Page 27 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

“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.”

He sounded like a lawyer, all stiff and formal. Like everything else he did, it only made him hotter. The man put theS-E-Xin sexy.

“Thanks.” She hip-checked the dishwasher closed. “I think.”

“That came out wrong.” He raked a hand through his hair, mussing his usually impeccably styled do. “What I meant to say was you have a right to a personal life outside of work. I’m sure we can manage for a few hours without you.”

“Thanks,” she said again. This time, it came out like a croak. It was getting harder to form words with him so near. She needed to get out of there before she did something monumentally stupid. Like beg him to bend her over the kitchen counter and have his way with her. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Take whatever time you need.” He drained his cup and snaked an arm behind her to deposit it in the sink. His scent—sea and sun mixed with hints of his citrusy cologne —washed over her. “I don’t have anything pressing tomorrow. If necessary, I can help Mrs. Flannigan with Oliver. Maybe take him bodysurfing.”

“Bodysurfing during business hours?” Mallory kept her tone light, but underneath she was gloating a teeny-tiny bit. “Where’s the real Rhys Dalton, and what have you done with him?”

“For a long time, he was sleepwalking through life,” he admitted with a heavy sigh that stirred the hair above her ear. “But he’s awake now. Thanks to you.”

Heat rose in her cheeks. She grabbed a dish towel off the drying rack and busied herself with wiping her hands. “You just needed a little push in the right direction.”

“More than a little push.” He chuckled, the low, husky sound rumbling through her like distant thunder on a hot Florida afternoon.

“Okay, then a shove.” She folded the dish towel, put it back on the rack, and leaned against the counter, subtly shifting away from Rhys to create some space between them. “But I didn’t force you to do anything you wouldn’t have done on your own eventually.”

“Maybe.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If ‘eventually’ wasn’t too late.”

“It’s never too late.”

“I wish that were true.”

His eyes clouded over and grew distant, making it painfully obvious he was thinking of his wife. Or his mother. Or both. He clenched his jaw and let his gaze drop to his feet, his grief so raw it was palpable.

She shouldn’t touch him. She should keep a safe distance between them. Say something banal but reassuring, like “they’ll always be with you” or “you’ll find love again,” then follow her initial instincts and run far and fast.

Instead, she made the mistake of looking at him again, and words seemed totally inadequate to ease his suffering.

Against her better judgment, she reached out and put a hand on his forearm. She ignored the unfamiliar tingle that zinged up her arm and settled in her chest. “You’re still here. So is Oliver. You have to move forward.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I know.” Almost of its own volition, her hand slid down to his wrist, her fingers twined with his, and she squeezed. “Survivor’s guilt sucks.”

His hooded eyes drifted to their joined hands, and he couldn’t hide the surprise there. For a second, she thought he was going to cast her off, but while he didn’t exactly reciprocate the gesture he let her hand stay where it was, with his limply in her grip. “Who says I feel guilty?”