Page 62 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

“Is this me?” he asked, pointing to the tallest of three stick figures.

“Uh-huh.”

“Then this one must be you.” He pointed to the smallest figure.

“Uh-huh.” Oliver jabbed a finger proudly at the third figure. “And this is Mallory.”

“I thought so.” Rhys squinted at the drawing, his once-shaky smile threatening to break free and split his face. His son had many talents, but Vincent van Gogh he wasn’t. Picasso, maybe, if the abstract nature of his drawing was anything to go by. “So, um, what are we doing in this picture?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“Sure,” Rhys lied. “But I want you to explain it to me.”

“This is the Emperor State Building.” Oliver pointed to a bright pink squiggle in one corner. His finger moved lower to a green blob. “And this is Center Park. They’re in New York City. That’s where Mallory’s from. She told me. And Mrs. Flannigan said I used to live there, too.”

“Yes, you did.” Rhys absently traced the squiggle, his stomach knotting. Manhattan. Light years away from Flamingo Key, in distance and every other way imaginable. And the one island he’d hoped never to set foot on again. “So we’re in New York?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

“To say sorry.”

Rhys looked up from the drawing to study his son. “You think I should apologize to Mallory?”

“Not you, me,” Oliver said, his voice and expression deadpan, making him seem more solemn than any four-year-old had a right—or a reason—to be. “For getting her in trouble.”

Rhys moved his chair closer to his son. “How did you get her in trouble?”

“I was bored.” Oliver stared down at the table, his words spilling out in a jumbled rush. “Collins told her you wouldn’t like it if she took me to the movies. But I’d never gone before, and I wanted to go really, really bad. So we went. And you got mad at her, and she left.”

“Who said I was mad?” Rhys put an arm around his son’s shoulders.

“Collins.” Oliver pulled the picture back, picked up a yellow crayon, and started coloring again, probably adding some other New York City landmark to his already crowded drawing, like the Statue of Liberty or Times Square. “I heard him talking to Mrs. Flannigan. He said you were mad at Mallory for taking me off the island, and you used it as a ’cuse to chase her away because you were scared of her.”

Not scared of her, Rhys thought, rubbing his neck, the two—or was it three?—days of stubble scraping his palm. Scared of his feelings for her.

Was Collins right? Was that what he’d done? Pushed Mallory away not only because he was afraid of losing Oliver, but because he was afraid of losing her, too?

“But you don’t have to be scared of her,” Oliver continued, scribbling away. His leaned forward and wrinkled his nose, all the four-year-old focus he could muster on the piece of paper in front of him. “She’s nice. She always let me have the last piece of pizza and she smelled like ice cream and strawberries.”

“Ice cream, huh?” Rhys chuckled. “What kind?”

Oliver put down his crayon. “Mint chocolate chip.”

“Your favorite.” Rhys squeezed his son’s shoulder. “I’m not scared of Mallory, pal. And I’m not mad at her. Or you.”

“Then why did she have to go away?”

Good question.

“It’s a grown-up thing,” Rhys said, taking the easy way out and ducking the issue. “I’ll explain it to you when you’re older.”

Oliver puckered his lips and blew out a raspberry. “I hate grown-up things.”

He switched to a purple crayon and went back to coloring.

“So do I sometimes,” Rhys admitted.