismissively, as if his concern were nothing more than a fly she could easily brush away. “You pick the meals. Any four.”

“Breakfast included?” He was an early riser, and so was his son. He should be able to make that work.

She nodded. “Breakfast included.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Miss Worthington.” He tented his fingers. “What’s number two?”

She crossed her legs, one flip-flop dangling from her brightly painted toes. What was that, the third or fourth color since she’d arrived? How often did she paint them? And why was he paying so much attention to her damn toenails?

“Call me Mallory.”

…

In Mallory’s experience, people had a harder time keeping promises than making them. Like the countless nurses, hovering over her with their needles and assurances that “it won’t hurt a bit.” Or her parents, who swore she’d be able to live a “normal” teenage life, free from the stares and pointing and behind-the-back whispering.

Rhys Dalton was no exception.

He’d done okay with calling her by her first name. And made an effort to share meals with his son. But more often than not, his busy schedule meant he was called away after a few hurried bites.

In her book, that didn’t count for squat.

The situation called for desperate, below-the-belt, borderline-illegal measures. Rhys might be her boss, but her first obligation was to his son. It was time for someone to make him man up and face his parental responsibilities.

It looked like that someone was going to have to be her.

“Ready?” she asked her pint-sized, towheaded accomplice.

Oliver nodded, his expression solemn, like some sort of mini special agent gearing up for a top-secret mission. All he needed to complete the look was a dark suit and a pair of Ray-Bans. “Ready.”

“Remember. Your saddest face. It has to be pitiful.”

“Pit-ful?” He scrunched up his nose. “What’s that mean?”

“Pitiful. It means super sad. A hundred times more than regular sad.” She knelt down in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Can you do it?”

“You bet.” He nodded again.

“Show me.”

He lowered his eyelids and stuck out his lips in an exaggerated pout. Mallory could have sworn he even blinked back the beginnings of a tear. Kid was a regular Macaulay Culkin.

“Good. If that doesn’t get your father to go with us, nothing will.” She gave him a high five and stood. “Let’s roll.”

She grabbed the wicker basket she’d spent the greater part of the morning preparing and shepherded Oliver down the hall to his father’s office. They were almost at the door when it swung open and Collins came out.

“Perfect timing.” He winked at Mallory and fist-bumped Oliver. She smiled at the not-too-distant memory of how aloof he’d been with her when she first arrived. One taste of her signature version of lemon meringue pie, made with light, flaky sheets of sugared phyllo dough, homemade lemon curd, and a brown sugar meringue, was all it took to break down that barrier. “He’s finishing up a video conference.”

“You’ve cleared his schedule for the rest of the day?” she asked, hitching the basket up on her arm.

“All set. Once this teleconference is done, he’s free and clear.” Collins’s eyes darted up and down the hall, and he lowered his voice. “I held up my end of the bargain. What about…?”

“The pie?” she finished for him, not needing to hear the rest of his question. “It’s in the refrigerator, cooling for tonight.”

Collins smacked his lips, and she jabbed a finger at his chest. “I swear, if so much as a sliver is missing when I come back, that’s the last one I’ll bake.”