Page 29 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Chapter Eight

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Mallory handed Collins the cordless drill. “Shouldn’t we be evacuating or something?”

Collins looked down from the ladder, where he was putting up the last of the hurricane shutters. “You don’t get many tropical storms up north, do you? If we evacuated every time Mother Nature got huffy, we might as well pack our bags and move.”

“What about the Flannigans?” She put a screw in his outstretched palm. “They left this morning.”

“Preplanned family visit.” He loaded the screw into the drill and lined it up with the hole. “It’s their granddaughter’s first birthday.”

“Lucky them.” She winced as the drill whined. “Are we almost done?”

“I can finish with this last shutter. Why don’t you see if Rhy—Mr. Dalton and Oliver need help with the deck furniture?”

Great. She’d rather eat undercooked pork. But she couldn’t admit that to Collins without confessing why. Which would involve telling him about THE KISS. She’d come to think of it like that, in all caps, as if she were shouting internally. A personal, silent scream.

“I thought when we were done here we were going to run into town for supplies.”

“I can handle that myself. No need for both of us to be off island.” He reloaded the drill, and the whining started up again.

So much for that brilliant plan. She was hoping to sneak over to the lab and see if her test results were in yet. They weren’t due for a few days, and Dr. Decker had sworn he’d call as soon as he heard anything. But all that stuff about white blood cells and platelets had her on edge. She wanted to know now so life could either continue as it was, or she’d go back to being Mallory Worthington, poor, sick little rich girl.

The latter was almost too terrible to contemplate. She’d come so far since setting foot on Flamingo Key, and she wasn’t talking about the distance she’d traveled from New York. She’d become stronger, more confident, more assertive. She was making her own decisions, living on her own terms. The last thing she wanted was to take a step backward. And that’s exactly what would happen if the results showed her cancer had returned. She’d be in another battle for her life, physically and emotionally.

She forced a smile and headed around the back of the house to the deck. There wasn’t time to dwell on her health now, not with the more immediate threat of the storm bearing down on them.

“Mallory.” Oliver’s gleeful shout burst her dream bubble. What was it about a potential natural disaster that got kids so excited? “Come look. We’re tying up the chairs, so they don’t blow away in the hurricane.”

“Hardly a hurricane.” Rhys rose like Poseidon from behind a lounge chair, a length of rope in one hand and a pair of kitchen shears in the other. “The forecasters don’t think it will be more than a category one by the time it hits land. If that.”

Oliver’s tiny forehead creased. “Then why are we tying stuff up?”

“Because it’s better to be safe than sorry.” Mallory dragged herself up the stairs to the deck, each reluctant step bringing her nearer to the man she’d been dancing around for the past week.

“I thought you were helping Collins with the storm shutters.” Rhys’s eyes were hidden behind his Ray-Bans, his expression unreadable. Her body wanted to close the gap between them and feel his lips on hers again, but her brain cast the deciding when-the-Gulf-of-Mexico-freezes-over vote. Was he as uncomfortable with this whole situation as she was?

Mallory gave herself a mental shake. They had water to freeze and flashlights to find and batteries to check. “He’s wrapping things up. He thought you could use an extra pair of hands.”

“We’re almost done here, too, right, pal?” Rhys gathered up the cushions from one of the chairs and motioned for Oliver to do the same.

“Right.” Oliver struggled to collect the bulky cushions. Once he’d managed to corral them, they dwarfed him, his eyes barely visible above the cabana-stripe fabric. Mallory reached out to take one, but he shook his head, his blond bangs flopping wildly. “I got it. Dad says I’m a real good helper.”

“The best.” Rhys’s face was still a mask, but she detected a hint of a smile in his voice that had her insides doing somersaults. Whatever was happening—or not happening—between her and her enigmatic employer, it was obvious Rhys had been making a real effort to repair his relationship with his son, and his effort was paying off.

She grabbed another set of cushions and followed them into the house.

“When we’re all ready for the hurricane, can we go watch the waves?” Oliver asked. “The man on TV said they’re going to get really big.”

“That’s what you get for letting him watch the Weather Channel.” Mallory hip-checked the door closed, pausing to make sure it clicked securely shut.

“I thought it would be educational,” Rhys said, dropping his cushions in one corner of the kitchen.

Mallory bit back a smirk. “Maybe a little too educational.”

“Can I?” Oliver asked again.

“Absolutely not.” Rhys took the cushions from his son and stacked them with his. “The wind should be picking up soon.”

“What about Collins?” Mallory added her cushions to the pile. “He’s taking the launch to town for some last-minute supplies.”